Balros & Echoen Slips an ankh around your neck, squirrel pressing soft and warm against your back. "Lose your voice, Judy. But gain an udder. Let it grow nice and slow, like you've always wanted." His words sink in, like a deep heat, igniting memories of thoughts you've never had. RabidBadger Things that weren't real, until they were, and had always been. Judy mouths out a few things in silence, grasping at her throat with one hand and between her legs with the other. The growth is sluggish enough for the bunny to have time to strip, barely, as things got big down there. There was just enough time to get all that uncomfortably constraining clothing out of the way before that udder needed to be tugged at and kneaded. Balros & Echoen Flexing and working your throat and tongue as if words -should- be spilling forth, achieving little more than a breathy exhalation, feels oddly thrilling. You still /said/ the words, clicking all the right signals of satisfaction to speak out with unfiltered surprise, and yet knowing no-one heard the tone... the pitch... the inflections that would have betrayed how heartpumpingly good your transformations felt. His fur felt. His voice inside you felt. How deep did his truthspeaking go...? When your plump-fingered gray paw slid across your soundless throat, it felt incredibly good, and his thickbig handpaw joined yours to caress across your jaw and one cheek. Helping heft your head as your knees begin to buckle for how overwhelmingly pleasurable your other hand felt upon the expanding mass between your thighs. As your paws and fingers slid towards your clothes to slip them off, the squirrel continued to stroke and saunter his paws across your fur and body. He seemed to know your kneed, attend to your mounting desires, encouraging an udderbunny to let her true shape fill out. Every layer of clothing you remove reveals more and more of your naked self, more than should have fit within them when you'd dressed this morning. The sensation of silky fabrics slipping across your sensitive and swelling udder is almost too much to bear; its weight and heat of production-churning growth so sensually tied to sexuality and the new, yet familiar, need to be milked. A nearly sweat-inducing need, one that just slightly overcomes the social taboos of revealing so much of yourself RabidBadger The attempts to speak don't stop. They just get wilder. It's kind of.. liberating? Judy blushes ferociously and starts muttering in utter silence about just exactly how good this all feels while leaning back into your embrace. Seeing everything spill out as soon as it had the chance, Judy keeps working her pants off - awkwardly on her own, but with your help they come loose and the bunny gets to kicking them free. It's a bit awkward, every little movement coaxes out another inch or two of ass and thigh to get in the way, and every tug at those bulging teats threatens to make the bunny collapse entirely. Balros & Echoen He can see you 'talking' to him, letting the words flow into the silence filled otherwise by the gurgling creaks of growth from your udder, and elsewhere on your udder-appropriate figure. There's a certain rush of dopamine when you're 'allowed' to outright shout without repercussions of neighbors learning the truth about you. From time to time he slips a finger or two past your lips and brushing your teeth and tongue, in ways that fail to interrupt whatever monologue pouring from you. Gods, no voicebox must also mean no gag reflex, not even your breathing is stymied. The pressure to pull of your pants is almost too much, even with his help. Peeling fabric over thick and wide hips, haunches that heave heavier because of course an udderbunny would need even more legmuscle. The profound growth of your rear means it takes him that many moments longer just to caress across the entire width of your ass to reach the next level of pulling your pants off. The first peek of glossy black udderflesh to the air between you and him nearly sucks all the wind from your lungs as the sensitivity is just /that high/. More, and more, and more swelling udder is pushed free from pulled pants, spilling over the lowering rim. The four bulges of your teats rapidly approach exposure and the squirrel gives another firm -tug- to let the first two flop free, then another for the final third and fourth. Kicking your legs to finally be rid of the lousy sends intense jostling kinetic energy into the gravid pouch of bunnymilk, coaxing all four of your fat and needy teats to swell stiff and pleasurably full. Once you're fully nude, the squirrel lets the last of your clothing fall to his side, and he drops to his knees before you, looking up with his buck-toothed smile. Still saying nothing - no need with such a silent chatterbunny - he places his paws upon the frontmost pair of teats, slowly wrapping digits around them. THe length of time he's said nothing lends potency to his last words... RabidBadger Shouting, laughing, both of those things happen and seem to be feeding on each other steadily. Growing in intensity, fueling more of that arousal, being fueled by it - getting those fingers involved just leaves Judy deep throating them while still trying to mumble out the lewd monologue that's playing in their mind. Judy flexes, one leg at a time, as the hindrance is peeled away and the body Truth demands of her shows itself. Power, wrapped in softness. The bunny bites their lip when their teats slip free, the first two that is - the third one sends a shock through the bunny and leaves her hands quivering - and the fourth one leaves her standing on one foot in a long silent moan. One that ends with Judy slowly toppling over, breathing in heavy silent gasps, shakily reaching for that udder - until you get there first. Every breath taken makes it a little bigger. Already the thing is so large Judy can't close her legs properly, but it's not big enough. How could it ever be? That first little tug leaves Judy reeling as two jets of cream fill your hands and the bunny's body contorts, mind curling in on itself, bunny cunt clenching so suddenly it becomes the first thing to finally make a sound since this started. Balros & Echoen His digits slicked by your spoken saliva means his grasp is lubricated; and gets swiftly further so once your productive udderbunny essence spills in a splash from his first squeeze. Landing on your enormous ass makes more a tectonic motion than an actual sound, aftershocks felt from the way your body quakes in sensitivity-spurred orgasms. The whole of your body is enraptured by how good it feels to have your udder flop out, to have your udder groped and grow bigger, to... to have more mass and pressure and need plumped into you from desires that were true all along. It all feels so hot, heat radiating from gray fur and black udderflesh and pink clenching petals nestled just behind it. The orgasms don't stop - they climb, debilitatingly powerful, each time Balros tugs your teats again. Each ejaculation of milk pulling another cum from your cunny, another silent squealing cry of exhultation, another worrisome -pump- of growth that leaves your udder bigger. Fatter. Fuller than when he had made those milking motions. The growth of your leg-splaying udder is not lost on the rest of your body. You can feel your upper lapine breasts have grown, too, soft plump spheres like gray teardrops, beads of just-as-rich cream pooling at the tips of your stiff nipples. The formerly athletic trim of your tum has likewise risen like bread dough, the gut of a girl who eats what she needs to need milking so fucking bad. Your udder begins to rise as high as the squirrel's chest; he leans forward, pushing in to press his corruptively silky-soft squirrelfurred body against its central mass, drape himself over your udder while brazenly pull-tugging repetitively upon your teats. He lets your gaze meet his, between the thrashing and thrusting of open-mouthed orgasms. RabidBadger Judy would be lost in an absolute cacophony of lust, if she wasn't silent. Eyes rolled back, tongue lolling out while she keeps writhing a bit harder every time. The bunny's feet curl up, digging into the sides of the udder as it becomes the single biggest part of herself - even if there are other things working diligently to catch up. One more fall waits, Judy topples onto her back and clutches at her chest, the moaning looking like howling as she starts bucking against the underside of her own udder in a desperate attempt to reach some kind of climax - some state of 'enough' that doesn't exist in the world she occupies now. You can see ragged pleas working their way into her quiet pantomime of lust. All the desperation and need of her begging 'please' followed by either 'stop' or 'more' in equal measure. But the one where she reaches out one shaky hand toward you? That one comes paired with 'more'. Balros & Echoen Balros peppers soft, slow kisses across your udder, timing them with the clenches of your body as another orgasm hits, as another back-arching soundless yelp is released from your erogenous esophagus. Even your groans are quieted, yet with all the sensation of having belted out a gutteral admittance of your pleasure. When your broad, beautiful, thick-toed paws are lifted up to start to push, and knead, and -press- against the massive black mass of sensitive hyperproduction, the squirrel's fervent tugs on your teats grows rewardingly tighter. He's not just pressing all of himself to it and pulling at your teats with great strength, but also frotting, rubbing, pressing the throbbing spire of his arousal at you as if you needed any more kinkiness added to your situation. There are too many pleasure nerves across too vast an expanse of bare naked skin, even as gallons of udderbunny milk have been wrought from an udder filled with several barrels more. Your plump-fingered paw reaches towards your squirrel, his adoring gaze upon you as he gives his latest, full-arms-drawn-back-pull of your enlarged teats. He reads the words upon your lips, sees them spelled out in your repeating mouthing. The ankh snuggled around your silenced throat warms again as he draws breath; he cranes forward, weighing his body down on your udder to press his face into your paw. The truth is swallowed into your senses as your every being and very fabric of your reality when he speaks; you hear him, you see him speak, you feel him talk, you taste his words... *"Yes, Judy. You've always -needed- to be milked more. This udder that you've always wanted, it forever needs more milking. It never stops producing more, never stops giving you more pleasure." "...and the more someone drinks from you, the more they'll want an udder like yours, too." RabidBadger There's a certain wrinkle to the plea that's saturated in a kind of surrender. Already the catastrophic pleasure of the situation is leaving Judy more broken by the moment, more lost all all that flesh and everything it can bring. Judy knows it's too far already, there's no going back - you can't go riding around leaving parking tickets when your udder is so fat and sensitive that you can scarcely walk and a couple of tugs leaves you debilitated for the better part of an hour. But it hasn't been a couple of tugs- It's been kneading, and pressing, and squeezing.. it's felt like hours. Judy curls her fingers around your face and slides her hand shakily downward, cupping a cheek. Affection. Gratitude. Maybe the last coherent feeling the bunny has left in her being as she tries to scrape together any focus left in herself for that purpose.. and has it all fall apart with just a brush of tender dick flesh across throbbing teats. Judy soaks in the bliss of it all like a sponge taking on water - or spilled milk. Just like her being soaks in the Truth rolling off of you. Then reaches down with her free hand to get a smear of her own sweet, warm cream onto her paw and mimic something from earlier - but with her digits slipping into your lips this time. Balros & Echoen As the memories of always having an udder, alwaysneeding* that udder to be milked, of pleasure that never quite fades to the back and continually mounts, it makes the pleasure and pressure of now even more intense. There's never been an adjustment - no getting used to it, no upper limit to how many times you can cum. Incongruities of how full and heavy you swell each day, only to start the next day able to slide into uniform, lost in a fog of the hours spent tumbling over the cliff of climax that leaves you barely able to write a report. A cliff ever higher, a fall ever longer, and that's just on days when you have the apartment to yourself and nobody to milk you.* But the squirrel, the squirrel you know, the boyfloof who knows your every erogenous zone and place to apply slight pressure to make you -squirt-, or squeal, or both, keeps climbing your cliff of constant climax onto to throw you off it again and again and again. There's so little space for thought, only a mind filled with need and thanks. A rollercoaster of emotion sloshing between leg-shaking orgasms and a body made to make more milk. He looks so lovingly into your longing eyes as those vestiges of embarrassment flicker across your expressions, drinking in the desperate gratitude engorging his gorgeous bunnygirl. If he wasn't there, you'd be in this state all by yourself, the Truth of his words real no matter his proximity. A lifetime of living it. A shred of your false former self scrabbles together to suggest... something resembling sanity, a part of you to witness what you have become before it becomes once again undone. This part of you recognizes the meaning, the expression, the emotion of having his heavy shaft -throb- against your udder, to have his naked body and yours pressed together in near-coitus. That part of you breaking like a wave on a beach as you gather your own milk into your paw, and let your lover taste it off your fingertips. His buck teeth brush tenderly across your first knuckle, then second, lips closing to seal around cream-coated digits and suckle. The nutrition of a dozen udderbunnies concentrated in each droplet - and you immediately feel the increasing heat and pressure of his swollen erection sinking against the grand black sac of your udder. The squirrel growing, his virility multiplying as his tongue washes the taste from your fingerfur, the potent pillar of his prick pushing and pulsing prodigiously plumper against your udder. An aching kinship, in a way, as his nuts churn with squirrelseed in a way so debilitatingly similar to your need to be milked. Your lower teats are brushed by the fluffy fur of his fattening balls, milk squeezed from them as his ballsac weighs down on them from growth.