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RPF CYOA: The Breeder
🕑 Added 2022-09-03 18:22:20 +0000 UTCThe end of the world was more boring than Alison Brie had anticipated.
Of course, the world had been ending since 2018, so maybe she was just used to it. But it really seemed to be circling the drain now in 2023 and there were no flaming comets, no hot hail. Not even bodies in the streets. The latest pandemic had robbed over 95% of men of their sex drive; there were no babies being born, or at least not many.
The strident feminists had loved going without being objectified, but Alison missed it. Not just because civilization was collapsing. People used to give a shit how beautiful she was. Now it was hard to even find work, much less get laid. Thankfully she had her savings—it wasn’t like she could start an OnlyFans now.
Of course, there were still men who’d had the one-in-a-million reaction to the virus and become Breeders. Hypersexual, virtually insatiable, the virus worked like a steroid on their manhood and virility. But Alison had never met one. She half-thought they were only a smokescreen by the government to keep people from freaking out.
Supposedly they were so eager for Breeders to do their thing that any woman a Breeder wanted was obliged to, well, stand and deliver. Even in the middle of the street. And Alison had plenty of girlfriends who were willing to do just that, if it meant getting a good orgasm and a baby.
You never realized how much you liked kids until they stopped being an option.
There was another dull party in Coldwater Canyon to take up the evening and Alison dressed to the nines, her body-hugging black dress baring her cleavage and tightly adhering to the svelte curve of her ass, but she got no appreciative gaze, no wanting consideration of what her body would feel like, barely even a look from anyone.
Alison didn’t consider herself an attention whore, but dammit, it just seemed wrong for her not to be noticed! She’d gone from a sex symbol to yesterday’s news, while looking as good as ever! It was like she’d done a speed-run through the celebrity lifestyle—that bitch Sharon Stone had gotten a full fade into irrelevance, while she’d just had a light switch flipped!
And now I’m drunk, Alison thought to herself, looking at the almost empty champagne flute in her hand. And I need to pee.
It was still early in the evening. Already embarrassed by her little nervous breakdown, she knew she’d be too flustered to ask anyone where the bathroom was. She set out to find it—it couldn’t be too hard.
Alison wandered deeper into the manor. It was one of those Frank Lloyd Wright townhouses built into the Beverly Hills, with a living room that was all glass with room for an entire marching band to play. That was where the party was located. But outside of that indoor vista, with its arresting view of the setting sun, the hallways seemed dark and labyrinthine, the sounds of the festivities echoing weirdly after her as she tried one door after another.
“Frak, doesn’t this guy own a toilet?” she muttered to herself. “Don’t tell me he’s some sort of… vegan for toilets… only goes over the balcony, like Nature intended…”
“NO! NO, NO, NO, DON’T! PLEASE! STOP! IT HURTS, IT HURTS SO MUCH, YOU BASTARD, YOU FUCKING MONSTER! AAAGH! OH FUCK, FUCK, YOU CAN’T!”
Alison heard the sudden outcry and looking around, wondering if she was totally sozzed or if she was hearing what she thought she’d heard. It sounded like someone being tortured. Alison thought of going back to the party and summoning help, but she’d already made half-a-dozen turns. She didn’t think she could find her way back. She looked for a weapon and all she could find was the almost-empty champagne glass in her hand.
Impulsively, Alison finished off the dregs of the wine, then wondered why she had done that. Shouldn’t she be sober for this? Not that she wanted to be—
“NO! NOT AGAIN! DON’T MAKE ME—I CAN’T TAKE IT! OH SHIT! I’M BEGGING YOU, I’M BEGGING YOU, PLEASE…“
Clasping the glass tightly, Alison hurried along. She must be drunk—it almost sounded like a rape in progress, but of course that was impossible. Even if a guy wanted to, it was hard for her to imagine a woman that’d say no. Alison had been pretty much a prude before; then she’d gone to some truly pornographic lengths to get a reaction from her then-husband before they conceded it was hopeless.
Alison made a headlong flight to what she finally judged to be the source of the noise, her five-inch heels stealing away any stability the drink had left her with until she was more or less falling sideways, stopped only by the door the screams were coming from, and even then she made the unwise choice to turn the doorknob so that she dropped in on whatever was taking place.
“NO! DON’T-DON’T-DON’T! DON’T STOP! DON’T YOU DARE STOP!”
Alison stood speechless.
The first thing she saw when she came in was the opposite wall, darkly wallpapered. With the lights dimmed, it seemed like she was gazing into miles of shadows. In the middle of it, she spotted the back of a man. He wore a burgundy tuxedo, dark enough to blend with the black of the wall. His hair was a sharp white, though he didn’t strike her as old, and his skin was an equally striking pallor, like he was an albino. But not pasty or gray—more like he’d been carved out of marble, a statue brought to life with its steely white leavened only slightly by having blood flowing under the skin.
Bare legs wrapped around his waist. Arms draped around his shoulders, the hands bunched in the back of his suit jacket. He had a woman—a naked woman—pinned up against the wall, held in place entirely by the force of his body, her limbs desperately trying to hold the male against her. She cried and whimpered and moaned at the top of her lungs as he bulled into her, making all of her sweaty body jiggle with wanton fervor.
It looked like a soul-searing assault, almost an attack, but the woman was kissing his face as urgently as Alison had ever seen a woman give in to a man. Alison wasn’t sure, but his mouth looked to be buried in her neck, vampiric, while his body seemed animated entirely by the brutal lust propelling his loins.
“YOU—BEAST! FUCKING BEAST! FUCK ME HARDER, WHY WON’T YOU FUCK ME HARDER!? OW! HARDER! I CAN TAKE IT, I CAN TAKE IT! NHH! OH PLEASE, SHIT, I NEED TO COME! PLEASE, JUST A LITTLE HARDER, PLEASE, JUST MAKE ME COME!”
Alison would say she was stunned, but that must not’ve been true, because she found herself lowering down to her knees and looking between the man’s legs, seeing where he was connected to the woman’s splayed cunt by an impossibly large staff of rigid flesh. She’d known—such a thing couldn’t be faked—but now there was no denying it. She was actually seeing a girl getting fucked.
And well-fucked. The man had nine thick inches and he was indulging all of them, using every last iota of his length on that woman’s… who was she, anyway? What damn slut was this that got to enjoy herself so much while the rest of the female population went without?
Alison shot up, nearly toppling over again, stumbling to the side and catching herself on the wall. She did this with the hand holding the champagne glass and so shattered it against the wall, only escaping cutting herself by a drunkard’s luck.
The sound, small as it was, got the woman’s attention. She stopped tossing her head around with such wolfish passion and instead fixed her attention on Alison. And with her face no longer in constant motion, Alison could finally recognize her.
A. Aubrey Plaza
B. Kate Upton
C. Emma Watson
