Marise hummed a cheerful tune as she led him by the leash into the meadow of shining pools. She moved backwards, leaning over slightly—as though trying to soothe and lure a beast.

Gretel stared at her bouncing tits and felt completely lost. He couldn't help himself. Couldn't look away. It felt so natural to stare, and she smelled so good—like cookie dough, like sweetness, like surrender. Every time he thought he might be recovering himself, she seemed to sense it, reaching up to give one of those massive teardrop-shaped breasts an indulgent bounce, and his mind seemed to...

...drift...

... until remembering itself a moment later and finding his feet had taken him several more witless steps forward.

They came to the tent. Gretel searched inside, trying hard to muster his will, to draw his inner strength to the surface. But it was putty. Goo between her bouncing, jiggling tits.

“Well?” She turned to him and smiled, pressing in close again. Gretel stumbled, caught off-guard by the sudden advance, and his balance lurched farther than his bound hands could follow.

He fell on his back.

Luckily, he landed somewhere soft. The bedroll, he remembered numbly. Then, Oh, no.

Marise stood above him. She had an imperious, condescending smirk gracing her gorgeous face, and that should have filled Gretel with indignation. It just made him harder. “Poor, silly boy,” she purred, reaching up and jiggling her breasts. Gretel felt his mind melting away from him with every bounce. ”It's just not fair, is it?”

“Nn... not fair…” His voice was a wretched whimper. He squirmed, pleading with his own body to rally itself. He couldn't get caught, not again, not already, he... he wasn't... supposed to...

“Boys can't help themselves around pretty girls like me,” she cooed. The holstaur clasped her hands behind her back and leaned over, and her enormous tits bounced right above his head. “Boys can't help but get hypnotized by pretty, bouncy tits like this, can they? Poor, weak, brainless horny boys~”

Her voice was a melody, but he didn’t even feel like he was listening to it anymore. He was caught in it, swept along, helplessly entangled in the treble clef trill of her sugary, seductive words.

There was something unspeakable about it, something unechoable that slipped from her lips. Something about that voice that wrapped around him like thornless rose briars and blew sweet scents upon his mind until it swooned. Something about it that went beyond any fey he’d ever met. Something that he’d never heard of inhabiting the tongue of any holstaur, from what little he knew.

He wondered what would happen if he kept listening to it for too long.

“Nn... n-no, I…”

“After all…” She laughed at him, squeezing her breasts together. “When my breasts go squish... boys brains go squish~”

Squish. He felt her musical voice tugging his mind along, like a finger under the chin luring it deeper into the flowers. Delicate, and yet if he followed it…

He watched her breasts fall. Squish.

Gretel humped the air without thinking. Oh, Limini's leggings were so unbearably tight.

She laughed, and to his intense relief—and confused disappointment—the strange quality seemed to slip away from her voice. Still, it remained sweet, low, sultry, and still he could not escape it as she sang, “When tits go bounce, your thoughts go bounce~”

“Oh... but... but I...” Gretel was panting. Drooling. He knew he was proving her right, acting like a dumb, stupid boy drooling over a pretty girl's tits, humping the air, totally transfixed, totally hypnotized, her weak little boytoy, unable to resist the pretty bouncy tits, unable to resist her, unable to resist any pretty girl...

He was humping faster. Bucking into the air. Whimpering. Moaning. Watching as her tits bounced and swayed and jiggled.

Marise descended lower, and her scent descended, too, thicker than ever. He was drugged out of his mind by her perfume, her musk, her… pheromones. Drugged by his own lust. Sent into a pathetic mating fog, straight into heat like a wifwolf ready for breeding. Broken by a pair of pretty tits. As any boy would be.

“P-Please,” he whimpered, “please, I c-can't...”

The pleas felt false to his own ears. At his most ashamed center, he knew the truth. He wasn’t begging her to stop anymore.

He was begging her to force him.

And judging by that lovingly cruel smile, this was the message she received.

Her coos were wordless, soothing sounds, the sounds one might make to calm a crying infant or startled kitten. She slid into his lap, straddling him, pinning him against the bedroll and locking her knees around his hips.

“Please,” he whined.

“Don't struggle, sweetie,” she murmured, licking her lips. “It won't do any good. Stop fighting.”

Keep fighting, her eyes whispered, sparkling with amusement. See how little it matters. See how easily you fail.

“B-But I...”

His voice was slurred and vague, like his own tongue was somewhere far away. But he could still hold on, couldn't he? He had to keep his mouth shut, no matter what. He didn't have to... to hump against her luscious, curvy ass, to completely lose himself to her scent and huff as much as he could. He didn't have to... humiliate himself like...

“Shush.” She caressed his cheek, her tits close enough to smother him again—but he had a sinking sense that this wasn't at all what she had in mind this time, and he whimpered in dread. “Just give in. I’m going to take such good care of you.”

As Gretel opened his mouth to object, he felt her ass press into his lap, and his mind briefly went molten-pink as a sunset.

“Besides...” Marise’s lips curled with amusement as some devious spark entered her eyes. She stroked his hair, and he swore he could feel parts of his brain turning off wherever she touched. “... this is only a dream you're having, isn't it?”

“B-But, but I... whuh?” Gretel blinked, dazed, dizzy, dumb. No. Had to stop talking. Had to keep his mouth shut. Her tits were so close.

“Just a slutty little wet dream,” the holstaur cooed, grinding her ass until he let out an involuntary closed-mouth moan. “Dumb, silly boy. You're just imagining this~!” She bounced slightly atop him. One eyebrow rose. “And quite the imagination you have~”

“But... no, n-no, it's not...” Gretel's lips parted in a squeal as Marise grinded her ass from side to side. He barely remembered to close his mouth again. Stop talking. Stop opening your mouth. Stop arguing. Stop… fighting…

“Just a wet dream,” she purred, cupping his cheek and slowly guiding him to face one of her perfect breasts. He stared at her nipple, a tiny bead of moisture at its tip promising untold ecstasy. She bounced in his lap and giggled. “Just a cute little fantasy about letting a pretty girl own you with her breasts. Letting her break you. Melt your brain.“

She leaned down, her voice rising to a smoldering, condescending coo that made him throb. “Addict you~”

He was so hungry. So thirsty. She'd planned that. Planned him to need her.

To be dependent on her.

If he gave in now, he might never escape.

He squirmed against her. Had to get away. Keep control. Keep his mouth shut.

If her milk was addictive… he’d never want to escape.

He grinded against her. His leggings were too thin, too tight.

If he let her win, he’d really be broken, trapped… lost…

He bucked upwards. Sweet, silken pleasure ran over his captive length as he felt the gentle squish of her luscious, pillowy thighs against him. The pleasure felt wonderful. Almost unreal.

And if… if it really was… was only…

“... only… a dream…” he heard himself mumble. His mouth hung open, drooling slightly.

Marise beamed. “That's right, darling boy! Just a dream,” she hissed. “Just a nice.” Her hips rocked along his shaft. “Perverted.” She gripped his hair. “Little wet dream~”

And she slipped her nipple past his parted lips.

“Good boy,” she cooed.

He lay there, drooling, vacant. It took him a moment to even realize what had just happened.

“Mm,” he protested, but he could already taste faint droplets on his tongue, already felt the longing to lick. “MMMF!”

“Aww, mmm-mm~!” She giggled. “It is yummy, isn't it, little darling? Now...” She swung her soft, curvy hips from side to side along his shaft, positively...

... milking him.

“...suck.”

Without even thinking about it, with even processing the need to resist, Gretel found his lips giving a small, needy suckle.

Her moan of pleasure filled his ears like pouring syrup, reverberated through his whole body like an earthquake. She clutched him tight, pulled him closer, squished his whole face into her massive soft, smooth, flawless breast.

“Mmf…”

“That's it, little darling,” she said softly, her voice suddenly husky with desire. “Suckle. Nurse. Drink!”

And he could hold on no longer.

Gretel latched on and began to suckle, and it was as though something in his brain shut off, a door slammed shut. He sucked harder, moaning, whimpering, drinking desperately. His hunger and thirst were forgotten in the sweetness, the creaminess, the richness of the flavors.

More. That was all he could imagine. More milk. More pleasure.

He was addicted.

“Oh, yes,” he heard Marise gasp, and he felt warm with pride. “Good boy~!”

Gretel bucked and grinded his hips, moaning uncontrollably. He didn't care that the milk was ruining him, that he might never escape Marise. Marise was taking care of him. He needed more, more, more—

“Gently,” she murmured with a giggle. “No need to rush, my sweet~”

And he obediently slowed. He pressed against her breast and gently suckled, allowing his corruption to pour in slow. Down below, he felt his tight trousers being pulled down, felt his engorged cock springing free, and then—

—and then he was immersed. Taken. Swallowed into her silken heat, into her softness, squeezing around him, contracting, claiming. Marise’s happy little sighs of pleasure filled his head like the most honeyed lullabies. Everything went soft except the one part that mattered.

Gretel gave in.

He moaned and bucked into her, desperate to plunge in as deep as he could, to give it all to her.

He felt her hips rise and fall in perfect tandem. She was ready and eager to accept him, to use him, to use this part of him to break the rest. The pleasure made him drool around her nipple as he sucked and licked, helpless, lost, addicted, love-drunk.

And Marise knew the exact rhythm to follow to match his thrusts. It was like she knew his body better than he did. Like Gretel was so devoured by her power, his mind so absorbed into Marise's gentle control, she knew exactly what to do to ruin his mind completely, to drown him in drugged bliss.

“That's it,” she cried, rolling her hips, and he babbled insensible bliss into her tits. He was lost in pleasure. His world was as peach-pink as her soft skin. “Oh, yes, isn't that so much better, sweetie? Just.” Her hips rose. “Letting.” Her hips descended, plunging down onto his sensitive, twitching, dribbling length. “Pretty girls.” Her pussy walls contracted, slowly slid down, then back up, stoking his lust. “Win.”

“MMMMMF!”

Yes. Pretty girls were smarter. Better. Softer. How could he ever think otherwise? How could he resist such gentle, yielding, inescapable heat? It wasn't a danger. It wasn't going to conquer him.

It would just welcome him in as he submitted himself to it willingly.

He suckled docilely, desperate for every drop. He clung to Marise's chest and drank deep as she cooed her pleasure. She started to bounce faster, and he felt her tits bouncing around him, but he was clinging so tightly it didn't matter. All it did was make him dizzy, make her scent waft down over him in slow, easy waves, and he was already too drugged on it to notice getting worse.

Gretel was lost. He cling tight and nursed at her breast, filled himself with the drug of Marise's mastery over him, and all he could imagine was here, in his arms, between his lips, bouncing up and down atop him.

Marise's cries were rising in pitch and desperation. She seemed almost more affected by his mouth than his cock, but as she moved him to switch to the other breast, he thrust upwards, her pussy walls contracted, and she let out a groan of bliss. He felt her shivering with orgasm the second his tongue met her other nipple.

Her orgasms were wonderful. They were heaven. When she came, more milk flowed. When she came, she gripped him tighter. When she came, her pleasure and praise melted around him like browned butter. Made him weaker. Made him stupider.

Just like all boys belong.

And it was with that thought, in her third orgasm, that Gretel crested.

Gretel squealed with bliss as he came. The pleasure was molten and gooey, and he jerked, cried, bucked helplessly. Marise cooed, stroking his hair, rocked her hips, soothed his frantic quest for pleasure by submerging him in it.

She had dropped a boy dying of thirst into an ocean of sweetness, and Gretel willingly drowned.

She let the orgasm last. Let it melt into a second, and then a final third. The pleasure spiked with each, and on the third it was so blinding that Gretel stopped thinking in words or images, only in senses, in touches, in heat, in scent, in taste.

At some point he must have passed out.

But this wonderful wet dream continued all through the night.