Tweakers part 3

Even dealers have morals. They initially refuse to give drugs to a heavy pregnant slut, but when she strips and starts squirting milk, they give in.

Tweakers is a series of stand alone stories about sluts who use meth and the depraved shit the drug encourages them to do.

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The trap house reeked of old piss, cigarette ash, and that sharp chemical stink that never quite leaves once crystal’s been cooked in the room. The bulb overhead flickered like it was on its last legs, throwing dirty yellow light over stained carpet, crushed beer cans, and a coffee table scarred with burn marks and razor cuts.

Tara pushed through the door at 32 weeks pregnant, belly swollen and low, stretching the cheap gray tank top so tight the seams looked ready to split. Her tits were huge now, painfully full, dark nipples poking through wet patches where milk had already leaked through. Yoga pants sagged under the weight of her hips, feet in cheap flip-flops that slapped against cracked heels. Face puffy, eyes sunken and desperate. She hadn’t touched meth since the test came back positive months ago. The cravings had been manageable at first. Then they weren’t.
Malik and Dre were posted up on the ripped sectional, splitting the last decent rock while a muffled trap beat leaked from a cracked phone speaker.

She didn’t waste breath on small talk.
“I need a hit,” Tara said, voice raw. “Small one. Twenty bucks.”

Malik didn’t even look up at first. “Nah, fam. You’re about to pop. We don’t serve pregnant hoes. That’s where we draw the line.”

Dre nodded, slow and serious for once. “Go home. Feed that baby something besides pipe smoke. We ain’t doing that.”

Tara’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “Please. It’s been months. I can’t fuckin’ sleep, can’t think, can’t stop shaking. Just one. I swear the kid’s fine.”

Malik finally met her eyes. “We said no. Get the fuck out before we change our minds about being nice.”

She stood frozen for three seconds. Then she grabbed the hem of the tank top and yanked it up and off in one rough pull. Dropped it in the filth.

Her belly stuck out hard and round, skin stretched thin and shiny, covered in ugly red stretch marks that looked like fresh scratches. No cute glow, just a tired, overstuffed gut with a dark linea nigra running straight down the middle like a scar. Her tits hung heavy and veiny, nipples big and cracked, already leaking thin white trails that ran over the curve of her stomach and dripped onto the floor.

The room went dead quiet except for the trap beat.

Dre let out a low whistle. “Goddamn.”

Malik’s jaw worked. He stared at the leaking nipples, the swollen belly, the way her whole body screamed need.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. Reached over, tapped out a fat shard onto the mirror. “But you work for it, mama. Every fuckin’ inch.”

Tara dropped to her knees right there, her belly resting heavy on her thighs, tits swaying and dripping. Malik unzipped. Thick cock flopped out, already thickening. She leaned in and swallowed him without hesitation, sloppy, wet, desperate. Milk dribbled from her nipples onto his jeans in fat drops.

Dre got up, walked behind her. Yanked the yoga pants down to her knees. No underwear. Her pussy was puffy, lips dark and slick, the pregnancy hormones had her constantly wet and ready. He rubbed his dick along the slit, then shoved in hard. One brutal thrust balls-deep.

“Listen to this pregnant bitch,” Dre grunted, slapping her ass so hard the flesh jiggled. “Kid ain’t even out the womb and Mommy’s already trading cunt for crystal. What kinda trash mother does that make you?”
Tara moaned around Malik’s cock, hips bucking back to meet Dre’s thrusts. Milk leaked faster, steady streams now, puddling on the carpet.

Malik grabbed one tit, squeezed like he was trying to wring it dry. A jet of warm milk shot out, soaking his thigh. He groaned. “These fat leaky udders. Bet your baby daddy don’t even touch ’em anymore. Too busy pretending you’re still a decent woman while you sneak out to get stuffed.”

He squeezed harder. Milk sprayed in messy arcs. Tara whimpered, cunt clenching around Dre.

Dre pounded faster, hips smacking wet against her. “This pussy’s begging for it. Made for dick, not raising kids. That baby’s gonna come out knowing his mama’s a worthless tweaker slut.”

Malik pulled out of her mouth, straddled her chest—careful not to crush the belly—and shoved his cock between her leaking tits. Squeezed them together tight. Fucked the slick, milky valley while milk ran down his shaft.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Tell us what you really are.”

Tara’s voice came out wrecked, thick with spit and shame. “I’m… I’m a piece-of-shit mother… worst kind… selling my pregnant holes… for meth… baby still inside me and I don’t give a fuck…”

Dre laughed, slamming deeper. “That’s right. Kid’s gonna grow up hearing stories about how Mommy was getting railed in trap houses while he was still kicking.”

Malik pinched both nipples at once, hard. Twin jets of milk shot out, drenching his cock as he fucked her tits faster. “Every time that belly gets bigger, you bring this leaky ass back here. We’ll drain these tits dry while we drain your holes.”

Tara came hard, her body jerking, pussy spasming, milk spraying wild with every clench. Dre kept pounding through it, grunting, then buried deep and unloaded inside her with a low curse.

Malik followed right after, pulled back, stroked fast, and painted her swollen tits and belly with thick ropes that mixed with the milk streaking her skin.

They stepped away. Tara stayed kneeling, shaking, cum and milk dripping off her in strings, belly heaving with every breath.
Malik tossed the baggie at her feet. “There. Small one. Like you begged for.”

She snatched it, fingers trembling. Already digging in her pocket for the glass pipe she carried everywhere now.

Dre zipped up, smirking. “Next week, mama. Bring that gut back bigger. We’ll have plenty.”

Tara didn’t speak. She shuffled awkwardly to the corner, her pants still tangled at her knees, she squatted with her back against the wall, and started breaking up the shard. The baby kicked hard inside her. She pressed a sticky palm to her belly, muttered “sorry” under her breath, then flicked the lighter and pulled the smoke deep into her lungs.
The high hit fast. The guilt hit slower.

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