Weeks 4 through 8 — when love turned to fever, and ruin turned to worship.
I thought I had survived the peak of their hunger.
I was wrong.
Week Four
They didn’t speak as much now. Didn’t need to. The way Max gripped my throat
while Ant split me open from behind said more than words ever could.
They were louder. Rougher. Ferocious.
The sheets never stayed on. My voice never lasted long. My
thighs were never dry.
Ant bent me over the arm of the couch and fucked me so hard
I wept. Max stood in front of me, cock pressed to my tongue, growling, “Take
it, baby. You’re ours.”
They used me like I was theirs to break, and maybe I
was.
But they always put me back together again—with soft kisses,
with hands in my hair, with cum still dripping from between my legs.
Week Five
My belly began to feel strange. Tender. My nipples sensitive, tight. I said
nothing at first.
They noticed anyway.
Max's hands were gentler on my breasts that week. Ant’s
mouth lingered longer, nursing at me like it calmed something inside him.
“You’re warm,” Ant muttered against my skin. “Different.”
Then Max fucked me slow one night—deep, relentless strokes
that had me clawing at his back—and whispered it:
“You think we bred you anyway, sweetheart?”
I couldn’t answer. I could only moan.
Week Six
The test didn’t lie.
I was pregnant.
Again.
Despite everything.
Their reaction?
Devotion turned to madness.
They didn’t let me out of the room for three days. They kept
me naked, wet, gasping. Feeding me. Holding me down. Pounding into me like they
could carve their names into my womb.
“She’s carrying us again,” Ant growled while Max fucked me
from behind, one hand on my throat, the other pressed to the flat of my belly.
“She’s already ours. But now she’s fucking sacred.”
They came inside me until it leaked down my thighs, until I
sobbed from fullness.
They didn’t stop.
Week Seven
I couldn’t walk. I barely talked.
They moved me from the bed to the floor, to the bath, to the
table—every surface a shrine to their desire. Every hole, a place they claimed.
Max licked their cum from my cunt while Ant kissed my
stomach. “We’ll fill you up until this one grows fat and safe,” he whispered.
“Every drop. Every day.”
They took turns. Then took me together. Feral. Unyielding.
Max bit my shoulder. Ant left bruises where his fingers held
my hips. They came in me again and again, like they were feeding our
child through their obsession.
Week Eight
I stopped counting orgasms. They did too.
Now it was just need.
Pure. Animal. Sacred.
They fought over who got to use me first. Sometimes they
both did. Fisting my hair, forcing me to suck one cock while the other claimed
me from behind, bellies slapping, voices breaking from how hard they groaned.
Max came on my chest and whispered, “Our seed’s already
inside you. Now we mark the rest.”
Ant knelt behind me, spreading my legs wide to watch me
leak, then buried his face there, lapping it up. “She’s never going to stop
needing us.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t.
My womb carried proof of our devotion. And still, every inch
of me belonged to them.
The End of the Eighth Week
My body pulsed with life. Heavy. Sensitive. Marked.
They were careful with my belly, but not with the rest of
me.
Rough hands. Ferocious mouths. Endless fucking. They pushed
limits. Then remade them. They turned sharing me into worship and worship into
war.
And I gave in. Every scream. Every sob. Every orgasm.
It was all theirs.
Because they didn’t just breed me.
They claimed me beyond flesh.
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