Overflow

The second pregnancy settled into us like a secret we couldn’t stop touching. It didn’t matter how many times we had sex, how many times he whispered “mine” against my skin—it still felt like magic that I carried another child of his inside me.

By then, the twins were almost six months old—still nursing, growing fast, and curious about everything. When we planned the second babymoon, we couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them behind. So we didn’t. We chose a quiet coastal town tucked into the cliffs of southern Italy. A sprawling villa with a private terrace, endless sea views, and enough room for the twins and their nannies.

During the day, our lives felt full and simple. We worked from the villa’s sunroom, laptops open and fingers brushing between ideas and deals. I took breaks to nurse the twins, watching Matthew as he looked at me like I was the whole world. Sometimes, when the babies fell asleep in their cribs or in our arms, he would lean over and kiss the milk from my lips, then lower, pulling the soft weight of my breast into his mouth with reverent hunger. He claimed what they didn’t finish, eyes closed, groaning as if he was tasting something sacred. He knew that his kneading and draining my full tits turned me on.

It was always like that—him, insatiable, and me, willing. My belly had just begun to curve outward again, and my breasts were impossibly full, aching and heavy. Every time he touched them, the pressure would ease in the most sinful ways.

At night, the nannies took over, and we didn’t hold back. The villa’s stone walls may have muffled some of our cries, but not all. I lost count of how many times he had me up against a window, my swollen body bent just right, his name ripped from my throat as he stretched me, filled me, praised me through each orgasm. He held me close afterward, both of us slick with sweat and trembling. His hands always found my belly, cupping it with awe, then sliding down again.

"You’re perfect like this," he whispered one night, forehead against mine as he moved inside me slow and deep. "Full of my babies. Leaking for them. And for me."

We stayed in that rhythm for weeks—working, fucking often, feeding, resting. The twins’ laughter echoed through the hallways. Our bodies were marked with bruises and bite marks, love made visible. We bathed together after long afternoons in the sun, and he’d wash me gently, then pull me into his lap to fuck again, water sloshing over the edge of the tub.

Some nights, we didn’t even make it to the bed. Just the floor, or the oversized couch, or the terrace under the stars. And every time, he held my belly like it was sacred. Sometimes, he kissed it before he kissed me.

“You’ll never go back on birth control again,” he said one night, breath hot against my skin. It wasn’t a demand. It was a vow. A promise that whatever we created together, he would love. Worship. Cherish.

And I believed him.

Because with him, I wasn’t just his wife. I was his home. His desire. The mother of his children. His favorite addiction.

And I was more than full.

I was overflowing.