Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149470 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 598(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
It was for this reason that I had to wear the metal expander in my pussy at night instead of being filled with his tail.
“When I’m asleep, I have much less control over my candalla,” he explained to me when I complained about going to bed with the hard, cold metal thing inside me. “He still thinks you need to be bred and he wouldn’t hesitate to slide inside you and fuck you until he could spurt your womb full of breeding cream if I didn’t keep an eye on him.”
I grumbled about this—I was pretty sure his tail was at least lacing the lubricant it shot in me with the cream, because I always wanted to be filled—just not with the hard, cold expander. But I also had no wish to get pregnant with an alien baby before I was supposed to go back home. So I did as Sir said, and wore the metal expander to sleep in.
After we went to bed, Sir would hold me in his arms and I would curl against his chest, feeling little and warm and protected in a way I never had before. No guy I’d ever been with had ever made me feel so loved—so cherished—and I adored being close to my alien Master and breathing in his warm, spicy scent as I drifted off to sleep.
It was a good routine and I would have been happy with it except for two things. First, I was heartily sick of the nutritional gel cubes. And second, Sir still wouldn’t let me come. He teased me endlessly until I always felt just on the edge of orgasm, but I could never quite get there. Sir still told me he was saving my first orgasm for something special but at this point, I was willing to do anything to ease the sexual tension.
This went on for several weeks and then one day, as Sir had me in “Pet formation” on my hands and knees on the bed with the special golden pet jewelry on, he frowned and looked at me more closely.
“Little one,” he said. “I do believe you’re losing some of your curves.”
“If you mean am I losing weight, yes I probably am,” I said. “You’ve basically got me on the Keto diet.”
“The what?” Sir frowned.
“Lots of protein and not much else,” I clarified. Of course, I know there’s more to Keto than that, but it was the easiest way to explain it to him.
Sir raised an eyebrow at me.
“And this kind of diet causes humans to lose weight?”
“Apparently,” I said. “Though I tried it before back on Earth and it didn’t work for me.”
In fact, no diet had worked for me—or they only worked for a little while and then every pound I lost came back and brought a friend with it. But spending time with Sir had finally done what the diet industry couldn’t—I was finally losing weight.
Who knew the only diet that would actually work for me was being locked in an alien spacecraft with a strict Master who fed me nothing but bland Jell-O cubes and cum? (Okay, sorry if that’s gross, but it’s true—right?)
“Do you have a mirror I can use to look at myself?” I asked Sir.
“I do have a viewer. Come this way.” He picked me up off the bed and set me down in front of a blank wall on the far side of his bedroom. He tapped the wall three times and a section of it rotated, showing a shiny surface.
I asked Sir to turn up the lights and then had a look at myself. Sure enough, I was noticeably thinner than I had been a month ago.
“Oh my God!” I moaned happily. “It’s true—I’m actually getting skinny!”
Or as close to it as I had been since middle school, anyway.
But Sir had an extremely concerned look on his face.
“You’re happy about this? About losing your curves?” he demanded, gesturing to my reflection in the viewer.
“Happy? I’m ecstatic!” I told him. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to lose weight? Basically since fifth grade when Jimmy Stamos call me ‘fatty-fatty-two-by-four’ on the playground and made all the rest of the kids laugh at me and gave me a body complex for the rest of my life.”
Sir’s face darkened.
“Who is this ‘Jimmy Stamos’ who denigrated your beautiful curves and made you feel bad about yourself? Perhaps I should make a special trip back to Earth when our mission is accomplished and pay him a visit.”
“What? That was years ago,” I told him. “I’m pretty sure Jimmy Stamos couldn’t pick me out of a lineup by this point. He’s probably forgotten he ever said anything.”
“That doesn’t matter—the damage to your self image was done,” Sir pointed out. “He gave you the idea that your curves are bad when they’re not, little one.” Kneeling beside me, he took me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. “They’re beautiful,” he said earnestly. “You’re beautiful and I don’t like it that you’re losing your curves. What can we do to stop this?”