The Pride of the Lion

You contemplate the idea, of hosting the child of her former lover... and chuckle as you caress her cheek. "Don't worry," you offer, "I've got a pretty good idea for him."

~the next morning~

Posh Whimsley is eager to retire. A gray and bitter old man, he often kicked himself in the past for leaving his cozy job out west just to become a regional manager for Manhattan... and though the pay made it all work out, he still likes to think himself the victim as he walks into the backrooms of the first Post Office on his route for inspections. It's the early hours of the morning, with the sun only threatening its inevitable rise... and so he hardly expects the entire morning crew to be in the mess hall. He also doesn't expect a baby's crying. "What the... what's all...?" His words are muttered as he approaches the knot of P.O. workers, and his eyes fall upon the tiny baby with massive eyebrows. "Oh goodness," he sighs, almost whimsically, "not this again..." The rest of the morning goes over predictably: a call to the proper authorities, a nursing mother among the staff offering her supply to feed the baby left on the post office steps overnight... and Posh left shaking his head, all but forgetting the inspection proper of the post office. Given the duress of an abandoned youth, it feels wrong to even consider evaluating their performances this morning.

Posh gets ready to leave just as the post office manager, a plump woman who normally bears all sorts of attitude towards him, interrupts his departure with a far more empathic voice. "Hey, Posh... what did you mean back there?"

"Eh?"

"You said 'not this again', so I thought... I figured you'd say something else, but y'never explained it. You seen this kid?"

"What? No," the old man grimaces as he waves his hand, "no, not this one... just reminded me of Buffalo... little ginger girl abandoned in my post-office back then after a break-in, left there to be found by the police when they came in to investigate the broken window... all **** up and knocked out, the poor thing. Cops said they couldn't find any record of her neither, figured she was born in an alley or some such. I reckon she was three or four... old enough to say a few words, but I'll be damned if I ever heard her say a thing while the paramedics fretted over her." Posh continues to head out, lighting a cigarette as he finally reaches the sidewalk. "Still, she went into the system, probably found someone who cared for her more... you just gotta hope they found a good place to call home, y'know?"

The manager, stunned by the tale, finally smiles. "I bet she did, Posh. I bet she did."

~meanwhile, in your apartment~

You fold your hands behind your head, and appreciate the violent, painful lift and drop of the redhead's massive udders as she impales herself on your cock. The occasional sprinkle makes you blink, but you continue to lie back and enjoy the shower of milk, now solely meant to feed you and your vices. "How much do you love my cock, slut?"

"I love it so much, Master," she groans, her eyes looking up and distant.

"Come down here and nurse me for a bit... we have to keep those filthy things refilling, after all." She complies, keeping her ass squatting over your crotch while leaning forward and offering her left nipple to you, the massive boob filling both of her hands. You reach up and drink, savoring the flavor that is, henceforth, yours and yours alone to give away or enjoy. Satisfied, and recharged for the day, you give her massive nipple a vicious bite, nearly getting your teeth to meet through her swollen tit flesh. She yelps, and tries to suppress her pained screams until you finally release her, leaving angry red bite marks on her areola. "Do you love my cock more than that brat of yours?"

She returns to humping away, her voice trembling from the agony of your ****. "Y... Yes, Master," she whispers slowly.

"You abandoned him at a post-office... just like your mother left you. I mean, your mother gave you a few years at least... don't you feel terrible for what you did?"

"I do," she sobs, still smiling, still bouncing on your meat as you come closer to orgasm.

"Finish me with your ass, whore." She gets up on her feet, and rises only high enough to come back down hard with her ass, punishing herself with the anal pain of your sudden presence inside her. The single pump of this breach proves well enough: you put your hands back behind your head and sigh happily as you fill her rectum. She jills furiously as you do, leaving honeyed droplets of her sex on your abdomen. "You're a horrible mother, Ophelia... never forget what you did last night, all for the sake of my cum."

"I'll... I'll never forget, Master." She continues to gyrate, urging you to continue to fuck her ass full. Her milkbags tremble and sway in this position, drooping sloppily over her torso... and under that traumatized gaze, ever crying, ever smiling.

~meanwhile, in an alley next to your apartment building~

The morning brought an end to the rain, but it didn't mean much to the beat cop stuck watching, and smelling, the awful clean-up the crime scene investigators had to perform. It was pretty routine, given that New York had no shortage of these sorts of tragedies, but the rain and the splatter from impact meant that the morning sun would soon bake the ugly sod until he smells unbearable. It was fortune, or misfortune, then, that let Alex Jones notice the smell of blood in the rain that ran down the sidewalk from the alleyway. He's the officer on duty now, looking around to keep every rubbernecking nobody on the right side of the police tape, at least until he spots two coats crossing under said tape. They don't need to flash their badges. "Detective Sanchez, Detective Forbes," the patrolman greets.

"'Morning, Beans," yawns the younger, Hispanic detective. He doesn't bother covering the mouth on that good-looking, chiseled face, but he shrivels visibly under the withering gaze of his partner.

"Found a jumper before your morning coffee?" Forbes was a cut above, a detective in her middle years and with more experience than both of the men present. The inside joke wasn't lost on Jones: she put hours in as a firearms instructor when he went to Academy, and his caffeine excuses for poor aim earned him the nickname "Beans". He thought it was funny before he knew she'd have the whole **** calling him that before he even graduated.

"I'm afraid so, Detective." He doesn't dare return her nickname; he hadn't earned the right, yet. Instead, he gets right to the point. "Big man who lives on the fourth floor, moved in just over a year ago, I.D.'ed by a neighbor, along with some other suspect claims."

Sanchez shrugs. "Like what?"

"Like saying he has a wife and newborn, talked about how much of a tragedy it was... except he doesn't have a wife. CSI already ran the records... I figured that just meant some baby momma's about to get bad news, but then it gets weirder than that."

"Trying to take my job, Beans?" Forbes narrows her eyes, but playfully so.

"No ma'am," he chuckles. "Just... well, you'll see the file..."

"Since when does a jumper need a file?" Sanchez cranes his neck as he talks, catching a glimpse of a massive male arm sticking out from behind a dumpster.

Jones clears his throat, and whispers to them as they near the mouth of the alley. "Since the alleged wife he had a kid with matches the description of a missing teenager from Buffalo... one he reported missing just before moving here." Both detectives stare back at him, stunned. It took plenty for the older to give Jones a look like that, but he can hardly blame them. He then jams a thumb in the air towards the two other detectives working the scene. "... also, because Paul and Yulie tell me he crawled into the elevator to jump off the roof. Seems someone likely paid him a visit before he got to thinking he'd end it all."