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Milking

“…this is so embarrassing.”

“Mm. It is, kind of.”

“You aren’t supposed to agree with that kind of thing.”

“I’m not? But what’s true is true.”

Early morning. Dim light filters in through the windows of Nadezhda’s kitchen. There is frost on the windowpanes, and she prays that the rime obscures the view.

She is wearing her nightgown, barely, a soft robe of pale blue cotton. It hangs open, exposing the firm muscles of her abdomen, her heavy breasts with their sharp pale nipples, and her pussy, cleanly shaven only yesterday evening and still sensitive in the cold air. She leans forward over the kitchen counter, and delicately places a mug beneath her hanging breasts.

“I’m ready, Sasha.” She pauses. “Please.”

Sasha makes a small noise that means nothing, and leans into the curve of her body. Her fingers slide beneath the nightgown until they brush gently against her nipples once, twice, and then finally she takes them between her thumb and forefingers, which are warm and comforting and steal the breath from Nadezhda’s lungs.

Gently Sasha tugs, teases, kneading with long, smooth motions. She doesn’t just use her forefingers; she gently brushes and applies pressure with her whole hand. Nadezhda closes her eyes. Her hips, beyond her control, have begun to press backwards into Sasha’s; her toes begin to curl ever so slightly, lifting the arches of her feet from the kitchen floor.

Sasha makes noises. Murmurs of encouragement, of happiness. They mean nothing. They mean everything. But beyond those noises, there is another: liquid filling the glass, milk gently spurting from Nadezhda’s breasts. She has no children. She doesn’t know why it’s happening. But she knows the ache when she is full, and she knows that Sasha, a farm child at heart, has a way of teasing the milk from her that is impossible to resist.

“I think it’s done,” Sasha says. The flow has lessened now, although a pale stream still runs from Nadezhda’s nipple to the underside of her breast. “It’s even more than yesterday.”

“…Not done. A little more.”

Does Sasha know that the throaty voice Nadehzda uses is the closest she has ever come to begging? If she does, she says nothing. She just leans forward, and begins to milk again.

It takes only seconds. Nadezhda’s back arches; she moans in a way she’d be ashamed of under the light of day. Something splatters against the kitchen floor as she orgasms.

Exhausted and yet content, she staggers to the kitchen chair, and sits with her legs spread, her pussy completely exposed to her friend. Expectant. Waiting. Begging.

“Wow. You really can cum just from your nipples. I’m a little jealous,” Sasha says.

She reaches for the glass, full of warm milk, and downs it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She’s a farm girl. To waste food is a sin.

“Tomorrow again?” she asks.

Nadezhda breathes. She fights her urges, and partially succeeds.

“Tomorrow,” she agrees. “Tomorrow, for sure.”

Luminous

There are times where Sonya, despite the efforts of everybody around her, is simply not presentable in public.

Thankfully, many of those times occur behind closed doors. Specifically, the bedroom door of Ivan’s apartment. His room has become a containment zone for all sorts of odd Sonya-related phenomenon, and her sloppy, ecstatic post-orgasm face is the very least of them.

He has accepted that. He’s made peace with it. Part of making the brave, but questionably intelligent decision of embarking on a relationship with her was girding his loins, girding his loins, girding his loins, and also girding his loins. But also, it was accepting that Sonya was Sonya, she was the most Sonya to have ever been Sonya, and nothing could change her base nature. Sometimes she could turn it down, upon request, but that was temporary. At some point you had to embrace the chaos, and preferably show the chaos a damn good time.

But sometimes, Sonya’s weirdness breaks out into the wider world, and today is one of those times.

She is waiting for him at the potion shop with a smile on her face, and for once, her clothes are on. It’s a nice change. Often they have been burned, or splashed with acid in strategic places, or somehow forgotten, or just plain removed in anticipation of what is to follow. She is unabashed with her seductions, almost gleeful and impish about them, and that is a huge part of their charm.

But, though she is clothed, it doesn’t actually help much. Her most standout attributes, a pair of tits large enough to crush beer cans with weight alone, are currently glowing. Aggressively. They are luminous, in a way that her robes absolutely do nothing to conceal, and obviously they are most luminous at the nipples. If her chest is hard not to stare at on most days, it is impossible to look away from now.

“I found a potion that makes stuff glow,” she says. She has the smug look of a cat that got the cream.

“So you rubbed it on your tits,” he says heavily.

“I rubbed it on my tits,” she nods, beaming. “Can you imagine what would have happened if I drank it? I’d be giving everyone a private view of my intestinal tract. That’d be mortifying, right?”

She asks as if it’s a genuine question. As if she truly doesn’t know.

He sighs, because as usual, she is studiously avoiding the real problem until he points it out.

“You also,” he says, “appear to have written my name on your womb.”

“I did! I want to see how it looks when I’m full. Tatoos stretch and warp with the contours of the skin, but I think this stuff—”

“When does it wear off?”

She says nothing, but her smile widens.

“Sonya?”

He knows the answer already. It’s written on her face. But there is a grim inevitability to hearing it in her voice. A trial he must overcome.

“Who cares?”

Cold Day

“Do you not have a coat?” Nadezhda asks, frowning gravely.

“It isn’t that cold,” Sasha replies.

Sasha’s concept of cold is a strange and baffling thing, mostly because it does not seem to exist. Living beings know heat and warmth, because to do so is instrumental in continuing to be alive. Changing temperatures require swift action and planning if you want to see the next night; hypothermia and heat exhaustion can kill, and do so quickly.

But Sasha has never claimed to be cold. She often wears a coat, because people look at her strangely if she does not, but she often forgets it as well. She seems more than content to romp around with snow up to her ankles and icicles dangling from the eaves of every window, never showing a single sign of discomfort.

Perhaps, Nadezhda thinks wryly, she is simply so warm-hearted that the cold doesn’t affect her. It’s a thought she will probably never admit that she had.

“Here. Take mine,” she says gruffly, shucking off her long jacket and thrusting it at her companion.

Predictably, Sasha sniffs it. Then, seemingly having been satisfied that Nadezhda’s clothing smells of Nadezhda, she puts it on. The coat is so long on her that it trails near her ankles.

“Button it up as well.”

“Why? I’m already warm.”

Nadezhda sucks in a deep breathe. She casts her eyes to the sky. She summons up years of grave military bearing, channels the aura of a woman who has stood with the fiercest warriors in the world.

“Here, and here,” she says flatly.

She points to two peaks on Sasha’s chest, which are being hidden only in the loosest sense of the word by a sweater much too thin for the weather. Two perky, stiff little points that are commanding rather more of Nadezhda’s attention than she wants to admit.

“Oh. They do that sometimes,” Sasha says, as though genuinely baffled as to why that might be. Regardless of how warm her heart or strange her worldview, she is still flesh and blood. Biology bends its knee to no one.

She’s not wearing a bra. Nadezhda notes. Why isn’t she wearing a bra? They’re big enough, and probably soft enough. She’s hasn’t touched them, although she may have imagined it.

“It’s okay,” Sasha decides. “It happens to everyone from time to time.”

“It’s not okay. Button your coat,” Nadezhda barks.

“Why? It’s already toasty because you were wearing it before.”

“Because everybody can see your nipples, Sasha.”

“They can’t see them. I’m wearing clothes.”

“I can see them. If I can see them, other people can see them.” She pauses. “And I don’t want anybody else to see them. So… please button up the coat.”

Sasha pauses. Perhaps she’s aware of how oddly possessive it felt for Nadezhda to say those words. But she shrugs, and begins to fiddle with the buttons.

Nadezhda sighs. It’s her victory. But… perhaps she might have wanted to look just a little bit more.

Fantasy

Like ants to honey.

She lies on her side, and the bare curve of her hips reaches the top of their tallest buildings. Their churches, their steeples, the brutalist apartment blocks where they live and eat and sleep away away their lives… All of that construction, all of that skill, all of that money spent on construction and engineering and living, is less than equal to the swell of her breast.

She watches them, sees them scurrying about as she lies idle. It amuses her how panicked they are by the descent of a goddess in flesh. Some of them worship, and why wouldn’t they? She is greater. An order above.

Some of them are bolder. Bolder, or just enchanted? As large as she is, she is still a woman, supple and delectable. Her breasts, heavy enough to strain the very roads she rests them on, are ripe and bountiful. Her scent, rolling off her in waves, carries enough raw physicality to shatter their little minds.

So they climb. They climb, and she allows them. It is an amusement. A trifle. She could end them all just by choosing to stand up, and yet she continues reclines like a goddess. Hundreds of tiny hands on her skin, her buttocks and her thighs, and yet she barely feels them.

For some of them, the musk of an expectant woman is too great, and they lose themselves. She watches with distant interest as they shed their clothes, needing the relieve the heat she has lit inside them. One brave couple has made it to the crest of her inner thigh, and stop to make love there. She could crush them with a single motion, but she does not. For the moment, she is merciful.

Some, the bravest and the boldest, seek to worship properly. To give her pleasure fitting to her station. With their tiny hands they massage her breasts, form teams to tease her nipples. Even with all their strength, it as gentle as a baby suckling from their mother. Some even find their way to her pussy, and try to tend her needs there, and that is what amuses her the most. They are too small to satisfy her, and yet she cannot help but reward their effort.

So she, their goddess, reaches down between her legs to help them. She strokes and satisfies herself, dipping her fingers deep into her steaming sex. They use their tiny hands to massage her clitoris, and it is good. Better, at least than she thought.

When she has had enough of their attentions, she rewards them with her release. They are baptised in the flood of her satisfaction.

“Good work as usual, Alice.”

The rabbit dips her head. She is too shy for her own good; her voice is rarely ever more than a whisper, even though she has such a charming accent. A shame, that.

“It was an interesting dream again, Miss Catherine.”

The cat smiles, and purrs.

“It was, wasn’t it?”

Cafe

“I can’t believe she just showed up out of nowhere,” Ivan lied.

He could, in fact, believe that Sasha had shown up out of nowhere. That was the kind of thing Sasha did. She wasn’t tethered to the same chains of logic as other people, and he had a vague suspicion she wasn’t entirely subject to the same laws of physics, either, though he had nothing to back up the claim.

“And you want her to work in my cafe, Ivan, honey?” Jane asked, tilting her head demurely. She looked over the blonde foxgirl, who was staring happily off into space.

“It’ll keep her out of trouble for a week or two until we can ship her home.”

“Does she have any retail experience, I wonder?”

“No, but…”

They both looked over at Sasha, and shared a nod. Sasha had a certain atmosphere around her that was hard to replicate. Anybody could be taught how to pull a shot of espresso, but not everyone radiated comfy ions like Sasha did.

“Does she have a place to stay?”

“Yeah. I had a work with the bosses about it, and surprisingly, they were able to push something through right away.”

Jane hm’d. “And she’s fine working for me?”

“She’ll go nuts if she doesn’t work. Farm kids and idle hands don’t mix.”

“Ah?! It’s you! You’re Sasha!”

Alice, who had been busy behind the counter, suddenly rounded on the foxgirl with a shocked look on her face.

“It’s me,” Sasha agreed. “Do I know you?”

“Um?! Not really, but, uh… Um, how do I put this… I… um… met you in a dream?”

Ivan watched with interest. Sasha seemed blissfully unperturbed.

“What kind of dream was it?”

“Um… You were, ah, being very cuddly with a beautiful older lady,” Jane said, turning bright red.

Sasha thought seriously for a moment. “That sounds like a nice dream.”

“Oh my,” Jane murmured. “I see she has particular tastes. Ivan, dear, should I be worried that she might seduce me?”

Ivan snorted. “She’s not the seductive type.”

“You’d be surprised, sweetie. As a more experienced woman, I can tell you that we ladies always have some hidden wiles.”

“Yeah, well. I think you’ve probably got more of them than she has, so you’ll probably be fine,” he chuckled dryly.

“Well, I suppose after being flattered like that, I can hardly turn her away.” Jane smiled, and called over her daughter. “Alice, Sasha will be working with us for a week or two until she goes home. Please show her the ropes, would you?”

“But, um, Mom… I-I don’t really know her, and—”

“You don’t?” Sasha asked, tilting her head. “We’re friends, though. We met in a dream.”

“Yes, but… Ahhhh, ahhh…” Alice sighed, ending in a somewhat undignified gurgle as her social skills fully petered out.

“Let’s go. Show me how to do coffee.”

Sasha grabbed Alice by the hand, and pulled her away.

Ivan watched, and shrugged. Some forces of nature weren’t worth fighting.

Morning

“Good morning.”

Her voice echoes in the pit of his stomach, in his bones and in his teeth. It is a soft, bassy hum that seems to come from inside himself.

“Good morning, Sasha,” he croaks.

She’s smiling at him, he supposes. It seems like the kind of thing she would do. But her face is so large now that he has lost all perspective of it. Her index finger is as tall as a man; last night she carried him cupped in her palms, like a smoker trying to protect their cigarette lighter from the wind. She left her clothes in shreds long ago, and he spent the night curled against the milky white expanse of her breast, with a lock of her hair for a blanket.

Her tail stretches out in front of them like a field of golden wheat, but one with a tip that twitches and thumps against the earth. The mud on her feet reminds him of when they were children, playing barefoot together in the pastures outside the church.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“A little cold,” she says. “And Mother is going to yell at me.”

“Why?”

“I left my wallet in my coat pocket. She said not to lose it.”

He laughs, despite himself. Of course she picks the most mundane thing to worry about.

It is his fault, technically.

Only technically, though. He is guilty by association, and association with Sonya in particular. He thought it would be fine to introduce his childhood friend and his maybe-girlfriend, but he left them alone for only a moment together, and in that moment, Sonya offered Sasha something to drink.

And Sasha, who gracefully muddled her way through life with no real thought, actually drank it.

If she were anybody else, he might be afraid of her — of her huge size, or that she might blame him for all this happening. But it’s Sasha. She has the size of a goddess, but her touch is as gentle as a lamb’s. There is perhaps nobody he would trust more with the strength that her new size affords her.

She yawns. He is almost unseated by the motions of her body, and yet, he thinks it is beautiful in a way he cannot quantify; it is the beauty of the savannah, of the mountains, of a leopard in stride. Nature writ large.

“What should be we do?” she asks.

He pauses.

“I think you’re a little smaller than last night. Maybe we just camp out like this,” he says, “until you shrink back to normal.”

“I’ll be naked, though.”

“You’re naked now.”

“It’s different, though.”

He curls back up against her breast. Shelters himself in the shadow of the mountain.

“Well, it is what it is. How are things back home? How’s Mom doing?”

They make small talk as the sun rises, and her pale skin is bathed in gold. It feels unearthly, and yet mundane in the same breath.

“Sasha all over,” he mumbles.

Shopping Trip

“Hey there, big guy. Fancy coming along on a shopping trip with me after work?”

Masha’s tail twitches happily as she asks, leaning over her desk. She has more energy than anybody else in the company, and frankly, more energy than Ivan can keep up with most of the time. Ordinary people are powered by food, water, and occasionally coffee; Masha seems to be powered the rotation of the earth itself (and also coffee).

“You mean, would I like to carry your bags?” he replies dryly.

“Ehehe, I knew you’d get it! What’s the point of being a high-powered secretary for a major company if you can’t splurge on a bit of retail therapy?” she asks, giving him a cheeky grin. “But I’m kind of on the smaller side, soooo…”

He can already imagine her, tottering down the high streets with a leaning tower of merchandise in her arms. He doesn’t think she’d drop it — for all her cheeriness, she exudes competence in everything she does. But he thinks she might come close.

“Well, I’m not completely opposed. But if I’m working as your porter, I’d hope there’s something in it for me as well.”

“Of course there is! You get to spend time with a beautiful woman!”

“I do nothing but spend my time with beautiful women. Usually against my will.”

She giggles. Her laugh is so infectious that he wishes he could bottle it. He doesn’t laugh often, himself, but when he does, it is generally her fault. Her smile, too, is warm enough that he sometimes finds himself making excuses to see it more often.

“Well, if you’re such an expert in beautiful women, you’re the perfect guy to help me pick out my outfits,” she says smartly. “And I appreciate that you don’t get tongue tied, y’know? A lot of guys do, whether it’s because they see my face, or they see my wage packet.”

“You’d have to show me something a bit more impressive than that to shut me up, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” She leans forward over her desk, pressing her cleavage together with her arms. Her eyelashes flutter; her tail wags, and he can’t help but notice the gentle but inviting motion of her hips swaying with it. “Whatever might you be thinking about right now, mister?”

“I wouldn’t like to say, but I’m thinking about it a lot harder than I was.”

“Ahahaha! Alright, big guy. If you wanna see whether seeing is believing, meet me after work. We’ll take a nice drive up to the big city. Dinner’s on me.” She pauses, her nose wrinkling with laughter. “But if you wanna get us a hotel room, that’s on you.”

He isn’t sure if she’s joking or not, and chuckles nervously as a way to hedge his bets. With a smile on her face, she pushes him out of her office. He does not miss the way her hands drift to his hips as he does.

And he certainly doesn’t miss the squeeze.

Long Distance

“It’s been too long, huh?”

“Yeah. Way, way too long…”

Samantha sighs, and buries her nose in Autumn’s long, wavy hair — just dried from the shower. She breathes deeply, and immerses herself in the scent of her girlfriend, mixed with her own shampoo.

This is a side of her that she lets nobody else see.

To the rest of the world, she is cheerful, energetic, and a little too hardworking. She is always dashing off to do something or another, but she makes time to help people. To teach them. She just can’t make enough for herself.

But there is a part of her that is deeply lonely. She treasures her students, but her position means she can’t call them friends. She gives, but she doesn’t receive. Sometimes, she feels like the well of her kindness has dried up — that she has drawn too deeply, too fast.

“Long distance relationships suck,” she mumbles.

“Well, they suck when one of us can’t use a phone without it exploding,” Autumn teases. A pause. “I always try to finish up on my expeditions and come back to you, but I can’t help the way I am. You know that, Sammie.”

Autumn is an adventurous soul. She wanders the forgotten byways of the world, seeking treasure and danger. Sometimes, she is away for only a week or two; others, she spends months in the wilderness.

“I know. I love the way you are. I just wish I could get more of you.” Samantha breathes deeply again, as if trying to commit Autumn’s scent to memory once more. “…Sorry for being needy.”

“Don’t be. You’re cute when you’re clingy,” Autumn laughs. “But, seriously, Sam. Have you ever considered dating around when I’m away? I don’t mind. And I know you’re into guys, too, so…”

“I’m into guys, but before I’m into guys, I’m into you.” She pauses. “Did you… did you meet anybody cute while you were gone?”

“A couple. You wanna see?”

Autumn reaches for her wallet. They have a more open relationship than most; Autumn, while romantically faithful, is sexually voracious. Too much so to go the months she does without sharing some skin. In her wallet, Samantha knows, there will be pictures of girls posing with her girlfriend after she’s done taking them to bed, their cheeks flushed and their legs still spread shamelessly to the camera.

“Not right now,” she says. “I just wanna… be close to you.”

Autumn hums in understanding, and lets herself relax. “Let’s go to bed, then. We can just do cuddles tonight, if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Only because it’s you.”

Autumn’s energy flourishes under the moonlight; to spend a night together without needing to have sex is a privilege only Samantha enjoys.

Their relationship is strange and unusual, suited only for themselves. But that is why it works. They have fashioned it to fit their shape, and not the other way around.

The moon watches. But this night is for their eyes alone.

Tiny Rabbit

“Oh my. I shan’t be able to run the cafe like this. Whatever should I do?”

Jane, the owner of the Rabbit Foot Cafe, cups her cheek in her hand and looks up at him from the counter. She’s currently no taller than the sugar packets set out on the tables; he’s not sure why, but after living near the University for as long as he has, he’s barely even surprised.

Her clothes, incidentally, have not shrunk with her. Her dress, socks, and a very distractingly sheer set of lingerie are lying on the floor. He tries to keep his eyes from darting over to them, but the only other place they can land is a very tiny, very nude mature woman. There’s no good option.

“I’m sure my daughters will do something about this when they get back, but… Ivan, sweetie, could you take care of the shop for me today?”

“I don’t mind, but I’m not great at making coffee.”

“Oh, we can fix that easily enough. I’ll just supervise you and whisper in your ear.” She holds her arms up, like a child demanding a piggyback, exposing her breasts to the world.

He sighs, and holds out his hand. She climbs aboard, with a little difficulty; for a moment she straddles his finger as she climbs aboard, and he is almost sure he can feel the rough texture of pubic hair against his skin when she does. Human fingertips are scarily sensitive, he reflects.

“So you’re just gonna… sit on my shoulder?” he asks. “Naked?”

“Oh, I’ll just borrow a candy bar wrapper or something. Even if that doesn’t work, what’s the harm? Just tell them I’m a fairy. I doubt anybody would really want to stare at an old lady like myself, anyway.”

“Some of us happen to like older women, ma’am,” he says dryly.

He could stare at her, if he wanted. He could cup her in his hands right now and take in every little detail of her body. He could do a lot more than that, in fact. He wonders if this is how Pamela feels when she’s huge, and trying to undress him with the tips of her nails.

“Well, some of us older women might enjoy showing off,” she replies. “As you’re my lovely assistant for the day, you can look all you like, my dear. As long as it doesn’t ruin the coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and moves her to his shoulder. She leans against his neck, and he can feel the contours of her body there.

“On that note, what would you like for a reward? I was thinking I’d let you keep my lingerie, if you like. You can barely seem to keep your eyes off it.”

“I was more wondering why your pubic hair is blue.”

“Ohoho. You’ll need to a bit work harder to hear that secret, dear.”

The voice in his ear giggles seductively.

It seems she’ll have his nose to the grindstone today.

Lilliputians

Ivan was a simple man, but not a foolish one. And when his girlfriend suggested they indulge in a bit of light bondage, he knew that it would come with a catch.

But there are some questions where ‘yes’ is the only acceptable answer, and so he went along with it. So, apparently, did Catherine, although nobody bothered to inform him beforehand.

“So, how are you doing, my Lilliputians?” Sonya asks. Her voice is far deeper and more bassy than he remembers, and it comes from the ground beneath his feet. At the moment, it is extremely unwelcome.

“Just dandy,” he mutters. On one of his arms is looped a coil of rope, and the other end has been stapled to the table that Sonya is lying on so that it unravels as he moves. He’s already completed the dangerous trip across her body thrice: the first was at her ankles, surprisingly delicate; the second was at her tummy, which was both taut and yielding like the surface of a drum, and undulated with her breathing.

And now, with great care, he is scaling the mountains of her breasts.

He’s done rock climbing before, but this is something new entirely. The only handholds are the ones that form as her supple skin gives way under his hands, only to spring back at the slightest movement. He doesn’t know whether he’s climbing or sinking half the time, and the heat is bringing a sweat to his brow.

But what really makes the task difficult is the jiggling. He’s tumbled down several times already because Sonya giggled or breathed too deeply; thankfully, she has been kind enough to pick him up and put him back where he started, or else he would feel like Sisyphus trying to roll a boulder up a mountain. Only the mountain is Sonya’s boobs, and instead of rolling a boulder he’s attempting to tie her up when he’s the size of her thumb.

He doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he gets to the top of her breast, and has to descend one slope to climb the next. Probably do unkind things to her nipple, if he can. She’ll probably like that.

“I swear to god, Sonya. When I get big again, I am literally going to piss in your fucking mouth,” Catherine swears. She is conquering the dangerous terrain near the pubic mound, which is significantly more slippery underfoot, and involves scything through forests of black hair with a miniature machete.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Sonya titters. He almost falls off again as she does. “But I’m not giving you the antidote until you’re finished tying me up. Do your best, little ones.”

He’s glad at least one of them is having fun. But he supposes he is learning all sorts of things about the geography of Sonya’s body —all her weakspots, writ large for him to see.

He swears that when he’s big again, he’ll take full advantage of them

Coffee

Her grin widens, and she leans forward to cup the growing bulge in his jeans.

“Rough day?” Sonya asks.

Ivan looks at her. Squints, really. Perhaps he should try tilting his head; he’s heard that the world makes more sense at an angle, and right now, he’d really like to know Sonya’s.

Incidentally, she’s not meant to be in his apartment. She doesn’t have a key, and he doesn’t feel it particularly wise to give her one. But she’s here, so he has to deal with her.

She looks at him with expectant, gleeful eyes. Anticipating a question he’s not sure he wants to ask. Eventually, he does, because he has to.

“You could tell?” he sighs.

“Of course,” she says smugly. “You think I wouldn’t be able to tell when my favourite little test subject is under the weather?” She pats the single chair in his apartment, set jauntily at the kitchen counter. “Come, sit. I have coffee.”

She does have coffee. She’s making it in a beaker set over a bunsen burner on his kitchen counter. He’s pretty sure those need to be plumbed into a gas line to work, but there’s no pipes and it’s definitely producing flames.

“What’s in the coffee?”

“Coffee.”

“What else is in it?”

“Water.”

“And?”

She giggles, which takes up most of his brain for a few seconds. Usually he is not mentally stunned by a problematic woman having a laughing fit, but this particular one has a chest with its own area code and is very emphatically not wearing a bra. The undulations are fascinating.

“Your back must be made of concrete,” he mutters.

“It’s not that bad. I only took the bra off fifteen minutes ago.” She grins. “It’s still warm, if you want it.”

“You’re trying to distract me.” Succeeding at it, too. “What’s in the coffee?”

“Nothing’s in the coffee, Ivan. I’m not trying to get you to drink anything nefarious.”

“You sure? You called me your ‘favourite little test subject’ only a minute ago.”

“And because you’re my favourite, there’s no way I’d try to bother you when I know you’ve had a hard day and you’ve got a cold coming on.”

He blinks. “I’ve got a cold coming on?”

He doesn’t question the idea that he has. If Sonya says he has, she probably has some strange magic ritual that’s told her so. But he doesn’t know why she knows.

“Of course you do,” she says in a singsong voice. “That’s why you didn’t smell the incense when you walked in.” Her eyes drift to his waistband. “It sure seems effective, though.”

His head begins to swim. The blood, evidently, is moving elsewhere.

She opens her robes, and his vision is immediately filled with bare skin; from the lining, she selects a single vial, and pulls the cork with her teeth.

“It’s a remedy for cold and flu. Very effective,” she tells him. “I’ll give it to you, if you like.”

Her grin widens, and she leans forward to cup the growing bulge in his jeans.

“But only mouth to mouth.”