Arc 2.4: Kyle and Three Northern Bears

Kyle woke up with a familiar, pleasant heaviness in his groin. The morning wood was solid, demanding, and already anticipating the warm, wet welcome that had become his daily alarm clock. He stretched lazily, a smug smile curling his lips as he waited for the familiar dip of the mattress, the sound of knees hitting the floor, the soft, practiced hands pulling down his boxers.

Nothing.

He cracked one eye open. The room was empty. Grey morning light filtered through the curtains. The spot beside him was cold.

"Claire?" he croaked, his voice rough with sleep and confusion. He waited, straining his ears for the telltale sound of her creeping down the hall.

Silence.

He sat up, his erection tenting the sheets, looking around the room like a lost puppy. "Claire? What about my morning wood?"

Still nothing.

A cold, unwelcome realization crept over him. She's not coming.

Kyle flopped back onto the pillows with a groan, staring at the ceiling. "This is bullshit," he muttered to no one. "That was our thing. Coffee, cereal, Claire's warm mouth on my cock. In reverse order."

He glanced down at his stubbornly hard dick, still jutting proudly against the sheets. His hand twitched. For a moment, he considered the old-fashioned solution. A quick, efficient jerk-off in the shower.

No. He was better than that. He got blowjobs from his friend girlfriend, and he owned one of the hottest professor’s mouth. He had standards now. Masturbation was for losers, for men who didn't have a dedicated mouth on retainer.

"Fuck this," he declared, swinging his legs out of bed. "I'm going for a walk."

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Kyle realized it was a bad idea about ten minutes into the blizzard. The gentle snowfall had transformed into a howling white wall of freezing fury. His fingers were numb, his face felt like a slab of meat, and he could barely see three feet in front of him.

"Fuck my life," he wheezed, his teeth chattering. "Should've just jerked off."

He stumbled forward, his legs burning, his vision blurring. The wind howled around him, burying his footprints as fast as he made them.

Then, through the white chaos, he saw it. A shape. A massive, hulking silhouette moving through the storm like a mountain walking.

"HEY!" Kyle screamed, his voice swallowed by the wind. "HELP!"

The shape turned. As it drew closer, Kyle could make out the details: a thick, fur-lined parka, a beard crusted with ice, and arms like tree trunks.

Eric. Of course. The Norse god of a man who'd somehow materialized out of the blizzard like a lumberjack Jesus.

"Kyle?" Eric's voice was a deep, rumbling boom that cut through the storm. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

"Getting hypothermia," Kyle managed, his lips blue. "Helped."

A smaller shape appeared beside Eric. Ulma, bundled in a massive coat, her pregnant belly prominent beneath the layers. In her arms, a tiny, snowsuit-clad figure stared at Kyle with wide, curious blue eyes.

"Daddy, is that a frozen man?" the little boy asked, his voice muffled by his hood.

"That's my student, Olaf," Ulma said, her voice warm despite the cold. "He's just stupid."

"Can we keep him?" Olaf asked.

Eric laughed, a deep, booming sound. He scooped Kyle up like a sack of potatoes and slung him over his shoulder. "Come on, little man. Let's get you thawed out."

Kyle sat cross-legged on the floor, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in his hands, watching some bizarre Swedish cartoon about a depressed moose. Olaf was nestled beside him, his tiny face mesmerized by the screen, occasionally making little animal noises.

"So, Olaf," Kyle said casually, taking a sip of the rich, chocolatey goodness. "Where's your mommy?"

"Office," the boy said, not looking away from the cartoon. "She types. A lot. She says if she doesn't type, the bad papers win."

"Bad papers?"

"Bad papers," Olaf confirmed sagely.

Kyle set down his mug. He felt warm. Cozy. And inexplicably, incredibly horny. Maybe it was the hot chocolate. Maybe it was the psychological whiplash of almost freezing to death. Maybe it was the memory of Ulma's soft, veined breasts pressed against his face.

He needed to find her.

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Kyle followed Olaf's vague directions through the sprawling house until he found a closed door at the end of a hallway. He turned the handle and pushed it open without knocking.

Ulma sat at a massive oak desk, her pregnant belly pressed against the edge, her fingers flying across a keyboard. She looked up, her dark eyes sharp and questioning. The expression on her face was pure "excuse me???"

"Oh," Kyle said, suddenly realizing he was a student who had just barged into his professor's personal workspace. "Hey. I'm alive. Thanks for that."

Ulma's eyebrows rose. "You're welcome. I'm busy."

"Yeah," Kyle said, not moving. "I can see that."

"Is there something you need?"

Kyle looked around the office. Bookshelves. A filing cabinet. Two chairs. A desk. Nothing that looked particularly... comfortable.

"I need your pussy," he said flatly. "For sex."

Ulma blinked. A long, slow blink. Then she sighed, a deep, exhausted sound that came from the very depths of her pregnant soul.

"Get out, Kyle. I'm working."

"Okay," he said, not moving. "What about a blowjob?"

"Do you understand the meaning of busy?"

"Titjob?"

"GET OUT!"

Kyle considered his options. She wouldn't have fucked Eric in this circumstance either, probably. Like, that was most likely what was going on. Although, there might have being another explanation, strange. Usually it was Claire or recently Ulam who told him how things work with the whole claim-magic.

“ARE YOU DEAF?” Kyle blinked. He'd been so deep in his thoughts he'd completely missed how angry Ulma had gotten. Her face was flushed, her eyes blazing, and her mouse-hand was probably about to give him an F for the final before the first midterm.

Kyle realized he needed a different approach if he plans to get off today.

"I claim your body in this office," he said, the words falling from his lips like a spray of bullets.

The shift was immediate. The angry spark in Ulma's eyes died, replaced by that familiar, terrifying blankness. Her posture relaxed, her hands stilled on the keyboard.

Kyle let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Okay," he muttered, looking around the room. "Now. How do I want to do this?"

Kyle looked at the cluttered desk. Laptop. Papers. A coffee mug. A small potted plant that looked like it was on its last legs.

"Clear that off," he commanded. "Get on the desk. Open your legs."

Ulma moved with robotic precision, sweeping the clutter aside with one fluid motion. Papers fluttered to the floor. The coffee mug tipped over, spilling cold dregs across a stack of notes. The plant joined the chaos on the carpet.

Her legs made a nice, but very much clothed V-shape.

"Pants off first," Kyle added. "And underwear. Then get on the desk, same position."

She obeyed, unbuttoning her jeans with mechanical efficiency, pushing them down her thick thighs along with a simple pair of black panties. She climbed onto the desk, her pregnant belly prominent, and lay back, her legs falling open in another perfect V.

Kyle stepped between her thighs, unzipped his jeans, and jerked his cock to full hardness. He spit some saliva on her pussy and pushed inside.

It was warm. And tight. Really, really tight. Like, why-is-a-woman-about-to-give-birth-this-tight tight. Kyle decided that small obstacles would not stop him here. He added more saliva, grabbed her hips, and plowed away.

Slap-slap-slap-slap.

The sound of his hips meeting her flesh filled the quiet office. Her body rocked with each impact, her heavy breasts swaying with the rhythm. Kyle reached up and grabbed one of them. Not hard, but enough to make the flesh go between his fingers.

He leaned down and took a nipple into his mouth, sucking deeply, the taste of her skin filling his senses. Her body arched slightly in response, still mechanical, still blank, but giving nonetheless.

Kyle pumped harder, his balls slapping against her ass as he drove into her. The desk creaked beneath them. His breathing was ragged.

He fucked her with a steady, building rhythm, his hips slapping against her thighs. It didn't take long. He was too horny, too wound up from the morning's near-death experience. With a grunt, he buried himself deep and came, filling her pussy with a hot, pulsing load.

He pulled out, panting, and collapsed into the chair beside the desk. He looked at his work: Ulma's legs still spread, her pussy glistening, a thin trail of his cum already starting to leak out onto the oak surface.

She didn't move. Didn't snap out of it.

Kyle frowned. "Huh."

He considered the situation. Usually, the trance ended after he came. But it hadn't. Which meant... he hadn't used all of her body for sex. There was more to claim.

He stood up, his dick already stirring again. "Okay. Round two."

"MOMMY!!!! I AM HUNGRY!!!!"

Kyle almost flipped the chair he was relaxing on. The scream came from right outside the door, high-pitched and desperate. Olaf. Of course. The tiny, adorable cockblock.

Kyle really wanted to go for another round. His dick was already getting hard again at the thought of Ulma's warm, pliant body.

MOMMY!!!!”

"Jesus Christ," Kyle muttered, his heart hammering. He really wanted to go for another run. Another round. Another deep, warm, tight, so very tight… But the kid was hungry. Even Kyle had limits.

He looked at Ulma, still lying on the desk, her legs spread, her expression blissfully blank. "Stay," he said, as if she were a well-trained dog.

He got to the door and reached for the handle. His hand stopped. He looked down. His jeans were around his ankles.

"Fuck."

He yanked them up, fumbling with the zipper, and quickly got through the door not opening it a millimeter wider than necessary. Olaf standing there, his little face scrunched up in suspicious expression.

"Where's Mommy?" the boy demanded.

"She's busy," Kyle said, trying to sound authoritative. "Important... typing. Fighting bad papers."

"I'm hungry!"

"I can hear that. Come on. Let's make... What do you eat this time of the day?"

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Twenty minutes later, Kyle stood at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal while Olaf sat at the kitchen table, swinging his little legs and babbling about the Swedish moose cartoon.

"Do you like apples?" Kyle asked, chopping one with clumsy, inexpert hands.

"Yes!"

"Bananas?"

"YES!"

"What about... blueberries?"

"BLUEBERRIES!"

Kyle dumped a handful of each into the bowl, added a drizzle of honey, and slid it across the table. Olaf attacked it like a tiny, ravenous beast.

Kyle watched him eat for a moment, a strange, unfamiliar warmth spreading in his chest. Then he shook it off. What the hell am I doing? I have a pregnant professor waiting on a desk.

He checked his watch. Half an hour had passed.

"Olaf," he said, steering the boy toward the living room. "Look, a cartoon. Watch it."

The kid was already mesmerized by the screen, his bowl of oatmeal forgotten. Kyle didn't wait. He bolted back down the hall, yanked open the office door, and locked it behind him.

Ulma was still there. Still on the desk. Still blank.

"Sorry about that," Kyle panted, yanking his jeans down. "Now. Where were we?"