yuri

I drag my G pen across the bristled paper with unsteady hands, my fingers stained not just with ink, but with the dried, creamy residue of breakfast. My neck aches, but it's a pleasant ache, the kind that accompanies a brain that has been thoroughly lobotomized by pleasure.

I am Miho, a famous mangaka in the Tokyo underground scene. My work is revolutionary, some say 'subversive,' though I don't really understand what those words mean anymore. I draw stories about 'Yuri' beautiful girls who fall in love, share kisses, and hold hands in cherry blossom groves, all while being blissfully unaware that their entire existence is centered around the glorious, salty salvation of the men who feed them.

"Miho chan... you're working too hard again."

A pair of soft, warm breasts press against my back as Yuki, my primary assistant and lover, drapes herself over my drawing chair. Her skin is impossibly glossy, glowing with the health that only constant spermivory can provide. She smells like vanilla and expensive protein.

"I have to finish this chapter, Yuki chan," I mumble, my voice thick and drowsy. "The readers... they need to see the romance before the... the feeding scene."

"But the readers already know how it ends, silly," Yuki giggles, her tongue darting out to lick a stray drop of ink off my cheek before sliding down to nip at my earlobe. "They read it because they want to see girls like us pretty, empty, happy girls."

My polycule moves around the studio like a well oiled machine of desire. Haruka is on the floor, stretching her lithe, toned body while she waits for the afternoon delivery from our landlord a burly salaryman who doubles as our primary donor. Ren is curled up on the sofa, her eyes glazed over as she stares at the ceiling, her mouth already working in anticipation of the next 'snack.'

We are a perfect circle. We love each other, yes, but our love is a shared devotion to our own uselessness. When we cuddle, we aren't seeking emotional connection; we are seeking to share the taste of the men who sustain us.

"I'm drawing a new scene for the next volume," I say, pointing to the sketch where two girls are embracing under a full moon. "I want to show how they feel when they realize that their only true purpose isn't to hold hands... but to be held by a cock."

Yuki leans down, pressing her mouth to mine. The kiss tastes of sweat and salt. "That's beautiful, Miho chan. So... profound." She pulls away, her eyes unfocused and dreamy. "Speaking of purpose... I think I hear the doorbell. The delivery man is here."

The studio instantly transforms. The creative energy evaporates, replaced by a single, focused hunger. We don't stop our work we simply incorporate the feeding into it. Haruka crawls toward the door, her hips swaying invitingly; Ren rolls off the couch to make room on the floor; and Yuki helps me push back my chair.

I pick up my pen one last time before abandoning the desk. The manga can wait. The ink can dry. The only thing that matters is the approaching thunder of boots in the hallway and the promise of the thick, white cream that will make my thoughts disappear entirely.