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Backed Up (Patreon Commission for ShrapnelTheWolf)
🕑 Added 2021-12-23 17:08:09 +0000 UTCEvery morning, Elizabeth got up at seven AM sharp to empty out what she’d produced during the night, and every morning, the amount increased by just enough that both herself and Shrapnel were very unsubtly reminded that they needed to purchase another extension to their drainage system. The two of them still remembered the good old days, when all they needed was a single basement full of high-pressure holding tanks, rather than their own sewage main linked directly to a dairy factory several miles away; those were the best times, when the amount of cream that Liz output was still in the four digits, rather than the seven she had recently reached. Granted, as far as the serval was concerned, having to output a few million gallons of milk every morning wasn’t the worst part; no, that honour went to having to go to bed at about eleven PM the previous night just so she’d have enough time to drain herself on time for the shift at the dairy plant to start, even if her only connection to it was the paycheck at the end of the month. At least it let her work from home… to a certain extent. It was hardly “work”, in the sense that she didn’t really do anything other than what was already mandatory; it wasn’t as if she could decide to not milk herself, unless of course she wanted her house to explode from the poorly-contained energy in her milky mammaries. Still, it was good to be compensated for the inconvenience; plus, said compensation was good enough that she could afford to spend a good chunk of cash on whatever form of entertainment she most fancied at any given point, which made the long hours alone at home that much more bearable. For no matter how much the two of them would’ve liked for her contributions to be enough to take care of all expenses, Elizabeth just wasn’t quite there yet; if her physicians’ projections were correct, she would reach a state where the amount of milk produced by her bust was enough that the dairy plant’s salary would be high enough that Shrapnel wouldn’t have to work a single more day in his life… but, alas, until that day came, the wolf had to leave the home for an ungodly nine hours just so he could buffer up their income to keep the couple from going into red. As a result, he too had to make use of the draining system, since installing two of them would’ve been both prohibitively expensive and outright impossible to maintain, given how little space under the house there already was; thus, the way the construction company figured would be best was via a dual-output system: the couple would keep the vast underground containment tanks, but those would be reserved for Shrapnel only; via a simple setting on the milking pump itself, the couple could choose where the drained cream would go, either towards the dairy plant, or back down to storage, allowing them to use the same machine with relatively minor cleaning required after Shrapnel got done using it. Just to make it even simpler on them, he made sure to always go second, minimizing the risk of any contaminants arriving at the factory and potentially jeopardizing their main source of income. Plus, it gave him time to rest with the whole bed for himself; as much it was heavenly to be able to wake up with a pair of tits the size of a bus next to him every morning, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to just have a bed, an actual, proper mattress without the overbearing presence of two colossal milktanks capable of crushing him if not for the ceiling-mounted rail system keeping them nice and upright… or at least as upright as they could be. After all, he had enough troubles of his own with his package being about as well-developed as his partner’s bust; and unlike her, he didn’t have a dozen buyers all desperately lined up in front of him for a chance to use his seed. Quite the contrary, as he’d effectively ran out of sperm banks to donate, with none for several hundred miles accepting any further contributions until their “stock” was used up; given how much he sold, Shrapnel calculated this would take anywhere from a couple of years to two decades or so, closing off that particular avenue. For the time being, both him and Elizabeth both agreed they were better off simply disposing of the holding tanks’ contents periodically, which they had just done the previous day; for Shrapnel, it was a dumb opportunity to feel like the occasion mattered, like he was “breaking in” a new set, despite them being the exact same metal containers after being given a good rinse. Unbeknownst to both of them though, there was indeed something special about that day; or rather, something out of the ordinary that had been inherited from the day prior. Normally, as per the safety protocol, both of them were supposed to check that the draining system was set away from the holding tanks immediately after installing whenever they were returned; since this usually happened after that day’s draining anyway, it meant the pumps were ready for the next morning’s milking whenever Elizabeth got up, minimizing the risk of them accidentally crossing streams. While this was nothing short of sensible, it was one thing for the instruction manual to tell them to do something, and quite another for the couple, tired as they were of moving metal tanks from one side to another, to give a rat’s ass about safety protocol. After an already long day where Shrapnel got held up at work and Liz spent most of her time filing taxes with a calculator that insisted on malfunctioning every other minute, neither of them had the patience to check properly; hence, when the wolf asked the serval if they put “the thing” on “the right spot”, Elizabeth nodded and promptly splatted onto bed, a second or two passing before she began snoring loudly… and, quite coincidentally, leaving Shrapnel to attach her tits to the ceiling rails so they wouldn’t crush the both of them with their overnight filling. When the day dawned, the two of them were far too stuffed to care about anything other than emptying out; Elizabeth in particular just wanted to milk herself down to size and get ready for another several hours of her actually doing nothing productive, while Shrapnel did his best to ignore the mounting pressure between his legs. What neither of them knew, however, was that the control panel attached to the draining pumps had been set to direct the flow towards the holding tanks rather than the primary line, meaning that Liz had to work extra hard to ignore the weird noises that sounded suspiciously like her milk filling up the metallic containers underneath her feet. It was fine, she told herself, probably just something with the pipes and the cold and whatever else meant she didn’t need to worry about anything; after she was done, a good thirty or so minutes later, the serval removed herself from the wall-mounted pump and called out for Shrapnel to take his turn, hitting a right-facing arrow on the electronic panel. Normally, this would change it from the primary dairy line to the holding tanks; with the latter option already selected, however, that simple gesture instead cycled the machinery to a mostly unused function: reverse. It was there because it had to be; most people who bought that kind of milking system didn’t need a small convoy of trucks just to get their produce out, so instead they merely turned the pumps in the opposite direction and filled canisters at their leisure for further disposal. Neither Shrapnel nor Elizabeth could make use of this, hence why they just skipped that option and went right back to the primary dairy line… but of course, Shrapnel was tired, he was stuffed, his nuts were so large that he had to drag them behind him, and he just wanted some relief. Thus, when he got in place and thrust his cock into the milking pump, he didn’t bother checking whether the setting was the correct one; he just turned the machine on. Shrapnel had maybe a second or two to realize something was wrong. Typically, the way it worked was the pump locked itself around his dick, pressed firmly on it, and then began draining him dry by means of mechanical action; he preferred to think of it in those terms, since any others would probably leave him too hard to fit into the damned thing to begin with. The important part was that it was meant to suck, not just stand there and do nothing as it whirred to life, leaving the wolf wondering if some component had been rattled out of place, or the electrical wiring was keeping it undersupplied. It wasn’t until he heard the sounds of fluid gushing towards him that he realized what had happened, just before his eyes focused on the control panel, saw what was actually on it, and then he had no more time left before disaster hit. Poor guy didn’t even have the opportunity to lift his arm towards the button, keeping it locked in place midway through the motion in a suitably dramatic fashion; instead, a deluge of milk slammed into him, the thick and heavy cream not so much filling the tube he had his cock in, before everything in it as well: namely, his cock. The base of it was too tightly gripped; it was the closest thing to a vacuum seal in the entire contraption, designed to keep any excess fluid from spilling out of the pump assembly; in normal circumstances, an absolute godsend, even if said pump was installed over the bathtub just in case. In that particular instance, however? Shrapnel could do little but curse his luck as he wished the damned thing would relieve the pressure by opening up just enough that the milk flood had somewhere else to go, but with the bloody assembly refusing to budge, and the pumps working overtime to reverse the flow, there was only one way the milk could go: in. The worst part was that Shrapnel lacked the ability to control it; much as he would’ve liked to close up and not let anything in, he was far too big for that to be the case, leading to his cocktip swelling as it accepted a hefty dose of cream, which only led to more of Elizabeth’s produce flowing into him, thus creating more bloating, etcetera in such a quick escalation that the whole wall began to tremble. There was one sound in the air now: the rumbling of piping, the shaking of metal as the entire pump system began to buckle and bend under the abnormal circumstances it had just been placed under, prompting Elizabeth to ask if everything was alright; Shrapnel would’ve loved to answer, but alas, he was slightly too concerned with his dick having been turned into a conduit through which his beloved’s milk began to pour into his nuts, an abnormality of anatomy on a level that he really, really didn’t want to think about. Not that he could, given what sort of stimulation it was providing for him; much as his rational side insisted he shouldn’t be deriving any pleasure from it, it was hard to deny that having his balls stuffed in such a manner was anything other than divine, enough so that Shrapnel’s first reaction was to open his mouth and let his tongue loll out, slobbering all over himself as his muscles went limp for a few moments. He could’ve stayed that way all day: linked to the pump, unable to move, feeling as his sack bloated with every whirr of the machine in front of him, pressure rising as the cream worked in mysterious ways with his unique hyper physiology to help his nuts overproduce even more than they already did. It was a disaster in the making, and yet Shrapnel couldn’t bring himself to stop it, nor indeed care enough to want to stop it; why should he, when it just felt so… right? Even when his nuts slammed against the back wall, definitely alerting Elizabeth to the fact something was definitely wrong in the bathroom, the wolf couldn’t force himself to get up and leave; it was entirely within his power, given all he had to do was turn the pump off with the press of a single button, but to do so would mean to deprive himself of the glorious sensations that came with having countless gallons of milk pressurized into him through the single most sensitive part of his body. Frankly, he could only wonder why he hadn’t tried that before; it was positively rapturous, even if the sound of cracking ceramic should’ve alerted him to the fact that he was rapidly outgrowing the bathroom itself. Once more, however, he couldn’t care; just as long as he was still given that sweet embrace of lactic bliss, Shrapnel wasn’t going to do anything to make it stop… forcing Liz to try and do so herself. The noises coming from the bathroom were not normal, that much she was aware of, and for all the serval knew, there could’ve been some sort of accident that knocked poor Shrapnel out; if that was the case, it was her duty to make sure he was safe, rather than staying in the living room wondering what game she should play only to then have the whole house flooded with cum… again. She learned it the hard way the first time around, she wasn’t about to spend another week rinsing spunk off the walls (and ceiling), so with great difficulty, the serval heaved herself off the couch and began the arduous walk back to the bathroom, grumbling all the while. It was just her luck that Shrapnel had to have broken the damned machine that day, right when she wanted to relax the most; hell, the problem was probably easily fixable and the idiot wolf was just too horny to think about it, exactly like the last time. It wasn’t until she squeezed through to the hallway and then pulled the door open that Elizabeth was made privy to what the truth actually was; it wasn’t until she saw her beloved, looking incredibly undersized compared to a pair of balls that took up most of the bathroom on their own, that she stopped to think that maybe the problem was bigger than anticipated. And it wasn’t until she saw Shrapnel’s face, contorted into a mindless display of raw, animalistic bliss, that she knew the two of them were utterly fucked; that wasn’t the face of someone who knew when to stop… or slow down. Or even think about anything at all at that point. That was, without mistake, the look of someone who had precisely zero thoughts inside a brain that was little more than one hundred percent pleasure center by weight, whose neural pathways had been completely corrupted and subverted purely so that said brain could process all the sensory information it was being fed without being overloaded and flooding in serotonin. Of course, it flooded itself anyway, so that was a bust; even if the process was stopped the moment Elizabeth walked into the bathroom, it was doubtful Shrapnel would’ve been able to come out of it the same person as before, at least without several days of rest so his mind could reboot properly. Alas, starting over wasn’t really an option, as by the time Liz did see what was happening, there wasn’t enough empty space in the bathroom for her to use; granted, there usually wasn’t even when no one else was in there, but at least she could’ve tried to squeeze inside and force the wolf out of the draining pumps, if most of the room within wasn’t almost completely covered in either cockmeat or nutflesh… suspiciously sloshy nutflesh, now that she thought about it, now that her own brain put the puzzle pieces together and a horrible realization dawned within. Really should’ve doublechecked the previous night; they were about to pay dearly for their lackluster concern for proper safety protocols.
“Shrap!” she called out, desperate for literally anything that might serve to defuse the situation, “Please, listen to me, you need to turn the machine off! You need to turn it off!”
Hopeless. How idiotic of her to assume that Shrapnel even had the ability to understand speech anymore. Poor guy just looked back at her with a vacant stare, as if part of him remembered that you were supposed to stare back at someone when they addressed you, even if nothing else of basic etiquette remained. Certainly not speech, certainly not the capacity to process language in any form; only pleasure, and the experiencing thereof, fueled by a near-endless supply of thick cream that only became thicker the more his own cock grew within the tight and tightening confines of the milking machine. Wouldn’t take much longer before it broke apart from the inside out, but until that happened, he was going to ride that high for as long as the world let him, even if he couldn’t think in even such simplistic terms. For Liz, this was her one warning to get the hell out of dodge while she still had the chance; one she refused, as that would make her a poor partner indeed if she abandoned her better half when they needed her the most. Not that she could do anything, but at least by standing around, panicking, and occasionally trying to pull Shrapnel away from the impending disaster area, she could rationalize it as her “doing something”, even if it accomplished very little. It was just a countdown, really, to the serval running towards the kitchen to grab the phone and call up the emergency services, hoping perhaps they’d have some sort of miracle cure for a hyper’s hyper being out of control, all while trying her damned best not to think about what an opportunity this was. After all, the two of them rarely got to go full out since the last time she had a “little incident”; the city was still paying for repairs after the flood, and her body was never quite the same since, hence the need for such an expensive milking apparatus and dedicated drainage system for their house. As a result, herself and Shrapnel had to contend with what were, effectively, table scraps; more than most people would ever experience in their lives, sure, but still nothing compared to the heights of pleasure they could achieve if they actually put their minds to it. Hell, her body was only as restricted and small as it was because she consciously made an effort to keep herself manageable, and that still left her big enough to need rails mounted on the ceiling if she ever wanted to be able to walk without dragging her tits, and half the house, in front of her. So for Elizabeth to see Shrapnel the way that he was, lacking any sort of inhibitions about fulfilling his innermost desires, was… difficult. She wanted to jump on him, wanted to make good use of that opening to get railed properly for the first time in heavens knew how long, but had that pesky little voice in the back of her head telling her that this was, somehow, “wrong”; that she wasn’t “supposed” to do it, that the results would be “catastrophic”, that “other people” might take umbrage at the sight, sound, smell and feel of a couple of burgeoning giants with no regard for their own personal safety, let alone that of others. It was an annoyingly loud voice, very hard to ignore; usually, Liz would down half a bottle of gin to get it to go away before doing something very stupid with her stud, but alas, she had no more Sturdy’s left in the house after the last time (doctor’s orders, though hardly for the sake of her liver). What was left was a feline split down the middle, with one half tugging away at her, begging for the serval to run from the scene and call for help, and the other desperate for a shot at a proper filling. It was a battle with a foregone outcome, but one that Liz insisted on fighting regardless; it always felt better when she could pretend like there had ever been a choice, rather than her carnal side being guaranteed to win like it always did. It was part of the narrative, part of the story, the idea that she had agency she could employ, but chose not to; indeed, at times it was hard to tell whether or not that was actually true, whether the couple was so far gone into their own unique realm of sexual apotheosis that it was outright impossible to try and explain anything they did via conventional means. All that Elizabeth knew was that she had an empty belly with enough space in it that it could use a good stuffing, a fat-cocked and heavy-balled stud of a wolf in the bathroom next to her, and a serious need for something long and hard between her legs; granted, this last one was going to need Shrapnel to break through the pumps, but given the noises coming out of the walls, this was bound to happen sooner rather than later. Indeed, all Liz had time for was to turn her substantially-sized ass towards the door and then lean forward, offering the pinned wolf a target to aim for, before the entire section of the bathroom wall around the pumping port collapsed; it didn’t implode, it didn’t explode, it merely ceased to be in a way that looked more like someone had toppled a house of cards. With the grinding of metal and the cracking of ceramic, Shrapnel was finally free, his immense shaft unseen by the serval, who insisted on looking straight ahead at her cleavage, and absolutely nothing and nowhere else. She still felt it; still sensed the approach, with the warmth and heft of her lover’s cock being so familiar to her that her form almost reacted instinctively, moving towards it ever so gently. She wasn’t thinking about what her milk had done to her lover; gods above only knew what sort of unholy concoction was roiling around inside the wolf’s nuts now that he’d received such a plentiful infusion of cream. But she didn’t have to think, was the best part; all that was needed of her were her knees, bent, her voice, ready to crack, and her plump lower lips, dripping and eager for a filling. For Shrapnel, by that point operating entirely off primal animal instinct, this was what he needed to know where to direct himself; anything less and he might’ve hurt himself in his confusion as he tried to find someone to rut. With such a wonderful, plump bottom there for him to sink his hands into, however, there was little doubt in the wolf’s mind of where he was meant to go, where he was meant to stick that tree-sized rod of his; thus, with a moan that would shake the very neighborhood to the core, Shrapnel moved forward a single step. The moan, of course, came not from him, but from the lucky little serval who had just felt the very tip of her lover’s dick enter her body, already far more than the vast majority of furkind would dream of being able to take. A fraction of Shrapnel’s full potential, and it was already obscenely excessive… so he took another step, stretching the serval’s form already, forcing it to wrap itself around the contours of the colossal pillar of cockmeat. Another step, and Elizabeth moaned yet again, that time around less of a throaty noise and more something resembling the call of an eldritch being of pure lust whose eternal need for sexual gratification had just been satisfied in an instant. Yet another, and the wolf finally found some resistance, and from an odd source as well: he was too big. He couldn’t actually bottom out inside Liz, because her body wasn’t big enough for the kind of rod he was sporting… at least, not without some ample lubrication and plenty of proverbial elbow grease. She’d taken larger sizes before; the fact that most of her torso was cock-shaped already hardly mattered when there were plenty of occasions where her body weight was majorly Shrapnel’s by technical definition. Indeed, there were no complaints coming from Liz’s direction; funnily enough, it was precisely when the wolf stopped momentarily to get his bearings that he heard the serval loudly ask him why he had stopped, and why he wasn’t stuffing her even harder, driving the poor guy to keep moving forward in the hopes of finally sinking his hands into that plush ass properly. It was his goal, his prize; if he could bottom out, then he didn’t need to pull out completely in order to rut the serval. He could make do with merely moving a couple of feet of cock while still keeping most of himself attached to a rotund rear of such perfect plushness that just thinking about it left him even loopier than before, even if it still served as an anchor point. So he kept walking; he kept moving, even when it required far more energy to do so, even when he could feel Elizabeth’s form being forcefully stretched out around his length, the serval’s cries the only thing letting him know that she was enjoying the experience even more than he was. He’d eventually reach a point where he was actually all the way over to his lover’s tits… in a certain way; it was a novel experience, being able to receive a titfuck while still inside the serval, but he wasn’t going to complain, not when the sensations being fed through his spinal cord were powerful enough to nearly floor him. There was a lot of energy behind each motion, and most of it was wasted in just keeping it going; if at any point Shrapnel stopped burning through thousands of calories just to remain conscious, there was a good chance he might just pass out from overstimulation. Thankfully, he had plenty of reserves left after the stuffing he received, courtesy of the not-so-defective draining system; while he wasn’t exactly sure how he could use Liz’s milk to keep feeding his body’s necessary systems, given that it was mostly stuck in his nuts, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth either. So he kept going, until eventually, with one final, supremely wet thwap, he reached it: the end. Bottomed out fully, hilted inside the serval, with the tip of his cock several feet beyond where even Liz’s cleavage ended, skewering through her entire form and leaving her looking more like an oversized, furry condom around his length than anything else, albeit one with a stupendously oversized pair of tits, and an ass wide enough to that it was only slightly parted by the towering cock stuck between its cheeks. Normally, this would be the first step (and, to a certain extent, it sort of was): in order for a rutting to begin, typically, there needed to be someone inside someone else, at least if a breeding was the one goal in mind. It was only the start, at least for the vast majority of couples living on the planet; for Shrapnel and Liz, however, it was a long, arduous process that itself led to the very first of what would be a great many climaxes. It did, after all, involve the wolf taking a dick too big for any mortal body to withstand and then successfully shoving it fully into Elizabeth, who despite being turned into a cumblimp in the process, still begged for more at every step of the way. Was it any surprise, then, that this was often enough to get both of them to fly over the edge and experience orgasm without any further stimulation required? They certainly didn’t seem to think so, especially when that morning’s first filling was so deliciously overblown that, before Liz could even begin to regret her actions, her belly had already taken a good half of the living room in front of her, after successfully blowing through multiple walls in order to do so. It was normal, at least for them, which only made it somewhat surprising that, instead of having to wait a few seconds for Shrapnel’s refractory period to be done, the wolf instead merely bucked his hips immediately after, dumping yet another load inside of the serval’s body, one that managed to find its way to her curves that time around: a bloating of the tits, big enough that each one filled their entire house (and thus had to break through what remained of its structure, reducing it to detritus and bits of floating timber); a fattening of the ass, of such a magnitude that Shrapnel himself was buried beneath a rump of almost supernatural softness. And yet, he still wasn’t done; the combination of his seed with Elizabeth’s highly energetic cream had gifted him with the extra boost of energy needed to simply obliterate whatever waiting period there had been between individual loads, something Liz herself was about to become deeply acquainted with. A third climax, and there was her belly, bigger than the rest of her combined, barrelling over a couple of houses; there was a fourth, and each nipple alone outsized what Elizabeth had been just moments before. There was a fifth, and she could be seen over the horizon.
It wasn’t going to stop. Not “any time soon” either… just, never. Shrapnel didn’t want it to stop.
So why should it?
