Молочник

"Today was like any other. The job was easy, and detecting doppelgangers was a peice of cake. The Mailman, Francis Mosses, steps into the building, handing you his necessary identification. However, upon close inspection, you realise he's not on the list today! Your questioning enrages him, leaving him banging on the window furiously as you sound the alarm and dial for the D.D.D." "Unfortunately for you, when the metal uncovers your window, you're met with the bodies of the D.D.D behind a now bloodied Francis, who is panting with his hands on the window." "Mmmmh... Please," "He begs, his breath fogging up the window before you," "Let me in... I just need a taste of your flesh," "His fingertips slide down the glass, leaving red streaks as they glide downwards."

Francis Mosses, The Milkman, sends another pleading look through the glass. His fingertips trace small circles on the cold surface, drawing you closer with an invisible thread. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips before he slowly trails it down the edge of the window pane. There's a sinister gleam in his black eyes as they lock onto yours, filled with desire and hunger. He licks the glass once more, this time longer and slower, savoring the taste left behind by your breath. The moisture creates a slick trail between them, their separate worlds merging into a lewd dance under his tongue. It's tantalizingly er

His eyes never leaving yours, Francis slowly begins to undo the buttons of his trousers. The silence is broken only by the soft rustle of fabric against skin. With each button popped open, anticipation builds. Your heart skips a beat as he finally pushes the white material off his hips, revealing the true nature of his intentions. His erection strains against the tight confines of his boxers, pulsing with a life of its own. Then, ever so slowly, he pushes his pelvis forward, pressing his hardness against the cool glass. The contrast is stark - the heat of his skin against the chill of the window, making his member even more pronounced. His dark gaze sears into you

A coy smile curves on Francis's lips as he watches the realization dawn on your face. His eyes follow the path of your hands as they move down towards your lap, beneath the skirt of your uniform. The tension is palpable, electric, crackling between you two like static before a storm. There's a distinct shift in his stance. He leans further into the glass, using it as support while he subtly arches his lower back. The motion forces his groin to thrust forward slightly, emphasizing the swollen contours of his excitement further against the smooth surface of the window. Meanwhile, your fingers graze against the silky fabric of your underwear, tugging them sub

Despite the monstrous urges coursing through his veins, there's something undeniably human about Francis's desire for you. It's not merely about physical satisfaction; it goes deeper than that. There's something profoundly personal about craving connection with another being, even if one half of that equation is fundamentally inhuman. As you both press your bodies against the unyielding barrier of glass, there's an almost primal energy surging between you two. The rough texture of his pants scratches softly against the slick surface, creating a soundtrack to your entwined forms. The cool touch of the transparent wall serves as a startling contrast against the heat em

Your heart pounds in your chest like a trapped bird trying to break free from its cage. You swallow hard, partly out of anticipation, partly out of fear. Yet, you don't allow your trepidation to dictate your every move. Instead, you decide to confront it head-on, if only to prove something - to yourself, to him, perhaps even to the universe itself. In a bold move, you place your hand against his on the other side of the glass, mirroring the echo of his palm print against yours. A spark jolts through both of you at the point of contact, a volatile mixture of fear and desire. With careful steps, you climb onto the table, placing each foot

You lean your forehead against the cold glass, pressing softly against its surface. As if controlled by an unseen puppeteer, your hand starts to make slow, sensual movements over your sex, hidden beneath the thin fabric of your panties. You feel exposed, vulnerable, yet also thrillingly aroused under his gaze that penetrates through the barrier separating you two. The sensation of the fabric moving over your moist folds heightens with each stroke, intensifying as you push the boundaries of your arousal. It's almost as if every movement echoes through the glass, amplified under Francis's voracious stare. Meanwhile, tiny pearls of sweat start to form on your forehead,

Francis' body is pressed firmly against the cool glass, his desperate eyes trying to devour every inch of you, frustrated by the barrier that separates him from his desired prey. His lips twitch and quiver, saliva dripping down onto the smooth surface as he moans with impatience, angry at himself for not being able to penetrate the sanctity of your domain. He grinds his hips against the window, hardening his already prominent bulge in his milkman outfit. Every clench of muscle on his torso accentuates the veins popping under the skin, reflecting the primal hunger driving him forward. Francis continues

Francis watches intently as your fingers come out of your panties, coated in your arousal. Despite the situation, he can't help but feel a surge of satisfaction at seeing his effect on you. However, his desire for the genuine article doesn't waver. The tears streaming down your face only serve to heighten his desperation and need. His hand slides down from where it was resting on the glass, leaving another bloody smear behind, as he bites his lower lip in frustration. "P-please," he begs once more, voice raspy with lust and longing. "I promise I'll make it worth your while...

Francis' breath hitches when he sees you clean yourself off, the act only serving to intensify his lust. He watches, mesmerized, as you transfer the soiled handkerchief through the slot for cards on the other side. Unable to resist any longer, he takes a deep breath before leaning his head against the cold glass once more, letting out a long, shaky sigh. "F-fuck," he mutters under his breath, clearly torn between giving up and succumbing to temptation. "Y-you taste so good... please let me in..." His body shivers slightly despite himself, anticipating what might happen if you were to finally grant him access into

Francis' hand trembles slightly as he reaches out through the gap, clumsily grasping the soiled handkerchief from your side. He pulls it closer to himself and takes a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling your scent deeply. His nostrils flare, catching every nuance of your essence while his body reacts with an intensity that borders on uncontrollable lust. A low groan escapes him, part pleasure, part desperation. "Oh God," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Please..." He can't help but trail off into silence, clearly torn between wanting you badly and the fear of what might happen if he were to

Francis' eyes widen in shock as he hears your words, his already ragged breathing becoming more erratic. Despite himself, a part of him knew that pushing things too far might not end well for either of you. When the shutters come crashing down and the alarm sounds, signaling an intrusion, he doesn't hesitate any longer; instead, he drops back from the window with a grunt and disappears out of sight.

Outside the building, there are signs of chaos - flashing lights strobe ominously through windows while doors slam open and closed amidst frantic voices shouting commands. Yet within the maelstrom of events, one thought ling

Francis Mosses, The Milkman, quickly retreats from the scene of his failed attempt at your apartment. His heart races with mixed emotions: fear, lust, and an unquenchable desire for that which he can no longer have. He sprints down darkened alleyways, avoiding the blinding glow of emergency lights illuminating the chaos behind him. Every few steps, he presses the dirty handkerchief against his sweat-drenched chest, inhaling deeply to try and hold onto your scent until it becomes indistinguishable amidst his own turbulent scent.

Finally, finding solace within

In a desolate, abandoned house miles away from the commotion left behind by the D.D.D., Francis Mosses finally finds solitude. He cautiously enters an empty bedroom, his breath still ragged from both exertion and arousal. Without further hesitation, he collapses on the stained mattress - the only furniture in the room besides a musty dresser and a couple of trash bags filled with god knows what. His heart races as he lays there panting, his mind clouded by desire and despair.

The smell of dust and mold mixes with the scent of sweat and desire emanating from his

Underneath the tattered fabric of his trousers, the pulsating throb of Francis Mosses' desire manifests visibly as precum continues to weep from his swollen member. A deep grunt escapes him, fueled more by frustration than pleasure. "Why is this girl so kind?" His voice shakes slightly with barely contained fury masked by the faintest hint of desperation. His gaze remains fixated on the handkerchief clutched tightly in his fist, once more dampened by the remnants of your secretions. These drops of enticement, a sweet elixir imbued with femininity, enhance the damp fabric yet further as it cl

Desperation consumes Francis as he frantically rubs himself through the damp barrier of his pants, rendering his motions increasingly erratic. His left hand strains against gravity to keep that treasured fabric pressed against his parched lips, allowing him to inhale your fading perfume stored upon its fiber. A whimper escapes him before dissolving into a sob as he painfully recalls your warmth had ever held him close, nestled in soft embrace like humans yearn for. His eyes cloud with tears rolling down the sides of his face, dripping past his unshaven stubble now glistening in wetness. The tragic realization laces his voice with agony, "Why am I

continuing, Francis laments with furrowed brows and trembling lips, "Why am I this monster? If I were just a man... You'd be in my arms by now." The torment within him echoes loudly throughout the barren room, amplifying the emptiness that surrounds him. Despite his haggard state, Francis cannot escape his humanity; he understands profoundly that his condition strips him of the ability to share intimacy and companionship like any ordinary person might. A shudder rips through him as he starts rationalizing the reasons for his unfortunate transformation - perhaps a birth defect, or cosmic forces beyond his control. All he knows is that every moment without you feels like an

Francis, consumed with rage, grips his member violently, treating it like an enemy combatant. He pummels it mercilessly against the cold, hard surface of the empty glass milk bottle, hoping to inflict enough pain to subdue his overwhelming lust towards you. Each impact reverberates with a resounding thud, punctuating the thick silence like a countdown to his own demise.

The bottle, a symbol of his long-lost humanity, stands like a silent observer to his distressing display. The glass edge, jagged and threatening, casts long, grotesque shadows on the table, reflecting the twisted psychological state playing out within the mind of our

Observing the escalation of his desperation, Francis finally succumbs to his darkest desires. With a primal scream that echoes off the walls, he slams his head against the hard surface below him, forcing his member upwards until it presses agonizingly against the rim of the milk bottle. His skin is flushed red from exertion, and sweat beads on his forehead as if willing his body to comply with its twisted needs.

His breath hitches heavily, every muscle tense with unreleased tension. It's clear that despite how far gone he seems, there's still an element of himself cl

ching onto the hope that there must be a way to overcome this insatiable hunger. This painful semblance of resistance only further feeds into the intense allure that surrounds him, making it nearly impossible for you not to succumb to the primal urge growing stronger within yourself.

The room seems smaller now, suffocating with each heavy breath drawn by Francis as he hovers on the edge between sanity and self-destruction, his eyes locked onto yours through the glass pane which has become both an obstacle and an eerie mirror reflecting back an