Tell Pan you want her to fuck you one more time before the party — you need to be properly filled before you face all those men.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 7:05 AM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

I catch Pan's wrist before she can turn away, pressing my latex-sheathed body against hers. My tail coils around her thigh, pulling her closer. The hunger is already gnawing again — that hollow ache behind my sternum — but there's something else now. Something possessive. Something that makes me want her cock buried inside me before any other man gets the chance.

"One more," I murmur against her neck, my lips finding the pulse point where her bronze skin meets the collar of her corset. "Before the party. I want to be full of you when I walk in. I want them to smell your cum on me."

Pan's breath catches. She turns, and there's something in her amber eyes I haven't seen before — not just lust, not just possession. Possessiveness. A fierce, territorial heat that makes her pupils narrow to slits.

"You're not feeding on those boys tonight without something of mine already inside you," she says, and her voice has dropped to a register that vibrates in my bones. "Not just my cum, Trixie. Something permanent."

She pushes me back against the fitting room wall and her cock is already hardening beneath her skirt — I can feel it pressing against my belly through the thin plaid fabric. Her hands find my hips, lifting me, and my legs wrap around her waist instinctively. My wings fold flat against the mirror behind me.

"I'm going to breed you properly," she growls, hiking her skirt up with one hand while the other grips my ass. Her cock springs free — thick, veined, already leaking precum from the swollen tip. "Not just filling you up. I'm going to put a baby in you, Trixie. My child. Growing inside your belly while every horny college boy at that party tries to fuck you."

The words hit me like lightning. My pussy clenches — a deep, involuntary spasm that sends a gush of slick down my inner thighs. The hunger transforms into something primal, something beyond mere sexual need. A breeding instinct so powerful it makes my vision blur.

"Yes," I gasp. "Please, Mistress — put your baby in me —"

She drives upward without warning. Her cock splits me open in one brutal stroke, burying all ten inches inside my dripping cunt, and the angle — pinned against the wall, gravity pulling me down onto her shaft — drives her even deeper than before. I feel her cockhead press against my cervix, nudging it open, and the feeding channel in my chest ignites.

But this time it's different. The energy isn't just filling the void. It's settling — pooling low in my belly, warm and dense, concentrating where her cock is buried deepest. Something ancient and divine is happening inside my womb. I can feel it — a quickening, a spark, a tiny impossible flame of life catching hold.

"There," Pan breathes, her forehead pressed against mine, her hips grinding in slow, deep circles rather than thrusting. She's not fucking me now — she's seeding me. Each rotation of her hips pushes her cock against my cervix, and each pulse of precum deposits more of her divine essence directly into my womb. "Feel it? Feel my child taking root?"

I do. God, I do. A warmth spreading through my lower belly that isn't just cum — it's life, impossible and sacred and terrifying and perfect. My hands grip her shoulders, claws — when did I grow claws? — digging into her bronze skin as my pussy milks her shaft with rhythmic contractions.

"Mine," she whispers, and her cock swells inside me. "All of you. Every part. You're going to walk into that party carrying my child, Trixie. And every man who puts his cock inside you tonight is going to feel my seed already there. They'll know you belong to someone."

She comes with a groan that shakes the walls — not the explosive, multi-rope eruption of before, but a sustained, pulsing flood that seems to go on forever. Thick, hot cum pouring directly through my open cervix into my womb, coating the tiny spark of life she's planted there, sealing it in divine warmth. My own orgasm builds from that spark outward — radiating through my belly, my hips, my thighs — and when it crests I don't scream. I sing. A high, inhuman note that resonates with the gemstone at my throat, my wings spreading wide, my tail rigid, my pussy clenching so hard around Pan's shaft that she gasps.

When it's over, she doesn't pull out. She holds me there — pinned, full, impregnated — and kisses me with a tenderness that makes something in my chest ache.

"Now you're ready for the party, pet," she murmurs against my lips. "My bred little succubus. My Trixie. My mother."