Null Suit Adventures: Free Gift
By Musuko

It just keeps on giving, this free gift for a valued customer. Has it been days? Weeks maybe? Perhaps months, but I don’t think it’s been that long. Years? I don’t know. How could I know? I can’t read, I can’t count. I could track the cycle of routine, perhaps, and maybe get a rough sense of time from that, if not a definite number. But I’ve been...distracted.
	I stand like a statue in a place I only know by name because of a passing mention by one of the Normals, a comment that wasn’t intended for my ears. The Hall of Nulls, he called it. It’s probably written in the big gilt sign above the central plinth, but I only see distorted shapes there. It’s a grand room, wide and long and lined with pillars. Everything is white marble, except for the Nulls, who stand out as stark black gloss against the white gleam. It really is artistic, and oh so very evil.
	I’m one of the lucky ones, ordered to stand at attention in front of one of the pillars. I’m one of many, lining the room from my far left to my far right. Twenty down each side? Thirty? Forty? I couldn’t say. There are many Nulls like mean, each stood rigid to attention like me, with legs and back straight, head up high, forehooves held bent and poised against their chests, held firmly in place by the strength of our orders. I can move my eyes, but even that is invisible in the gloss sheen of our eye lenses. I can do nothing but stand and stare and think and need. My mouth aches to be useful, and the knot of desire fulfilled is the only main thought I can think. I’m unable to steer away from it. I need to suck and lick. I need to pleasure the Normals. And every microsecond I stand here unable to do that is an agony of frustration.
	But I have it easy. Over on the plinth, the big main one at the centre of the hall, underneath the great gilt sign and the fountain, are the unlucky ones; a group of Nulls, each posed carefully, perfectly rigid like me, but arranged in artful positions of poise and grace, positioned in static flash-shot of a graceful dance, each one paired with a marble statue of great height and noble proportions and species; lions, rhinos, unicorns, dragons, each twice the height of their paired Null, and equally well-endowed.
	And each Null...I shudder from my own memory of the torment, not physically of course. My body stays perfectly stationary as my mind revulses...each Null has their mouth in position against the marble phalluses. Some with their psuedo-tongue extended in a frozen lick, others deeply fellating, others daintily kissing. All worshipping the stone, and all suffering the foul taste that comes from a Null touching their mouth to anything other than a Normal’s skin. So very horrible. I spent days...weeks...months? Just like they are now, stood frozen and longing to lick and suck, but getting only the taste of rotten fruit and mouldy bread and rancid meat and stinking shit and festering vomit, constantly, unbearably, for every minute and second and hour and day. I wanted to cry. I wanted to die.
	But oh, when it ended. When the order came that allowed me to move again. When I could bend my limbs once more, without a shred of ache or tiredness, but still so relieved to do something other than stand and suffer. I felt so much hate, so much misery, so much rage against the unfairness of this torture. And then...ordered to kneel. And the clothes parted, and the cock presented, and everything was gone in a moment, and it was just that cock there for my mouth to service, and nothing else mattered, and all was forgiven and forgotten.
	And now as I stand, rigid and bored, craving and longing, I know that every molecule of my resentment and mental fatigue will disappear in a flash when the order comes again to kneel and service and suck.
	But for now I stand, a statue and decoration, one of many, indistinguishable, without rights nor identity. Just another Null in the Hall of Nulls, waiting for his turn to be used.
	Time passed, to an unknown length. I had no hunger, no sleepiness, no discomfort to mark its passage. Nothing except the longing desire to lick and suck and taste. And then I feel myself move, stepping forwards towards a Normal. There are words spoken, swimming over me, barely heard but acted upon. I follow him at a trot, feeling my nose twitch and my mouth water. His scent carries on the air, and I recognise it before I recognise his face. It’s the sloth who did this to me, the one who brought the suit to me, the one who brought me into this world and who seeks me out.
	And that’s how I know now; it’s been a week. He comes every week, on his day off. He comes just for me. I trot behind him, obedient by design. But, truth be told? I think...I think I would obey him even if I had a choice not to.
	His is the taste I always long for the most. He has me kneel, as he always does, between his legs, between his big tough boots and rough working jeans. I pay little attention to the room around me. I’m vaguely aware of big, comfortable leather seats that I’m never allowed to sit on, of televisions that I’m not allowed to watch, of food and drink that I’m not allowed to taste, nor need or want to, knowing that my body can survive without them, that their taste on my lips would be revolting. I think it’s a break room of some kind, for hard-working employees to enjoy some time with an obedient Null. Workers at...Clever something. Clever clever...something. They make things. They do things. They...they…
	He slides down the zip on his jeans, and my head melts. I lean forward, drawn to his scent with a drive and hunger that I can’t ignore. But his paw holds against my forehead, and the horror of the memory of every previous break with the sloth comes to my mind. I sag, and my expressionless face communicates my pleading whine in silence. He holds up the slim white dildo, and I know what I’m being commanded to do without even a word spoken. As his paw gets to enjoy the pleasure of wrapping around his shaft to massage his warm, musk-rich flesh, I instead must slide my mouth down onto the plastic, to bob my head in obedient enthusiasm, to worship and pleasure the dead plastic, to suffer the miserable taste filling my mouth, while right there is the thing I so desperately crave to taste. And the sloth knows what I’m going through. He knows, and that’s why he’s doing it. I suffer, and he’s making me do it because I’m suffering.
	My eyes stay on his paw, up and down, stroking his cock. I bob my head in time with his strokes. I can almost imagine my mouth is four inches to the right, wrapped around his sweet, delicious cock, drooling my lubrication down into the fur of his crotch, tasting his precum, his musk, his scent. I wish, I wish...all I can do is wish, while the stench of rotten fish and soiled diapers washes over my tongue.
	“Good little panda,” he whispers. My blank face hides the tears I want to cry. The panda I once was, cruelly reminded to my memory. I had a life! I had interests! Hobbies! Goals! I had things I wanted to do that weren’t endless frustration and suffering and desire and worship. I spin and rail inside my trapped head, my mouth faltering on the foul plastic. I can’t resist. I can’t protest or fight back.
	Because...because when he squeezes my ear and lifts my head up, I can now lunge at his cock and devour it deep into my soft rubbery throat. Sudden euphoria. A bliss that makes every moment of hell worth it. I will suffer a thousand years of misery for one second of this joy! I squeeze and knead my mouth in wet joy, massaging his slick, hard cock, milking his juices into my throat. The taste! Like all the drugs of the world made into a nectar just for Nulls. We are the blessed few, given pleasure like none other in the world. The Normals may think they are enjoying themselves when a Null sucks them, but it’s a thin haze of empty nothing compared to the heaven the Null feels when it has a cock in its mouth!
	And then it is over. With the breathy gasps of the sloth, and the paw gripped at the back of my head, pressing my muzzle down into his fur, his cock pulsing against my tongue and pumping its rich, tasty seed into my throat. From there it goes nowhere. No stomach. No gullet. Just a closed end, for his seed to roll back off, dribbling back over my tongue and mixing in with the lubrication that ever seeps from my tongue, leaving me with a taste that will linger for hours, drifting me along with it in a happy afterglow much better than that of any orgasm in the world. Somewhere in my psyche I remember what it felt like to have my own cock, and the feel of my own paw wrapped around it, the bliss of release, the ache of need when it’s denied, the pleasure and fulfilment and perverse joy of it all. But a memory is all that it is. And how can it compare to this?
	“Mmm, kid,” he says. I feel his thumb against my cheek, stroking. No attempt to lift my mouth away from his cock. I suckle ever so gently, not wanting to overstimulate, not wanting to give him any reason to withdraw this treat from my mouth. I want to stay there forever. I want to just be this mouth, nothing more, forever wrapped around his cock. I don’t want to be anything else. “Did you enjoy that?”
	My body lets me communicate in response to a direct question, and it won’t let me lie. I can’t shake my head if I tried. I nod, and I know I look timid and happy, a cute little Null with a cock deep in his mouth. These expressionless faces can speak so much through tiny motions.
	“Do you miss your old life?”
	That’s a new question. I try to nod, but my head stays rigid. Tentatively, I try to shake instead, and my head freely wiggles from side to side, slurping wetly on the cock in my mouth, sending a dribble of cum and lube down my chin. What? No! Of course I miss it! This is...this is…
	“I have a few days off work coming up,” he says. I feel my throat tense around the head of his cock, and he chuckles and strokes a finger down my cheek. If I could make a noise, I would coo like a dove. “Would you like to spend it with me?”
	And I nod, impaled on his cock as I am, with no hesitation or conflict. Yes! Yes I want to spend it with him!
	He has a home inside the warren of corridors and rooms that make up this place. It looks just like the others I’ve seen occasionally, in glimpses in my peripheral vision, beyond the thighs of the lap my head happened to be bobbing above at the time. I don’t pay much attention to his, beyond the one lovely feature of the place: the taste of his musk in the air, from the unwashed socks strewn about, from the sweat-infused shirts, from the musky socks, from the boots he kicks off inside the door.
	He drops into his sofa and I stay stood to attention, longing gripping my every atom. He lifts his socked feet up onto the coffee table and crosses them at his ankles. A cigarette flares and lifts to his lips. Finally, after the longest, aching wait a being can suffer, he tells me what I want to hear.
	“Get down there.” And a little nod, just enough to clarify the command. I trot across the room, forced into the maddening slowness of the required dainty movement of a Null. I drop to my knees on the other side of the coffee table. I rest my hooves against its edge and press my nose against the damp cotton clinging to his sole. My shiny shoulders shake, and he chuckles and sucks on his cigarette. My hooves do nothing, unable to grip at the socks; unless I’m given a task, the strange magic of the hooves don’t let them grip. And without the order to remove the socks, I’m left to my own tricks. I lean past his soles and nuzzle at his ankles, my tongue probing under the edge of his socks, tasting delicious sloth fur and foul sock fabric, tasting like burnt rubber this time. I don’t care. I want it so much. I tongue at the sock to lever it away from his fur, peeling it slowly and laboriously off his foot, leaving it bare and rich and sweat-sheened for my attention. It waits there, taunting and tempting, while I suffer through peeling off the other.
	“Stop,” he says. I kneel still, staring at the naked paws in front of me. So close, begging for me to lick them. But he’s ordered me to stop! I squirm as much as the order will allow me. They always seem so context-driven, somehow able to limit me to absolute immobility when required, and other times allowing me to wriggle and struggle. All to please the Normal I’m with, perhaps? Am I allowed to squirm because the sloth enjoys the sight of me squirming? My slim, tight body flexing and catching the light against my glossy rubber? My leaking mouth hole, subtly squeezing at empty air, my wet tongue darting against the air, hungry to lick and caress and suck.
	He splays his toes. I feel a ripple of a shudder move through me. And he leisurely finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out into the plastic lid of a coffee cup. He lights another, taking a long, luxurious draw.
	“Now you may lick.”
	I dive forward and my face hits his foot with a bump. I hear him laugh, and his toes curl down over my nose. I plunge my tongue into the crease between his toes and his sole, and I lap and curl and swirl the slick ribbon of rubber against his sweaty skin, drinking in the taste of him, so sweet and delicious, as good as the cum he feeds me, perhaps better even? I start licking his soles, long wet licks from heel to toes, over and over. I know he enjoys it, because his toes splay each time I pass over the sensitive skin of his arch. He slides further down into his seat, relaxed. He closes his eyes, and my heart jumps with an overwhelming spike of hope. Could he be falling asleep? Will I be free to keep licking while he sleeps? For hours and hours? Oh a Null can dream!
I only wish I had another tongue, another mouth, to lick at both feet at once, rather than having to alternate back and forth. And why stop there? A third to suck his cock too. A fourth to lap at the musky fur of his balls. A fifth so I can bury my face between his cheeks and tickle my tongue against his tailhole. I want...I want to be a suit to cover every inch of his body and taste it all, to pleasure it all!
I’m only vaguely aware of how strange my thoughts are now. In the dim memory of my old life as a Normal, I think that perhaps I would never have dreamed of wanting this. Maybe I did? I remember...toys? I remember sucking on rubber and wishing it were real. I remember lonely nights, panting and whimpering into my pillow as I thrusted a toy into my rear, my paw on my cock. And then faster, harder, making it hurt for me, so I squeal and plead with my imaginary partner, my paw coming off my cock, my rising need throbbing for attention, the pitiful little spurt of milked out cum that dribbled onto the bedsheets and left me feeling ashamed and still needy and oh so slutty and oh so wishful that I could have it for real.
I trail my tongue across the tips of his toes. He’s fast asleep now. I have his paws to myself. I can’t...I can’t lick anywhere else. The order restricts me here. But it’s enough. I can’t tire. I don’t need to stop to eat or drink or piss or anything. I can’t get bored, not of this. The pleasure is too strong, too deep. I will kneel here and lick to the end of eternity in constant, heavenly bliss. And though I know it might only be a handful of hours, the clock on the wall will tell me nothing, and my internal thread of consciousness has lost its ability to track the time, utterly obliterated by the sensations of this life as a Null. For me, this time spent here might as well be an eternity. And it’s so good!
The puddle of lube grows beneath his heels. And still he sleeps. I have no idea how my mouth can be a constant fountain of lubrication like this, but I don’t care. I lick, and I bathe his soles in the slick liquid. My tongue is smooth and soft and wet, with not a hint of roughness to leave any soreness. Can he feel it? Is my love and devotion seeping its way into his dreams, letting him feel the pleasure of my licking in whatever fantasy he floats within? I hope so. My sloth, my Normal. I want to stay here with him, and not return to the hall, and I wish I had a way to make the plea to him.
Eventually he wakes, after a span of time I couldn’t measure. He groans and stretches and smiles, laying his arms back behind his head. His toes wiggle against my tongue.
“You can stop now, panda,” he says, amusement in his voice. I sit back, my body responding to the intention of the words rather than their specific phrasing. “Would you like to lick somewhere else?”
I nod eagerly!
“Where would you like to lick?”
I pause, uncertain. A choice! A Null doesn’t often get a choice. I struggle with my thoughts. I suddenly feel a spike of fear. I don’t think I like the freedom, not any more. I start to fidget, and I think perhaps he picks up on my discomfort, because he pats his crotch. A wave of relief, so intense it’s palpable. I scurry over on my knees, moving around the side of the table. I must look cute, or silly, or both, because the sloth bursts out laughing, and his paw comes down to pet at my cheek as I paw at his jeans with my hooves. He unzips himself for me, lifting out his limp cock, still damp with my lube drool, and I waste no time getting it into my mouth.
He taps the top of my head. “I said lick, not suck.”
I let his cock drop from my lips with a wet flop. I look up at him, sheepish perhaps? Does he get that from my expressionless face? I keep facing him, looking up with my fixed, glossy eyes, as I extend the long ribbon of slick rubber that forms my tongue and gently tickle the tip against his cock. My shoulders shiver, and his smile tells me he does see that. I’m a happy little Null for him. And he pets my cheek again before laying his arms back behind his head. His voice command brings the television on the wall to life, and the sounds wash over me as he enjoys a show while I enjoy his taste.
“Slower,” he says. I dutifully obey, though my mind screams against the cruelty of it. I press my tongue harder to compensate, stroking the flat of it in long slow strokes against his shaft. And it treats me in response, rising up to attention beneath my lips. I drool lube, down the length of my tongue and dribble it onto the head of his cock, then lick it all off again, picking up the taste of his skin on the way. Then again, and again, recycling my lube and building up the intensity of the taste. All the while he’s swelling, harder and thicker, until I’m lifting my rubber rear off my heels in order to reach up to it. I hear applause from the television, some kind of comedy show. But I feel like it’s cheering me on. Good Null! Well done! I dance my tongue in a tickle around the tip of his cock, and the best applause comes from the sloth rather than the television: a breathy gasp!
“Suck it,” he gasps. Oh heaven! I close my lips around his tip. But this time I don’t slide all the way down. His words from before dance in my head: a few days off work. That’s a lifetime for my world. Whole days to service him, to please him. My tongue can taste this! For a long time! I can afford to tease him, to tease myself. And he gasps again, a reward to my attention. He doesn’t intervene. No paw presses to my head to encourage me. I’m allowed to reign in charge, for this tiniest little element of my life. I tickle with the slim edge of my tongue and feel his cock surge in hardness in response, timed with another soft moan of approving pleasure from the sloth. I did that. I made that happen. I have a small influence on the world, and with it I can make my Normal feel good.
But all too soon it has to end. His paw presses to the top of my head, and I know my control has gone. He wants my nose into his crotch fur, and who am I to complain? Even if I could, I know I wouldn’t! I slide down with grace and ease, his shaft sinking into the slick wetness of my muzzle. I squeeze my throat around his cock tip, and even vibrate it! His fingers dig into the top of my head and his thigh tenses against my chest. Too much, I know; overstimulation. But I keep it up, buzzing and sucking, undulating the tightness of my mouth in milking waves from base to tip. His fingertips press into the rubbery flesh of my head, pain dulled to mere discomfort by the effect of Null reality. I squeeze my mouth as hard as I can, harder than I ever have before. And I carefully touch the tapered tip of my tongue against his slit and, gently, slowly, start to push it inside.
“F-fuck!” he cries, and I know I have done a good thing. I push a little harder, widening and stretching. He starts to pant, but the paws holding my head don’t lift it up. It’s permission. He wants this. I’m making him feel good, and it feels so good to be doing that for him. I drive in just a little harder, and he hisses sharply.
“T-too much! That hurt!”
Instantly, I pull my tongue back out, and suckle with gentle soothing attention.
“I didn’t mean stop!” His grip eases on my head, then lets go entirely. His fingertips stroke against my cheek. “Do it again, panda,” he whispers.
I look up at him, at his smiling face, at the slight knit to his brow. I touch my tongue to his slit again, and he closes his eyes and shivers. I...I know that expression. And as my tongue presses harder, the expression grows. I have stumbled upon something...a submissive edge to the sloth. Does it happen? Does a Normal ever submit to a Null? How...alien. How exciting!
But for now, I focus. I slide my tongue deeper inside him, and listen to his moans, and put my mouth fully to its one singular purpose: to make my sloth feel good.
And later, perhaps...I’ll try to explore this new idea, if he lets me. Oh this is bliss!