The world came back in sticky, throbbing waves.

Your head pounded like someone had used it for batting practice. The last clear memory was the bar — dim lights, too-loud country music, a too-friendly guy buying you another drink you didn’t remember finishing. Then… nothing. Just black.

Now there was heat. Wet, pulsing heat wrapped tight around your shoulders. A slow, rhythmic squelch-squelch-squelch vibrating through your entire body. Something thick and slick was clamped around your upper arms, your chest, your neck — like being hugged by a living, drooling tube of muscle. You tried to kick, but your legs were already gone past the knees, swallowed into something hot and tight that rippled greedily every time you twitched.

You forced your eyes open.

Directly in front of your face — inches away — was a glistening, flushed slit. The fat, reptilian cockhead gaped obscenely wide, stretched around your shoulders like a second mouth. Thick strands of pre-cum drooled from the edges, stringing down your collarbone and dripping onto the stained mattress beneath you. The shaft itself was monstrous: deep red fading to angry purple near the tip, veins pulsing, a heavy medial ring bulging just below where your body disappeared into it.

And then you looked down.

Your own legs — bent at the knees, feet-first — were already halfway inside the swollen, sagging ballsack dangling beneath. The scaly sac churned lazily, sloshing with every tiny movement you made. You could feel the heat radiating off the heavy orbs, could hear the wet, gurgling churn of whatever had gone in before you being slowly reduced to thick soup.

A long, forked tongue lolled out of Kroger Voss’s grinning maw above you. The big crocodile’s pale yellow eyes were half-lidded with lazy pleasure, pupils blown wide. His breath smelled like whiskey, musk, and raw meat.

“Well heyyy there, sugar,” he rumbled, voice thick with that bayou drawl. “Took ya long enough to wake up. Was startin’ to think I’d hafta finish without ya sayin’ goodbye.”

Behind him, the actress playing your “girlfriend” in whatever sick script this was stood waiting her turn. She was perched on a folding chair just off-camera, legs crossed, touching up her lipstick with a bored expression. Every few seconds she flicked her eyes toward you — not with pity, not with horror, just mild annoyance that you were taking so long to disappear. She popped her lips at the mirror, checked her teeth, then gave a tiny shrug like this was just another Tuesday.

You tried to speak — to scream, to beg — but all that came out was a choked gurgle as another thick ripple of the cock’s inner walls squeezed around your ribs.

Kroger noticed.

His grin widened, showing every single sharp, yellowed tooth.

“Awww, don’t be shy now, darlin’.” He leaned down, massive head filling your entire field of vision. One clawed hand gently — almost tenderly — cupped the back of your skull. “C’mere.”

Before you could thrash, he closed the distance and dragged his long, dripping tongue across your face in one slow, possessive lick — from chin to forehead — leaving a glistening trail of saliva that smelled overwhelmingly of him. Then he pressed his scaled lips to yours in a big, sloppy, open-mouthed crocodile kiss. His tongue shoved inside, thick and hot, coiling around yours like it owned you, tasting every inch of your mouth while you helplessly spasmed.

He broke the kiss with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his.

“There we go,” he murmured, almost sweet. “That’s a good lil snack. Time to finish slidin’ home.”

His free hand moved to the top of your head — fingers splaying wide across your hair. No force, not yet. Just firm, inevitable pressure.

“Deep breath, sugar.”

And then he pushed.

Your shoulders popped past the tight ring of his slit with a lewd, sucking schlurp. The cockhead stretched even wider for a heartbeat, then clamped back down around your neck like a warm, fleshy collar. Your chin sank into the drooling slit. Your ears. Your eyes. The world became nothing but pulsing pink-red darkness, the overwhelming smell of musk and pre, the thunder of his heartbeat all around you.

Kroger let out a long, rumbling groan of satisfaction.

He bucked his hips once — hard.

The motion sent a powerful ripple down the length of his shaft. Your body lurched downward in one long, wet slide — past the medial ring, past the thick knot still swelling at the base, straight toward the sloshing furnace of his balls.

You felt the moment your head breached the tight sphincter at the base of his cock and popped into the humid, churning chamber of his left nut. The walls immediately squeezed around your face, hot and slick and alive, kneading you like dough. Your shoulders followed. Your chest. And then — with one final, rolling squeeze — the rest of you curled up tight inside the swollen sac beside whatever poor bastard had gone in earlier.

Kroger gave his heavy balls a lazy, affectionate slap. They swung, sloshing loudly.

“Mmmph… there ya go, lil buddy,” he drawled, tongue lolling again as he looked down at the obscene bulge your curled-up form made in his nutsack. “Feet-first like a good snack should. Already feelin’ ya soften up nice.”

He glanced over at the actress. Gave her a toothy wink.

“Almost ready for ya, darlin’. Just gotta let this one stew a bit first.”

The camera light blinked red.

The scene rolled on.

The first thing you registered was the smell.

Thick, animal musk — hot and heavy, like sweat-soaked leather left in the sun, mixed with something darker, earthier, unmistakably reptilian. It coated the back of your throat with every shallow breath. Your head throbbed in time with your pulse. Arms ached. Shoulders burned. The last thing you remembered was walking home after last call — headlights flashing too close, a rough hand clamping over your mouth, the sharp sting of something cold against your neck.

Then nothing.

Now your body was folded forward, face-down on a thin studio mattress that reeked of bleach and old cum. Your knees were spread wide on the floor, ass high in the air in a forced downward-dog position. Something impossibly hot and slick gripped you around the waist — a living, muscular ring that pulsed and squeezed in slow, deliberate waves.

You tried to push up.

Your palms slipped on something wet.

That was when you felt it.

Your hips were gone. Swallowed. Your entire lower half — thighs, calves, feet — had already disappeared inside something tight and rippling. The pressure was obscene: a slow, sucking pull that dragged at your skin like a thousand tiny mouths working in unison. Every time you twitched, the tunnel around you clenched harder, rippling upward in greedy peristalsis, trying to claim more of you.

You twisted your head and looked back.

Kroger Voss’s massive, emerald-scaled hips filled your vision. His thick tail swayed lazily behind him. Between those powerful thighs, his enormous reptilian ass cheeks were spread wide — held open by his own clawed hands for the cameras. And right there, framed perfectly in the shot, was his pucker: a fat, dark-green ring of muscle, glistening with thick natural lubricant, stretched grotesquely around your own waist.

Your torso disappeared into him right at the navel. Every breath you took made the rim flutter and grip tighter. You could feel your own legs curled up deep inside him — folded tight in the humid, churning tunnel of his rectum, already being massaged and kneaded like meat being tenderized.

The crocodile let out a long, rumbling groan of satisfaction, tongue lolling out over his sharp teeth. His pale yellow eyes flicked down to meet yours the moment your consciousness fully returned.

“Well damn, darlin’,” he drawled, voice thick and lazy with pleasure. “Right on cue. Camera man was gettin’ antsy.”

Behind him, the red recording light blinked on. A PA whispered “rolling” off to the side. The boom mic hovered closer.

Kroger shifted his stance, planting one massive foot wider so the camera could get the perfect angle: your upper body protruding helplessly from his ass like some obscene, living butt plug. Your arms were still free — for now — scrabbling uselessly at the scaly flesh around you, but every movement only made his pucker clench and ripple, sucking another half-inch of you inside with a wet shlurp.

He reached back with one huge hand and patted the small of your back — almost affectionate.

“Wakey-wakey, sugar,” he cooed. “Director wants the moment you realize what’s happenin’. Real authentic-like.”

You opened your mouth to scream — to beg — but all that came out was a choked gasp as another powerful ripple rolled through the tunnel gripping you. Your ribs compressed. Your shoulders scraped against the inside of his rim.

Kroger chuckled, low and filthy.

“That’s it… keep squirmin’. Feels real nice when ya fight on the way in.” He flexed his glutes deliberately, making his pucker kiss and tug at your midsection. “Feet went down easy. Legs too. Hips were a little tight, but damn if ya don’t feel good stretchin’ me out.”

He leaned forward slightly, changing the angle so more of your torso was forced to bow. The shift made gravity do half the work — your chest slid forward an inch, then another, the slick inner walls dragging you deeper with every heartbeat.

The actress playing your “girlfriend” stepped into frame just then — already naked, makeup perfect, expression bored and impatient. She glanced at where your shoulders were slowly vanishing between Kroger’s cheeks, then looked straight into the lens like this was just another blocking rehearsal.

“Any day now, big guy,” she muttered. “I’ve got a spa appointment after lunch.”

Kroger grinned wider. His long tongue flicked out and dragged across the back of your neck in one slow, possessive lick — tasting the sweat of your panic.

“Don’t worry none, lil buddy,” he murmured, voice dropping to a husky growl just for you. “I like takin’ my time with the cute ones. Gonna make sure every last bit of ya slides in real slow… feet-first, just how I like it.”

He rocked his hips once — a single, deliberate buck — and the motion sent a powerful sucking wave rippling up the tunnel. Your collarbones popped past the rim with a lewd, wet schlorp. Your shoulders followed. Your neck sank in up to the chin.

Now only your head remained outside — hair matted with musk and slick, face framed by the glistening, twitching pucker that owned you.

Kroger reached back again. This time his fingers threaded gently through your hair — almost tender — before he pressed his palm flat against the top of your skull.

“Smile for the camera, sugar,” he rumbled. “This is the money shot.”

And then he pushed.

Your face sank into hot, humid darkness. The rim sealed over your forehead, then your eyes, then your screaming mouth — muffling the sound into a pathetic, wet gurgle.

With one final roll of his hips, the last of you disappeared completely. A visible bulge traveled up the underside of his abdomen— the outline of your curled-up body sliding deeper, deeper, until it settled low in his gut with a heavy glorp.

Kroger let out a long, shuddering sigh of satisfaction. He gave his own ass a lazy smack, making the scales jiggle.

“Annnnd… scene,” he drawled to no one in particular. Then, softer — almost sweet:

“Good boy. Went down real nice.”

The camera stayed on him as he turned toward the actress, already reaching for her with that same lazy, predatory grin — while deep inside him, you could still feel the slow, relentless kneading of his insides beginning to work.

The red light on the camera blinked to life with a soft beep. The set lights snapped on hotter, bathing everything in harsh, unforgiving white.

You were already tied when consciousness fully returned — thick, coarse rope biting into your wrists, looped tight behind your back and then lashed to your ankles so your body was forced into a helpless hogtie on the stained mattress. Your knees were spread wide, chest pressed to the thin padding, ass arched up just enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable, ridiculous. A strip of duct tape had been slapped over your mouth earlier; now it was half-peeled, probably so the microphone could catch every pathetic sound you made.

Kroger Voss loomed above you, filling the frame like a living special effect. Seven-foot-eleven of thick green scales, barrel chest heaving slow and deliberate, tail swaying lazily behind him like a metronome counting down your remaining minutes. He’d already stripped down to nothing but that stretched-out wifebeater and the low-riding denim cutoffs — the ones that barely contained the obscene bulge of his sheath and those heavy, low-hanging balls. The steel-toe boots were still on, planted wide on either side of your bound body.

He tilted his head, pale yellow eyes glinting as he looked down at you like you were tonight’s featured prop. A long, slow drag of his forked tongue across his sharp teeth. Then the drawl rolled out, thick and syrupy, every syllable played up for the lens.

“Well now. Look what the boys dragged in off the street for me tonight.” He crouched slowly, massive thighs flexing, until his face was level with yours. Hot breath washed over you — whiskey, musk, raw meat. “Ain’t you just the cutest little thing all trussed up like a Sunday roast. Bet you thought you were gonna have a quiet evenin’, huh, sugar?”

He reached down with one clawed finger and hooked the edge of the peeling duct tape. Ripped it off in one sharp tug. The sting made your eyes water instantly.

Kroger chuckled, low and filthy. “There we go. Let’s hear them pretty noises. Director wants authentic terror tonight.”

You tried to speak — curse, beg, anything — but he pressed a single thick digit against your lips, silencing you before the first word could form.

“Shhh. No, no. You don’t get to talk yet.” He leaned closer, tongue flicking out to trace the edge of your jaw in one slow, wet stroke. “See, I’m starvin’… but I ain’t in no rush. Good meals deserve to be played with first. Ain’t that right?”

He straightened up, towering again. Reached down and grabbed the ropes binding your wrists and ankles, hoisting you off the mattress like you weighed nothing. Your body dangled helplessly, face toward the floor, ass still pointed skyward. Blood rushed to your head. The camera dollied in closer.

Kroger turned you slowly, showing you off to the lens like a prize catch. “Look at this, folks,” he said to the imaginary audience, voice dripping with exaggerated redneck bravado. “Fresh meat. Still kickin’. Still blushin’. Ain’t even cried yet… but we’ll fix that.”

He lowered you back down — deliberately letting your face drag across the rough scales of his inner thigh on the way. The musky heat of his crotch washed over you. His sheath was already swelling, the fat tip of his cock starting to peek free, glistening.

He planted one massive boot on your back, pinning you flat to the mattress again. Not hard enough to hurt — just heavy enough to remind you who owned the air in the room.

“First things first,” he rumbled. “Gonna get you nice and flavored before I send ya down.”

He reached down, hooked two claws into the waistband of your pants — whatever was left of them after the crew had stripped you earlier — and yanked. Fabric tore like wet paper. Cool air hit your bare skin. Then came the humiliation he clearly loved most.

He dragged the blunt tip of his dripping cock across your ass cheeks, smearing thick ropes of pre in slow, lazy circles. Marking you. Claiming territory. Every time you tried to squirm away, he pressed down harder with his boot, forcing your hips to stay raised.

“Look at that,” he drawled, loud enough for the boom mic. “Lil thing’s shakin’ already. Bet you’re wonderin’ how much of me’s gonna fit before I just slurp the rest.” He leaned down, long tongue lolling out until it draped across the small of your back like a wet leash. “Tell ya what, sugar. I’m feelin’ generous. You got two choices tonight.”

He rocked his hips forward, letting the heavy length of his cock slap wetly against your lower back — hot, slick, impossibly thick.

“One: you can beg real sweet. Tell me how bad you wanna slide down feet-first, nice and slow, so the camera catches every wiggle. Maybe I’ll even let ya kiss the tip goodbye before I tuck ya in my balls.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch. The only sound was your own ragged breathing and the soft drip-drip of pre hitting the mattress.

“Or two…” His voice dropped lower, almost sweet. “You can keep squirmin’ and fightin’ like you think it’ll matter. Makes it more fun when I pin ya down, spread ya wide, and force those kickin’ little legs straight into my throat anyway.”

He reached under you, clawed fingers wrapping around your chin, tilting your head back so you were forced to look up into those glowing slit-pupils.

“So what’s it gonna be, darlin’?” He dragged his tongue across your cheek again — slow, deliberate, tasting your fear. “Gonna play nice for the big bad gator… or you gonna make me work for my supper?”

The camera stayed locked on your face. Waiting for your answer. Waiting for the moment you broke.

Kroger grinned wider, teeth glinting. “Clock’s tickin’, sugar. I’m gettin’ real hungry.”

The red recording light clicked on with a soft mechanical snap. Studio lights flared brighter, turning the cheap mattress and bare concrete floor into a stark, unforgiving stage.

You were on your back, wrists bound together above your head with thick rope looped around a metal ring bolted into the wall. Ankles tied the same way — spread wide and lashed to the foot of the mattress so your legs were forced apart, knees bent, everything on display. No gag this time. They wanted every word, every whimper, every panicked breath caught crystal clear on the overhead mics.

Kroger Voss stepped into frame.

Seven-foot-eleven of thick, scarred green scales, muscles rolling under armored hide, tail dragging lazily behind him like it had all the time in the world. The wifebeater was already soaked through with sweat, clinging to his barrel chest. Those faded denim cutoffs rode so low the heavy, swollen sheath pushed obscenely against the frayed zipper, the fat tip already glistening and peeking free. His steel-toe boots thudded once, twice, as he planted them on either side of your hips, caging you beneath him without even touching you yet.

He tilted his head, pale yellow slit-pupils dilating as they raked over your bound body. A slow, deliberate lick across his sharp front teeth — long tongue curling out far enough to drip.

“Well helloooo, sugar,” he drawled, voice thick and syrupy, every syllable played up for the lens. “Look at you. All trussed up nice and pretty, just waitin’ for the big bad gator to come have a taste.”

He crouched slowly, lowering himself until his massive head hovered just above your chest. Hot breath washed over your skin in waves — whiskey, musk, something primal and hungry. His tongue flicked out again, longer this time, forked tip tracing a slow, wet line from your navel up the center of your sternum. The slick muscle dragged deliberately, leaving a glistening trail that cooled instantly in the air. You felt every rough taste-bud catch on your skin.

“Mmmph… you taste even better than you look, darlin’.” He pressed the flat of his tongue flat against your collarbone and dragged upward — one long, possessive lick that ended with the tip curling under your chin, forcing your head back so you had to stare straight up into those glowing eyes.

“Bet you’re wonderin’ how much of me you’re gonna feel before the real fun starts.” He chuckled, low and filthy, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Don’t worry none. I ain’t one’a them rushin’ types. Good snacks deserve to be savored.”

His tongue slid lower again — this time dragging across one nipple, then the other, circling slowly, teasingly. The forked tip flicked at the sensitive peaks until they stiffened despite your fear, and he let out a pleased rumble.

“Look at that… already perkin’ up for me. Cute lil body knows what’s comin’, even if your brain’s still playin’ catch-up.”

He shifted his weight forward, letting the heavy bulge of his sheath drag across your stomach — hot, slick, leaving thick strands of pre smeared in its wake. The musky heat radiating off him was suffocating.

“See, sugar,” he murmured, voice dropping to a husky growl, “I like playin’ with my food first. Like to get you all worked up… all shivery and wet and beggin’ in that pretty voice’a yours… before I decide exactly how slow I’m gonna take ya.”

His tongue returned — longer, slower — sliding up the side of your neck, tracing the frantic pulse hammering under your skin. He paused with the tip pressed just under your ear, hot breath ghosting over the shell.

“You gonna squirm real nice for me, ain’t ya?” Another lazy lick, this one dragging across your cheek, tasting the salt of fresh sweat. “Gonna kick them bound-up legs and whimper so sweet while I lick every inch’a you? Or you gonna try to be brave… make me work a little harder to break ya down?”

He pulled back just enough to let you see the full width of his grin — every sharp, yellowed tooth on display.

“Either way’s good with me, darlin’. Makes it more fun when I finally wrap this tongue around ya and start pullin’.”

He leaned in again, tongue lolling out fully now — long, dripping, obscene — hovering inches from your face like a promise.

“So go on,” he rumbled, voice thick with mock sweetness. “Scream for me. Beg for me. Curse me out. Cry if ya wanna.” His tongue flicked forward, brushing feather-light against your lips — just a tease, just enough to make you flinch.

“I got all night, sugar… and you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’ve had my fill’a playtime.”

The camera stayed locked on your face. Waiting. Recording every humiliated, terrified twitch while Kroger’s tongue hovered, dripping, ready to drag across you again.

The trailer smelled like him.

Warm, heavy musk — sun-baked scales, motor oil, cheap body spray that never quite won against the natural scent rolling off his hide, and the faint lingering sweetness of whatever greasy fast-food bag was crumpled on the tiny kitchen counter. Sunlight leaked through the half-closed blinds in dusty gold stripes, painting slow-moving bars across the rumpled sheets and your bare skin.

You woke slowly, face mashed against something firm yet yielding — thick, armored muscle that rose and fell with deep, lazy breaths. One massive arm was draped over your waist like a living seatbelt, clawed fingers loosely curled against your stomach. Another heavy limb — his tail — had coiled twice around your legs sometime in the night, the tip resting possessively over your hip. You were tucked against Kroger Voss’s broad chest, half-buried under the crook of his shoulder, his long snout resting atop your head like you were his personal pillow.

He was still asleep.

Or mostly asleep.

Every few breaths his tongue flicked out — just once, lazy and soft — brushing the shell of your ear or the side of your neck before disappearing again. A low, rumbling purr vibrated through his whole body whenever you shifted even a little, like the sound was hardwired to activate the second he felt you move.

You tried to ease yourself out from under the arm.

The arm tightened instantly — not hard, not painful, just… inevitable. His claws spread wider across your belly, holding you flush against him. A sleepy, gravelly drawl rolled out of his throat, thick with leftover dreams.

“Mmm… where ya goin’, sugar?”

His voice was softer than usual — no performance drawl, no camera-ready swagger. Just early-morning croc, still half-drowned in sleep and contentment. He nuzzled down, dragging the blunt end of his snout along the top of your head, inhaling slow and deep like he was scent-marking you all over again.

“Stay put,” he mumbled into your hair. “Ain’t done cuddlin’ yet.”

You felt the thick plates of his chest shift as he rolled slightly, pulling you with him until you were sprawled half on top of him — face tucked under his jaw, one of your legs thrown over the swell of his thigh, his tail readjusting to loop even snugger around your calves. His heartbeat thudded steady and slow against your cheek, strong enough that you could feel it in your teeth.

He let out a long, satisfied sigh — the kind that ended in a little pleased rumble — and dragged his long tongue in one slow, warm pass from the base of your neck all the way up to your temple.

“Been a long fuckin’ week,” he muttered. “Director had me doin’ three back-to-back scenes yesterday. Balls still ache. Head’s still buzzin’. But this…” His arm squeezed you closer, claws tracing idle little circles on your back. “…this is real nice.”

He cracked one pale yellow eye open, just enough to peek down at you. The usual predatory glint was gone — replaced by something softer, sleepier, almost fond.

“You’re warm,” he said simply, like it was the most important fact in the world. “And you smell good. And you don’t kick when I hold ya too tight. That’s why you’re my favorite lil stress-release pet, darlin’.”

Another slow lick — this one deliberately gentle, more like grooming than tasting — dragged across your cheek.

“So don’t go wigglin’ away just yet.” He tucked his snout back down, burying it against the top of your head again. His breathing deepened, long and even, the purr kicking up a notch. “Gimme ten more minutes. Maybe twenty. Then I’ll think about lettin’ ya up… maybe make ya some coffee… maybe eat ya out on the couch if I’m feelin’ generous…”

A lazy chuckle vibrated through his chest.

“…but right now?”

He pulled the thin blanket up over both of you with his tail, cocooning you tighter against his bulk.

“Right now I just wanna keep ya right here. All soft and mine. That’s all I want.”

His claws kept up their slow, soothing circles on your back. His tongue flicked out one last time — just a tiny, sleepy brush against your hairline.

“Stay,” he murmured, already drifting again. “Good pet. Best pet.”

The trailer stayed quiet after that — just the low hum of the AC unit, the occasional creak of the mattress under his weight, and the steady, contented rumble of a very large, very sleepy crocodile who had no intention of letting his favorite comfort toy go anywhere for a while.

The trailer door slammed shut behind Kroger with enough force to rattle the cheap blinds.

He stood there for a second, chest heaving, scales still slick with studio sweat and the faint sheen of lube that always clung to him after a long shoot. The wifebeater was soaked through, clinging to every ridge of muscle; the denim cutoffs were barely zipped, the fat, flushed length of his cock still half-hard and visibly throbbing against the frayed fabric. His balls — obscenely swollen even by his standards — hung heavy and low, sloshing audibly with every step he took deeper into the cramped space.

The unmistakable gurgle of thick, churning cum rolled through them. Whatever poor bastard the crew had shoved down his slit an hour ago was long past screaming — reduced to hot, sludgy soup, just another thick load waiting to be dealt with.

Kroger’s pale yellow eyes found you immediately.

You were curled on the narrow fold-out couch that doubled as his bed, wrists loosely cuffed to the metal frame with soft leather (the “nice” restraints he kept for home), wearing nothing but the thin collar he’d snapped around your throat the day you were assigned as his personal stress-release pet. The trailer smelled like him already — musk, sex, reptile heat — but now it was overwhelming, saturated with post-scene pheromones and the sharp, salty reek of fresh prey-cum still leaking in sticky strands from his slit.

He didn’t speak at first. Just crossed the small space in three heavy strides, boots thudding, tail dragging behind him like it weighed twice as much as usual. He stopped right in front of you, looming, breathing hard through flared nostrils.

“Rough one today,” he finally rumbled, voice still thick with leftover scene-energy. “Director wanted extra churn on camera. Kept me knotted in the girlfriend for twenty goddamn minutes while the last guy bubbled away in my nuts. Couldn’t even nut when I wanted to. Had to hold it. All of it.”

He reached down, palmed the obscene swell of his balls through the denim — fingers sinking into the soft, overheated sac. A low, wet glorp answered the pressure. He groaned, long and ragged.

“Fuckin’ full, sugar. So full it hurts.” His free hand reached for you — not rough, but urgent — hooking under your collar and tugging you upright until your face was level with his crotch. “You’re gonna fix that for me. Right now.”

He popped the button on his shorts with a claw. The zipper gave up without a fight. His cock sprang free — long, girthy, still glistening with pre and the last traces of whatever had slid down his slit earlier. The knot at the base was only half-swollen, but the medial ring pulsed visibly. Thick beads of pearlescent cum already welled at the tip, dripping in slow, heavy strings.

Kroger sat heavily on the edge of the couch, thighs spreading wide. He guided your head down between them until your cheek pressed against the scorching heat of his inner thigh, nose inches from the drooling slit.

“Been thinkin’ about you the whole damn take,” he muttered, voice dropping softer — almost needy. “Knew my lil pet was waitin’ back here. Knew you’d be good. Knew you’d take care’a me when I got home all backed up and achin’.”

He wrapped one massive hand around the base of his shaft, squeezing until another fat rope of prey-scented cum oozed out and dripped onto your lips.

“Open up, darlin’.” His other hand cradled the back of your head — gentle, but unyielding. “Gonna milk every last drop of that poor fucker outta me. Slow. Nice and slow. Wanna feel you work for it. Wanna hear you choke a little. Wanna see my good pet drink down what used to be a whole-ass person just so I can finally relax.”

He tilted his hips forward, smearing the leaking tip across your mouth, painting your lips glossy.

“C’mon, sugar,” he coaxed, tail curling loosely around your waist to keep you pinned close. “Show me how grateful you are to be mine. Suck your big scaly gator dry. Get him empty so he can hold ya all night without his balls killin’ him.”

A low, rumbling purr started deep in his chest — half contentment, half desperate need — as he waited for your mouth to open.

“Atta boy… that’s it. Take care’a your gator. Make it all better.” His claws traced slow, soothing circles behind your ear while the other hand kept his cock steady, tip nudging insistently at your lips. “Every drop, pet. Every fuckin’ drop. Then we can cuddle. Promise.”

The red light on the overhead camera blinked on with a quiet click. The set lights flared, turning the bare mattress and fake motel headboard into a stark, brightly lit stage. The faint hum of the boom mic overhead picked up every breath, every rustle, every wet sound.

You were already in position, exactly how the director had barked the blocking: on your back in the center of the bed, wrists cuffed to the headboard with soft black leather restraints, ankles free but legs spread wide and held open by the thick thighs bracketing your hips. A thin pillow under your lower back kept your pelvis tilted up — presented, vulnerable, ready. No clothes. Just skin prickling under the hot lights and the faint tremor of anticipation (or dread) running through your limbs.

Kroger Voss stood at the foot of the bed, massive frame filling half the frame on his own.

His wifebeater clung damp to his barrel chest, the green scales beneath glistening with fresh sweat. The denim cutoffs were already unzipped and shoved halfway down his powerful thighs — his long, thick reptilian cock hanging heavy and half-hard between his legs. But it was his balls that drew the eye: swollen far beyond their usual obscene size, sagging low and visibly churning. The scaly sac rolled and shifted with slow, liquid gurgles — audible even over the low drone of the AC unit. Whatever crewman had been unlucky enough to get cock-vored thirty minutes ago was still very much in the process of being reduced to thick, sloshing cream inside those heavy nuts.

Kroger stepped closer, boots thudding once on the concrete floor. He planted one knee on the edge of the mattress, making the whole frame dip under his weight. His pale yellow slit-pupils raked over your body — slow, deliberate, hungry — before locking onto your face.

“Director says we got a little extra time on this one,” he drawled, voice thick and lazy, every word dripping that exaggerated bayou sleaze for the lens. “Last boy’s still workin’ his way down to soup in my nuts. Ain’t quite ready to paint ya yet… so we’re gonna play a bit first, sugar.”

He leaned down over you, one massive clawed hand planting beside your head while the other slid up your inner thigh — slow, possessive, claws grazing just enough to make you flinch. His tongue lolled out, long and dripping, dragging a single wet stripe from your collarbone all the way up the side of your neck. The forked tip curled under your jaw, tilting your head back so you had to look straight into those glowing eyes.

“Fuck, you’re already shakin’,” he murmured, almost sweet. “That’s cute. Real cute.”

His free hand moved lower — thick fingers circling your entrance, teasing without pushing in yet. He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, smearing the slick someone had already worked into you during prep. Every pass made your hips twitch involuntarily. Kroger chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Look at that greedy little hole twitchin’ for me already,” he said, loud enough for the boom mic. “Bet you can hear him, can’t ya?” He shifted his hips forward so the swollen, sloshing weight of his balls dragged across your stomach — hot, heavy, gurgling softly with every tiny movement. “That’s one’a the crew boys. Real enthusiastic volunteer… till he wasn’t. Now he’s just thick gator cream waitin’ for his big finish. Gonna take a few more minutes to get him nice and liquid… so I figured I’d warm ya up proper while we wait.”

His fingers pressed in — two at first, thick and unyielding, stretching you open in slow, shallow thrusts. He curled them deliberately, dragging against that sensitive spot inside you until your back arched off the mattress and a choked sound slipped past your lips.

“There it is,” he rumbled approvingly. “That’s the noise I like. Keep makin’ it for the camera, darlin’.”

He worked you open steadily — scissoring, twisting, adding a third finger when your body started to relax around him. All the while his tongue kept roaming: lazy licks across your chest, teasing flicks over your nipples, slow drags up the column of your throat. Every so often he’d lean down and seal his scaled lips over yours in a sloppy, possessive crocodile kiss — long tongue shoving deep, tasting every inch of your mouth while his fingers kept pumping inside you.

His balls kept sloshing against your skin — the wet, churning sounds growing louder, more liquid, more obscene with every passing minute. Kroger groaned into your mouth every time he felt a fresh wave of movement inside his sac.

“Almost there,” he muttered against your lips. “Can feel him breakin’ down real nice now… gettin’ softer… thicker… fuck, he’s gonna make such a pretty load.”

He pulled his fingers free with a wet schlick, leaving you clenching on nothing. Then he shifted forward, straddling your hips properly. His cock — now fully hard, flushed dark, leaking in steady ropes — slapped wetly against your stomach. The blunt head dragged upward, smearing pre across your skin in thick, sticky lines.

Kroger wrapped one massive hand around the base of his shaft, squeezing until another bead of pre welled at the tip and dripped onto your chest.

“Few more minutes,” he growled, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Just enough time to get you drippin’ and desperate… so when I finally knot ya and pump every last drop of that crew boy straight into your guts, you’ll be beggin’ for it.”

He leaned down again, tongue dragging once more across your lips — slow, deliberate, tasting your fear and arousal in equal measure.

“Eyes on the camera, sugar,” he murmured. “Let ‘em see how pretty you look gettin’ opened up… gettin’ ready to take everything I’ve been savin’ up.”

His hips rocked forward, grinding the thick length of his cock along your entrance — not pushing in yet, just teasing, coating you in pre, letting you feel every ridge, every pulse, while the wet, heavy churning of his balls continued to fill the room with filthy background noise.

“Won’t be long now,” he promised, voice thick with anticipation. “Soon as he’s ready… I’m gonna bury every inch and breed you full.”

The red light stayed on. The camera stayed close. And Kroger kept playing — slow, relentless, savoring every second of foreplay while the last traces of the crewman gurgled away inside him, waiting for their final moment on camera.

The red light blinked on. The set lights burned hot. The usual cheap motel backdrop stared down impassively.

You were dragged in bound and gagged—wrists crossed and zip-tied behind your back, ankles lashed together with the same rough plastic that bit into skin, a wide strip of silver duct tape sealed tight over your mouth. The crew had already stripped you to your underwear during the blindfolded ride over; now you were dumped face-down on the stained mattress, knees shoved apart so your bound legs splayed awkwardly, ass slightly raised. No preamble. No explanation. Just the click of the camera and the low murmur of “replacement prey secured, rolling.”

Kroger Voss stepped into frame and stopped dead.

His massive frame—seven-foot-eleven, thick emerald scales scarred from years of rough scenes—actually swayed for half a second. Pale yellow slit-pupils dilated wide, then snapped into sharp focus as recognition hit him like a brick to the chest.

“…you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me,” he breathed, too quiet for the boom mic to catch cleanly.

The director snapped, “Action, Voss. Swallow. Feet-first. Make it pretty.”

Kroger’s jaw worked once. Twice. Then he forced the character mask back on—broad shoulders squaring, tail flicking once like he was shaking off the shock. But his eyes never left your face.

He crouched slowly in front of you, one clawed hand cupping your chin with surprising care, tilting your head so you had to meet his gaze.

“Still got them same eyes,” he murmured, just for you, voice so low it was almost lost under the hum of the lights. “Same look you gave me when those assholes were shovin’ me into lockers. Fuck… I thought I’d never see you again.”

The director barked, “Voss!”

Kroger exhaled through flared nostrils. He stood. Slipped fully into performance mode. Loud, drawling, southern sleaze dialed to eleven for the lens.

“Alright, lil lost lamb,” he boomed, “time to slide on down where you belong. Director wants it nice and slow—feet-first, full throat-bulge, the works. Let the folks at home see every kick.”

He scooped you up like you weighed nothing—bound wrists pinned to your lower back, ankles dangling. Cradled you against the hard planes of his chest for one heartbeat longer than necessary, long tongue flicking out to trace your cheek in a single slow, warm drag. Then he shifted his grip, turning you so your bound feet pointed toward his open maw.

His jaws parted wide.

Hot, humid breath washed over your legs—whiskey, musk, raw meat, and the faint copper tang of old blood from countless previous scenes. Rows of sharp, yellowed teeth framed a glistening pink-red tunnel that pulsed faintly with every breath he took. His tongue—thick, long, forked—lolled out like a red carpet, curling once around your ankles in a loose, possessive coil before tugging gently.

He tilted his head back.

Your toes breached his lips first. The teeth never closed—not on you—but the heat was immediate, overwhelming. Slick saliva coated your feet instantly, warm and viscous, strings of it dripping down your calves as his tongue pressed flat against your soles, tasting, savoring. He let out a low, theatrical groan for the camera—deep, rumbling, vibrating through his throat and straight into your bones.

Then the first swallow.

His throat muscles rippled in a powerful, rolling wave. Gllk.

Your ankles vanished past the back of his tongue. Calves followed in one smooth, wet glide—the inner walls of his gullet clamping tight around your legs like a living sleeve of muscle, hot and slick and unyielding. The bulge appeared immediately: a clear, rounded outline of your bound feet pressing outward against the scales of his throat, sliding downward inch by inch. The camera dollied in close—catching every ripple, every subtle shift as peristalsis dragged you deeper.

Another swallow. GULP.

Knees popped past his lips. Thighs followed—his tongue curling deliberately between them, dragging slow and teasing along the sensitive inner skin, tasting sweat and fear in equal measure. The bulge lengthened, distorted: the shape of your knees now visible under his collarbone, then lower, traveling down the thick column of his neck. Saliva drooled in thick ropes from the corners of his mouth, splattering onto your hips and the mattress below.

He paused there—halfway—for the money shot.

Let the camera linger on the obscene sight: your lower half completely engulfed, legs curled inside the tight, rippling tube of his throat; your hips framed between his sharp teeth like a grotesque picture; the clear outline of your bound ankles and calves still faintly shifting as his gullet kneaded around them. He gave a slow, satisfied rumble, tongue flicking out to lap once more at the small of your back—long, possessive, almost tender.

Then he tipped his head further back.

Glllk… GLK.

Hips disappeared with a wet, sucking sound. The bulge swelled dramatically—your ass and bound wrists now pressing outward, distorting the scales across his chest before sliding lower. Your stomach vanished next; ribs compressed slightly as the powerful throat muscles squeezed and pulled. Shoulders were the hardest part—broad enough to make his jaws stretch wider, teeth scraping harmlessly along skin as he worked them past the tight ring at the back of his throat.

One final, exaggerated swallow.

GULP.

Your head slipped between his lips. Darkness. Heat. The thunder of his heartbeat all around you. His tongue curled one last time across your face—slow, deliberate, tasting tears and sweat—before sealing you in. The final swallow sent you rocketing down the slick, muscular chute: a long, rolling slide past collarbone, past chest, settling heavy and curled in the warm, softly yielding chamber of his stomach.

The camera caught it all: the long, sinuous bulge traveling down his throat, the way his belly swelled outward into a rounded, person-shaped dome, the faint outline of your shoulders and knees still visible under the scales before everything smoothed into a gentle, heavy swell.

Kroger patted the bulge once—firm, possessive—then looked straight into the lens with that trademark toothy grin.

“That’s a wrap on lunch, y’all.”

He walked off set without waiting for the director’s cut call.

---

The trailer door clicked shut twenty minutes later.

No lights. No cameras. Just the low hum of the AC and the faint smell of old takeout and warm scales.

Kroger sank onto the couch with a heavy sigh, thighs spreading wide. One massive hand immediately moved to the rounded swell of his belly—where you were tucked safe and whole inside the spacious, non-digesting pocket he kept just for moments like this. He rubbed slow, soothing circles over the spot, feeling the faint shift of your body as you adjusted.

“Easy, darlin’,” he murmured. “I gotcha. Ain’t no acid in there. Just holdin’ ya till the crew fucks off home.”

He exhaled long and slow, shoulders dropping.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly—to the empty trailer, to the warm bulge under his palm. “I had to make it look real. If I’d refused the swallow they’d know somethin’ was up. Might’ve started askin’ questions. Might’ve… hurt you worse tryin’ to get you outta the contract.”

His hand kept moving—gentle, steady, almost reverent.

“But I swear on everythin’ I got left… I wasn’t gonna let it go any further. You ain’t food. Never were. Never will be.”

He leaned his head back, eyes half-lidded.

“You probably don’t even recognize me anymore,” he continued softly. “I was Kris back then. Skinny little runt with Coke-bottle glasses and a backpack full’a dinosaur books. Always hidin’ behind you in the cafeteria when the jocks came lookin’. You never laughed at me. Shared your chips once when I forgot lunch money. Let me ramble about theropods for twenty minutes straight without tellin’ me to shut up.”

A low, self-conscious chuckle rumbled through his chest.

“Look at me now. Big scaly porn star. Swallows people for rent money. Funny how shit turns out.”

His tail curled loosely around the base of the couch.

“But I never forgot you,” he said simply. “Not once.”

He gave the swell of his belly one last slow, affectionate rub.

“You’re stayin’ with me, sugar. Not goin’ back to whatever life had you walkin’ alone on that street. Not goin’ near another vorno set. You’re mine now… safe. Kept. Like I always wanted to do back when I was too chickenshit to say it out loud.”

He closed his eyes, breathing deep and even.

“Rest up in there. I’ll let you out soon as it’s clear. Got blankets, water, snacks… hell, I’ll even order pizza. Just… stay with me, okay? Please.”

The trailer fell quiet again. Only the soft sound of scales shifting, a low contented rumble deep in his throat, and the steady rise and fall of a very large crocodile finally holding onto the one person he’d carried a torch for since they were both kids.

The trailer park’s private backyard was more like a small concrete oasis: cracked patio tiles, a couple of sun-rotted lawn chairs, and the centerpiece—a large above-ground pool that looked like it had been bought second-hand from a closing water park. The water was murky green, not from algae but from the sheer concentration of reptilian musk that had soaked into it over months. A faint haze of steam rose from the surface even though the afternoon wasn’t particularly hot. Miami humidity did the rest.

You’d been given the job with almost no briefing.

“New stress-release assistant,” the production manager had said, handing you a cheap plastic bucket of industrial soap, a long-handled scrub brush, and a pair of elbow-length rubber gloves. “Kroger hates bathing himself. Always has. You’re on scrub duty three times a week. Get in, get him clean, get out. Don’t dawdle. He gets… impatient.”

They hadn’t mentioned why the last three assistants had vanished from payroll without notice. They hadn’t mentioned the turnover rate. They hadn’t mentioned the muffled gurgling sounds that sometimes leaked from the star’s trailer late at night.

You pushed through the chain-link gate and froze.

Kroger Voss was floating belly-up in the center of the pool like a sunning log that had decided to cosplay as an island. His massive emerald-scaled body took up most of the diameter—arms spread lazily, thick tail draped over the far edge, steel-toe boots still on and dangling in the water. His wifebeater had ridden up, exposing the softer cream-yellow scales of his throat and the broad swell of his chest. Lower still, his belly was grotesquely distended: a taut, rounded dome that rose well above the waterline, sloshing gently with every slow breath. The heavy sac of his balls floated just below the surface like twin buoys, visibly churning—slow, liquid rolls that sent small ripples outward. Whatever (or whoever) had gone down his gullet—or his slit—during the last shoot was still very much in the process of becoming thick, hot soup.

He was snoring. Deep, rattling crocodile snores that vibrated the water itself.

You took one cautious step onto the tile.

That was when it happened.

A long, lazy inhale—then his chest expanded, throat worked once—and a thunderous BUUURRRRRP rolled out of him.

The belch was wet, meaty, satisfied. Something solid shot from between his parted jaws like a cannonball: a half-digested human skull, stripped of most flesh but still wearing a few clinging strands of scalp and a tuft of sodden hair. It arced through the air, bounced once off the concrete with a dull clonk, then rolled to a stop against the base of a rusted patio chair. Empty eye sockets stared up at the sky.

Kroger’s pale yellow eyes cracked open. He didn’t move at first—just tilted his head lazily toward you, tongue flicking out to lick lingering bits of bone-gristle from his teeth.

“Mmm… new soap-boy,” he drawled, voice thick with sleep and post-digestion smugness. “They said you’d be comin’ by. Smell fresh. That’s nice.”

He gave his swollen belly a slow, heavy pat with one clawed hand. The impact sent a visible ripple across the taut scales; a low, wet glorp-glorp answered from inside. His balls shifted too, sloshing audibly beneath the surface.

“Been a busy mornin’,” he continued, stretching his arms above his head so the muscles in his chest and shoulders rolled under the scales. “Last couple helpers got a little… overzealous with the scrubbin’. Kept tryin’ to get in all the creases. I don’t like bein’ too clean. Musk’s part’a the brand, y’know?”

Another lazy pat. Another gurgle. He grinned—wide, toothy, utterly unapologetic.

“But you look like you can follow directions. So here’s how this goes, sugar.”

He rolled slightly in the water, turning so his belly faced you more directly. The distended dome sloshed again; something solid (a femur, maybe) briefly pressed outward against the scales before sinking back into the churning soup.

“You get in here. You soap me up. Chest, pits, tail base, balls—the works. But you do it gentle. No pokin’. No scrapin’. And if I start feelin’ too clean…” His tongue lolled out, long and dripping, dragging once across his own snout in a slow, deliberate show of satisfaction. “…I might just decide I need a little extra help gettin’ dirty again.”

He let the words hang, eyes half-lidded, utterly content.

“Now c’mon. Water’s warm. And I’m real relaxed right now.” He gave his belly one last affectionate rub, claws tracing idle circles over the spot where the last assistant was still audibly melting. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin that by gettin’ cranky.”

The skull on the tile stared blankly up at you. Kroger just floated there—massive, smug, churning, waiting—every inch the spoiled predator who knew exactly how this always ended.

And he was already smiling like he could taste you.