Something long and hard fills your mouth with pale fluid.

Time passes, and you try to blink away the mists of exhaustion. Your dick hurts from her brutal, deep sucking and **** of it. She said something, and then vanished... how long have you been here? Your clothes are no longer in the corner, but have been spirited away... you feel something touch your lips... a bottle...?

You drink, deeply and greedily, and nearly **** as the viscous fluid is poured down your throat. Her cruelty, and the cum-like viscosity of the fluid, makes your eyes bulge out of your head as a terrifying image of some stranger's dick creeps into your half-awake mind-

But it's just Georgia, withdrawing a tiny white bottle from your mouth. "Feeling better, doggy?"

You're conscious, and just out of it enough to nod dumbly. Satisfied, she puts the bottle back to your mouth, and you continue to drink it down. Your body feels lighter, your stomach groans with satisfaction and then falls silent, and by the time the bottle is empty you're up and at 'em... figuratively speaking. Your wrist and ankle remind you with an ache that has dulled during your brief foray into unconsciousness. You look her over: she let her dreadlocks down, though being tied up as long as they were means they barely move now. You're reminded that your erratic, violent tormentor is a middle-aged secretary, and this removes every shred of doubt that her behavior, down to talking to you like some kind of breeding hound can't be her normal state. This raises the obvious alarm: was she getting worse with continued exposure? But that's not a question you can ask; instead, smacking your lips as you get used to a taste comparable to wheat pancakes without syrup, you dare to ask, "What did you give m-" You cut your own question off when her foot comes to rest on your damaged wrist.

"I didn't give you permission to ask... but it's important that I answer your question, little doggy. This is Soylent," she announces, flashing the empty white bottle like a mockery of some 90's game show girl. "Henry likes to keep a stock here as meal replacements... not that he'll likely miss them, rich as he is." Henry was your shareholder, a lean and bizarre man that was half-attorney, half-yogi, but that's about as far as you care to consider him now that you're apparently eating his bizarre food-drinks. "You mentioned you needed food, and this was handy, so... tada!" She giggles as she tickles your cock with her foot. Sure enough, it springs to life, barely in pain anymore and ready to impregnate just about anything. As if that thought commanded your sixth sense, you find yourself looking to Georgia, cruel but possibly addicted to you... and find her fertility inhibited. Birth control... understanding what sort and how was impossible with this bizarre read, but what was important was that you couldn't even rely on impregnating her to end this torment... if that's even what would happen.

"Well then, let's see how much you can make."

"The same asSS-" Again your words fail as she takes your cock into her mouth, now angrily bobbing up and down on it, squeezing your head with the back of her throat while occasionally raking your shaft with her teeth. You hold out for all of three minutes by imagining anything but this intense blowjob. You fill her throat again, and this time she simply opens her throat and lets it pour in, withdrawing only when she's satisfied that you've finished. Inhaling deeply, and then crying out quietly as her body is racked with pleasure, she gives you the sultriest look she's had all night... but then painfully squeezes your balls with a chuckle.

"Amazing... I don't even need to taste it, huh? It really is a ****... and you're my dealer now, aren't you?" She stands up and stretches, grinning all the while. "I was ready to go to sleep when we started, but... wow! I don't think I even need a nap... do you need sleep, doggy?"

Given your current state, you can do naught but nod honestly.

"That's too bad..." She stands up and over you... and begins to undress.

You almost raise your voice in protest, and you want to blame your fear of reprisal for your silence... but shamefully, you're still in your twenties, and this is still a woman about to undress before you. You watch quietly as your tormentor, a woman you're finding increasingly attractive despite your embittering injuries, lifts her blouse up and off, letting it rest on the far table. The bra, an unsexy, full-cup affair, follows, and her sagging, fat breasts are revealed in their glory. The tips of her nipples glisten, as if they were lightly lactating into that bra... and then the skirt comes off, revealing what was unmistakably a cesarean scar above her pubic mound. That's right... wasn't Georgia pregnant a few months ago? She didn't even take maternity leave for longer than a week... and then neither a picture nor word of the baby, at least that you had caught. You aren't nearly as on top of her personal life as she delusionally believed earlier, but you're fairly confident you would've been **** to at least be polite about an office baby, or heard comments... anything. You don't dare ask; not here, certainly not now. Your eyes follows her fat nipples as they droop down when she removes her panties and stockings, revealing the stubble of a poorly-maintained Brazilian wax job. Her belly has only the slightest lumps to it, and stretch marks that, with the visible scar, back up your memory.

"There we go... nice and free, and... oooh, just a bit chilly in here isn't it? Hmmm...." She kneels down in front of you and hugs her legs, her breasts pooling against her thighs as she stares at you staring at her. "I think you called them... slaves?" Her question snaps you out of your daze. "The women you give this to... like everything you do, you mostly botched just telling me a few simple facts, but I think you said that getting women pregnant makes them your slaves."

A pregnant pause is all you share until you realize she's growing impatient. "Yes... b-but you won't have to worry about that!"

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yeah... I mean..." She stares daggers into you as you try to avoid reporting what you know. "Well, you're on... I mean, I believe you're on birth control."

Her body stiffens, and her face turns to stone as she looks somewhere beyond you, far away... and speaks without looking at you. "How do you know that?"

"I can... I can tell, just by being near women... it's part of all..." You motion to your body with your good hand. "... this."

She closes her eyes, breathes audibly and slowly... and then forces a smile, even as some new, inexplicable rage flashes onto her brow. "You're a real freak show, huh?" She doesn't know the half of it. You simply nod. "Well, freak... you're going to keep giving me bumps of what you're peddling until I'm done with you. We'll talk about the future once we're done here."

She backs out of your fuck-covey just enough to reach behind a filing cabinet... and what she carries fills you with dread. "W-Wait, Georgia..." The box sways and clinks as she carries it towards you... and drops it with a next to your ruined foot. You flinch, grateful that is missed you but still intimidated by its labels: "SOYLENT, 48 SERVINGS".

She reaches into the box, clearly filled to burst save the one you just drank, and your heart sinks as one of many small, white bottles is pulled out. "But we're not going to be done for quite awhile... assuming your body can keep up."

You make a few quick calculations, peeking at how full the box is, subtracting the one you drank from its alleged serving number, accounting for three or four orgasms per bottle... and didn't Devi tell you the last-recorded AARS sufferer died from exhaustion? "Wait, I don't think you're really considering, I mean that might actually be danger-"

Her naked foot dart forward, nearly kicking you in the nose as she plants her big toe on your lips. "Shhhhh..."