After the children left, everything changed.
The First Three Days — A Taste
The house swelled with laughter when the kids returned—sticky fingers, little
feet, arms thrown around necks. Max and Ant kept it together. Mostly. They held
me at night, one on either side, both hard and silent.
They didn’t touch me.
Not really.
But I saw it in their eyes: restraint on a blade’s edge.
The moment Ant’s parents picked up the kids and the front
door clicked shut, everything broke.
I barely made it to the breeding room.
Max’s hands were on my throat. Ant’s mouth on my cunt. I was
stripped, flipped, and filled within minutes—my legs trembling from the sudden
shift from mother to breeder again.
“You were so fucking good,” Max panted as he thrust into me.
“Now we get to be bad.”
Week Nine to Week Eleven — No Escape
They didn’t let me dress. Didn’t let me leave the breeding room.
The rules changed.
I was only to speak when spoken to. I was to remain on the
bed, plugged, slick, used. They fed me, bathed me, fucked me in intervals like
it was religion. Max kept a clock. Ant kept count.
“You’re not just pregnant,” Ant whispered into my hair.
“You’re ours in every way.”
Sometimes they tied me open and left me dripping while one
took a shower, only to return and fuck me mid-sentence. Other times they made
me beg—on hands and knees, drooling for a cock, or crying to be filled again
after being emptied too long.
I was never dry. Never empty. Never untouched.
Week Twelve — Their Obsession Deepens
My belly rounded.
They didn’t slow down.
They worshipped it.
Max kissed it before every session. Ant licked around my
navel after spilling into me. They took turns holding my wrists above my head
while the other bred me, murmuring filth and praise in the same breath.
“You think your body belongs to you now?” Max asked while
pushing deeper than ever. “It’s ours. And now it’s growing proof.”
They kept me plugged between sessions. Creamy, stretched,
open. If I leaked, they licked. If I begged, they smirked.
And then fucked me harder.
Week Thirteen — The Challenge
Max started keeping a tally:
How many times could I cum before I passed out?
Ant turned it into a game.
How long could he keep me cock-drunk and unable to speak?
They tested me.
Ten orgasms. Fifteen. Then they switched holes and did it
again.
Max came in my mouth while Ant took me from behind, and they
didn’t stop—even when I sobbed with pleasure. Even when my voice
cracked.
Their goal wasn’t just satisfaction.
It was submission.
Week Fourteen — Shared, Broken, Worshipped
They blindfolded me.
They tied me spread on the altar bed.
Then they shared me—truly shared me. One in my pussy.
The other in my ass. Switching. Again. Again.
They told me I was born for this.
That no one would ever be enough for them but me.
That they’d fill me forever.
That even pregnancy wouldn’t stop the need.
Ant licked the sweat from my chest while Max bit my throat.
“You don’t get to be normal anymore,” he said, voice rough and reverent.
“You’re not a wife or mother right now. You’re ours. Our addiction. Our whore.
Our everything.”
I didn’t cry.
I thanked them.
End of Week Fourteen — The Spiral
They kept me in that bed for four straight days.
No pants. No break. No light that wasn’t filtered through
desire.
They took turns. Then they took me together. Then they
fucked me while whispering what they’d do when I swelled even bigger. Milk
play. Breeding roleplay. Womb worship.
Ant whispered, “You're not done growing for us.”
Max answered, “And we’re not done breaking you.”
They were right.
I didn’t need freedom.
I didn’t want escape.
I wanted them.
Endless. Feral. Possessive.
This wasn’t just pregnancy.
This was perpetual possession.
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