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The transition from the dream to reality is jarring. The sensation of the silky linen and the loud, rhythmic moos of the cowgirls fades, replaced by a heavy, humid warmth and a peculiar, rhythmic schlop schlop sound. The frantic energy of the dream is gone, replaced by something much slower, much more viscous, and infinitely more intense.

You bolt upright, gasping, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You aren't in a dream. You aren't surrounded by a harem of screaming girls. You are in your own bedroom, the morning sun filtering through the blinds of your modern apartment. But the weight pressing against your lap is very, very real.

Lying between your legs is Syla, your sponsored ward. She is a Snail kin, a creature of mesmerizing, otherworldly beauty. Her skin is a deep, shimmering violet, smooth and perpetually coated in a fine, translucent layer of glistening mucin that smells faintly of crushed violets and damp earth. She is incredibly soft, her body possessing a supple, boneless quality that allows her to mold herself perfectly to your form.

Her breasts are massive, heavy mounds of violet flesh that spill over your thighs, swaying slightly as she works. She isn't frantic like the catgirl in your dream; she is methodical. Her mouth is wrapped tightly around the head of your massive, pulsing cock, her tongue thick and incredibly smooth sliding up and down the length with a slow, suctioning grace.

The sensation is unlike anything a human woman could provide. The slime she produces is warm, slightly thick, and acts as a perfect, frictionless lubricant that makes every movement of her mouth feel like a velvet caress. As she sucks, you can feel the gentle, rhythmic pulses of her throat, her entire body vibrating with a low, contented hum that resonates through your pelvis.

"Mmm... Master..." she murmurs, the sound muffled by your girth. She pulls back just an inch, a long, glistening string of violet saliva connecting her lips to your tip. Her eyes, large and dark with a soulful, liquid depth, look up at you with pure, unadulterated devotion. "Is... is the taste to your liking? You are... so much more... potent... than the stories say."

She leans back in, her massive tits squishing against your stomach as she resumes her slow, wet worship, her focus entirely on the task of exploring the "legendary" masculine essence she was sent to study.