Symbiote Mask Stories

For nearly three hours, Lucy sat on the floor of her small, dingy bathroom, naked as the day she was born. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her shins, pulling her knees into her breasts, while her feet sat flat and shivering on the cold, clammy tile. The tub’s slick fiberglass dug into her back, and behind her, a thunderous cascade of water sputtered continuously from the shower head, thickening the air with moisture. A moisture which fed the clusters of mold which had been allowed to grow unabated on the shower curtain and walls. That was fine, though. All of it was fine. In fact, she wanted it. Every morsel. Sights. Sounds. Smells. Pain. Whatever she could scrounge to distract herself from the thing on the floor across from her. She tried not to look at it. The mask hewn from polished driftwood. It took every ounce of her willpower to fix her gaze on literally anything else. A specific tile, the calcium-caked pipe under the sink. Still, the hunger always won. Her sight would drif...

The Mask gripped the young woman’s hips tightly, tilting his from head side to side as he devoured her like a starving dog. She was close. He could hear it in her moans and see it in the beads of sweat drizzling down her clenched stomach, but it wasn’t until her thighs clamped down on his head that he knew it was time to deliver the coup de grace. Wrapping his lips around her pussy he dove his tongue into her, extending it to unnatural lengths so he could taste the full extent of her, before drawing it out slowly, gliding it across her clit. She bucked hard. Her screams, lodged in her throat, came out only as ugly, guttural gasps. But he didn’t stop. Not until he’d wrung every last ounce of pleasure out of her. Pushing her legs apart he rose to one knee and furiously fingered her, knowing from experience and supernatural intuition exactly where her g-spot was, and that once she was over the edge it was remarkably easy to keep her going. The Mask stroked himself at the sight of her qui...