Sanctified silence

Sunday came like a slap I should’ve seen coming.

The church stood quietly at the edge of town—modest but proud, a white clapboard building with tall windows and a steeple that caught the morning light just right. It sat on eight acres of neatly kept land: gravel walkways, trimmed hedges, a few old trees that arched over the entrance like something sacred. It was the kind of place that felt safe. Familiar. Like nothing dirty could ever happen here.

But it had.

And now it smelled like fresh coffee and lemon floor polish instead of sweat and heat and tangled moans. The pews gleamed. The hymnals were stacked neatly in the slots. The altar cloth had been pressed. No one would ever guess how they had taken me here—how I had let them.

I walked in with my head high, even though my stomach twisted.

I wore jeans and a fitted black top, my boots quiet on the tile. I didn’t need to make a statement—I was the statement. My body still ached in places only I could feel. The memory of their hands was stitched into my skin.

And then I saw them.

Caleb, leaning lazily against a pew in a soft charcoal henley, laughing like nothing in the world had cracked. Eli, a white tee under a navy button-down, collar slightly rumpled like he’d only half-committed to the idea of church. They looked relaxed. Familiar. Too familiar.

But they weren’t alone.

Two women—one with golden curls and a gauzy dress, the other in jeans and ballet flats—stood close. One had her fingers in Caleb’s belt loop. The other tucked herself under Eli’s arm like she belonged there.

Girlfriends.

The word landed like a gut punch. Heavy. Final. I had asked. They had dodged. Now I knew why.

I found a seat in the back and didn’t look their way again.

Eli saw me first. His smile faltered, eyes snapping to mine like he hadn’t expected me to show. I let the look hold. Just long enough for him to register the storm behind my calm. Then I turned away.

Caleb didn’t even glance at me. Maybe he didn’t have the spine.

Service was simple, stripped down. A few songs with acoustic guitar, a sermon about grace and transparency. Of course it was. I didn’t hear half of it. I stared at the cross on the wall, remembering how my knees had been pressed to that very floor just hours before.

When the final prayer started, I slipped out.

The gravel crunched under my boots. The sun was bright, too clean for the mess sitting low in my chest. I hadn’t made it to my car before I heard my name.

“Hey—wait.”

Eli’s voice.

I stopped, arms crossed, spine straight.

He jogged to me, face drawn. “I didn’t know you’d come today.”

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

He winced. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, good. What is it like?” I asked, cool and sharp. “Because it felt pretty real when you were inside me.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t know how to explain. You didn’t give me a chance.”

“You had all night.”

Before he could answer, Caleb showed up, hands deep in his pockets, looking like a man who knew he was already guilty.

“You could’ve said something,” I told them both. “Either of you. You knew what last night meant; full pleasure for all of us. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you just took what you wanted and figured I’d keep quiet.”

Caleb spoke finally. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.”

Eli stepped forward. “Let us talk. Just for a minute. You deserve an explanation.”

“No,” I said. “I deserved honesty before you had your hands on me. You had that chance.”

They looked at each other like they were still trying to figure out who would fix this.

I walked away.

The gravel path back to my car felt solid beneath my boots, their silence stretching out behind me. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to.

I already knew everything I needed to know.

 

Echoes in the Sanctuary

The church was quiet again.

I sat alone in the last pew, knees pulled to my chest, the air still heavy with the scent of sweat, incense, and something wilder. The stained glass glowed with fading light, casting reds and golds across the floor where we had stood—where I had given myself to them and taken them in return.

Not just taken. Welcomed. Wanted.

I could still feel their hands. Their mouths. The ache in my thighs, the bruises blooming beneath my skin like secret petals. My pulse hadn’t settled. My breath came shallow, remembering the way Eli’s voice had cracked when he moaned my name. The way Caleb gripped the pew behind me like he was praying to something fierce and forbidden.

They hadn’t said much after. Just lingering touches. A look. A half-smile from Eli that didn’t reach his eyes. Caleb had kissed my forehead like we had just crossed into something sacred and dangerous, and neither of us knew how to walk back.

We had crossed something.

Not just a line. A boundary. Maybe several.

I tilted my head back and looked at the ceiling—the old rafters, the golden crucifix above the altar, the hanging candlelight still flickering. My lips were swollen. My body loose and sore and humming.

There was no shame. Not yet. Just awareness. Of where we were. Of what it meant.

Of what might come next.

The Last Time

He used to come to me without warning—between surgeries, on his break, or long after midnight when the hospital lights still burned and sleep was nowhere in reach. Sometimes I’d wake to find him already inside, unbuttoning his shirt with trembling hands and eyes dark with exhaustion and hunger. Other times, his voice would buzz through my phone: “Come to me.” And I would.

Those visits blurred the line between care and craving. Whether it was my bedroom or a shadowed on-call room at the hospital, he touched me like I was his only anchor. There was no slow buildup. No need. Just hands and mouths and skin that remembered what it was like to fall apart and be made whole all over again.

He devoured me like he was starving—like our time together had to be stolen before the world came crashing back in. The way he grabbed me. The way he breathed my name like it was a prayer. The way he left, each time, like it cost him something.

But slowly, those visits grew further apart.

At first, I didn’t notice. I was feeling better. I was stronger, steadier. I didn’t need help sitting up or moving through the ache anymore. I stopped calling him when the pain was sharp, or when the loneliness pressed against my ribs. I started going days without reaching for my phone.

And then, without realizing it, I stopped hearing from him too.

There were no more knocks at my door. No more urgent texts asking me to come. No more tangled limbs on sheets damp with sweat and breathless gasps in dim hospital rooms. His absence didn’t come with a goodbye. It just happened—quietly, like a tide slipping away when you weren’t looking.

I told myself it made sense. That we had leaned on each other in a time of weakness, and now we were just… returning to ourselves. But some nights, lying alone in the silence he used to fill, I still felt the shape of his body in my bed. I still remembered how he’d grip my hips as he rode me like he was trying to burn himself into me.

And I don’t know what scared me more; that he stopped coming, that I was forgetting what it was like when he did, or that I was pregnant.

The pain started days later. Not the emotional kind, I’d been carrying that. This pain was physical. Cramping, deep and pulsing, followed by the warmth of something wet soaking through my clothes.

I didn’t scream.

I didn’t cry.

I just moved.

My body knew what was happening before my mind did. I got into the car. I drove myself back to the hospital. I didn’t even look at the ER sign when I parked. I didn’t need to.

Inside, they handed me paperwork. I signed it with a shaking hand. The nurse called out my name. And then I saw her—his sister. The same doctor who first told me I was pregnant.

She didn’t ask anything. She just ushered me into the same sterile hallway and back into a room, like she’d done before. Only this time, the bed felt colder. The silence heavier.

She was kind. Gentle. She did everything right.

Until he appeared.

I didn’t hear him. I didn’t see him come in. One minute I was alone. The next, there he was—framed in the doorway, looking like a ghost who’d only just realized he still had skin.

Her voice cut the air.

“You need to leave.”

He didn’t move.

“Now.”

Security came. There was no shouting. Just a sharp moment—his eyes flicking from her to me. And mine, frozen and distant, offering nothing.

They took him out. And she stayed with me, saying nothing more.

When I was stable, I went home. Alone. Not because I wanted to be, but because it was necessary. The grief was mine to carry. And I already knew he couldn’t hold it with me.

That night, just before I closed my eyes, I blocked him. Everywhere. Every app, every number, every whisper of access.

And still, before the sun had even risen, I heard the knock.

It wasn’t frantic. It was quiet. Once.

I didn’t answer. I watched from my window upstairs.

He stood there for a moment, then bent to place something on the doorstep. A bouquet—white lilies. Cheap and rushed. Funeral flowers for something neither of us had words for.

He turned to leave.

That’s when I moved.

I opened my front door without hesitation, walked barefoot across the cold concrete, and picked up the flowers like they were weightless. I crossed the street. I lifted the lid of my neighbor’s trash can.

And I dropped them in.

When I turned around, he was still there—half in his car, half out. Watching. Hurt.

I didn’t stop to explain. I didn’t flinch.

I just went back inside, locked the door, and let it be the last time that I saw him. 

But it wasn’t.

House Call

I wasn’t expecting him. Not today. Not before noon.

But there he was—at my door, casual and unhurried, in a black t-shirt that clung to his chest like it had been painted on. His jeans rode low, one hand in his pocket, the other braced against the doorframe like he’d claimed the space—and me—with just a glance.

“I thought I’d follow up,” he said, his voice a lazy rasp, threaded with something darker. “See how my favorite patient’s recovering.”

He didn’t wait for an invitation. The moment I stepped aside, he walked in like he owned the place, the door shutting behind him with a quiet finality. His hands were on me before I could speak—thumb grazing my jaw, palm flattening against my lower back as he pulled me in and took my mouth with his.

There was nothing tentative in him. He kissed like a man with unfinished business, and I melted into it, already gone.

He backed me against the hallway wall and lifted my sleep shirt, dragging his knuckles down the inside of my thighs as he dropped to his knees. His mouth was on me before I could catch my breath—devouring, relentless, his tongue moving with sinful precision. I came fast, too fast, writhing against the wall as his hands held me still and his groan vibrated straight through my core.

My legs gave out. He caught me.

He carried me to the couch, dropped me onto the cushions like I was weightless, then stripped me bare with rough hands. There was no ceremony. Just heat. Just him, skin to skin, hot and demanding.

He slid into me in one deep, unforgiving thrust—thick and full, every inch claimed with a growl against my throat. My breath caught. My nails dug into his back. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask if I could take it. He already knew.

“You really thought I was done with you?” he whispered, hips rolling slow and devastating. “That I’d let you walk out of that hospital without keeping part of you?”

He owned me, right there. Every drag, every thrust, every twist of his hips pulled sounds from me I didn’t recognize—raw, broken, wrecked.

And he didn’t stop.

He turned me over on the couch, pulled me to the edge, and took me again from behind, one hand buried in my hair, the other gripping my hip like he was staking his claim. He bent low to growl filth in my ear, his rhythm punishing but precise, driving me closer to the edge every time.

Later, he had me in the kitchen—bent over the counter, the cool surface stark against my fevered skin as he pushed into me again, rougher this time, chasing something primal. My legs trembled. The fruit bowl hit the floor and shattered. Neither of us flinched.

At some point, I dropped to my knees. Needed to taste him. Feel his dominance there too. He threaded his fingers through my hair and guided me with control that was both ruthless and reverent. When he released, it was with a sound that shook through me—and I took all of it, eyes locked on his as I swallowed, proud of the wreck he’d become.

And then he pulled me back up. Laid me out on the bed like a feast. Entered me again—this time slower, deeper, more deliberate. His hands roamed, his voice low as he whispered how tight I was, how good I felt, how badly he wanted to stay buried inside me forever.

We didn’t speak much after that. There were only sounds—the rhythm of skin on skin, the gasps, the growls, the shattered moans and the screams of pleasure echoing through the house like music.

By the time he was done, my body ached in the best possible way—raw, stretched, completely spent. I was filled with his cum. I was marked. Claimed. Not just once, not just in one place—but everywhere.

And still, he stayed. Resting beside me, his fingers idly tracing patterns across my thigh, his smirk lazy and satisfied.

“I’ll check on you again tomorrow,” he said, brushing his mouth over my shoulder. “For recovery purposes.”

I didn’t argue. I was already ruined. And I’d let him do it again in a heartbeat.

Aftershock (Unrestrained)

After a brutal, soul-draining day in the ER, all I wanted was to disappear—into silence, into darkness, into something that didn’t smell like bleach and blood and panic. My body was limp, wrung out, the lingering throb from the kidney stone dulled by a cocktail of painkillers and the soft steadiness of my doctor’s care. She was calm when I couldn’t be, grounding when everything felt unmoored. Her touch wasn’t just clinical—it was kind. And I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful for a stranger in my life.

I barely remember signing the discharge papers. My vision was a fog, my limbs heavy. I just wanted to get home, curl into my sheets, and sleep off the nightmare. I was already halfway through the exit corridor, numb and half-dreaming, when I walked straight into him.

Hands—firm, strong—caught me fast. His body absorbed mine, his grip steady and warm. For a split second, my dazed brain thought it was her again, my doctor. But then I looked up.

The same eyes, yes. But his burned. Darker. Wilder. Her brother, he told me. That explained the shared features—but not the heat radiating off him, the edge in his smirk, the way his gaze pinned me like he already knew what I tasted like under my clothes.

The conversation was barely words. A name, a glance. A hum of something electric and forbidden humming beneath the surface. A kind of magnetism that didn’t ask for permission. It simply was.

And then the door to the doctors’ lounge clicked shut behind us.

The light was low. The room was quiet. And we were alone.

He didn’t waste time. Didn’t ask. Just looked at me—really looked—then pushed me back against the couch with a hunger that made my knees buckle. His mouth crashed into mine, all rough breath and tongue, and I gasped against him as he took what he wanted. There was nothing gentle about it. His hands gripped my waist, my thighs, my hair. My clothes hit the floor in seconds.

He dropped to his knees like a man starved and buried his face between my legs before I could speak. His tongue was relentless—no teasing, no buildup, just full contact, unfiltered want. I came fast, embarrassingly fast, clenching around nothing as he growled against me like the sound pleased him.

Then he stood. Undid his belt. Freed himself.

He was massive. Bigger than any dick I ever had…and I had many.

The kind of size you don’t forget. The kind that makes your breath catch and your brain glitch because it doesn’t seem real. Thick, heavy, dark-veined. My mouth watered. My body pulsed with greedy need.

He didn’t ask if I could take him. He knew I would try. And I did.

He bent me over the arm of the couch and entered me in one slow, unyielding push. I cried out—half shock, half bliss—as he stretched me open around his dick. The pain was real, but it blurred into pleasure fast, too fast, as he began to move. Deep. Deliberate. Possessive.

Every thrust felt like a claim. His fingers dug into my hips, his breath hot against my neck, his body pinning mine like he needed to feel my heartbeat through every inch of skin.

And then, as his rhythm turned punishing, I said it. A whisper, nothing more:

“I’m not on birth control.”

His pace faltered for just a second. One heartbeat of stillness. Then he grabbed my wrists, pushed them down, and fucked me harder. There was no pullback. No second thoughts. He wanted it. That risk. That claim. That seed.

He came inside me, groaning low in my ear, his release hot and overwhelming. I felt it fill me. Felt it spill out when he didn’t stop, even as I trembled beneath him, spent and gasping.

But he wasn’t finished.

He flipped me onto my back this time, drove into me again, deeper now, rougher, chasing something carnal and savage. The second time he came, I clawed at his back, helpless under him as he spilled into me once more. My body ached in the most obscene, perfect way.

Again.

And again.

Every time he came, it was thick and messy and deliberate.

By the time my phone buzzed on the floor—some cruel reminder that my discharge time was up—I was a wreck. Boneless. Sweat-slick. My legs barely held me as I pulled my clothes back on, every movement sticky, tender, utterly wrecked.

I didn’t bother cleaning myself up. His cum dripped down my thighs as I walked out. I wanted to feel it. To carry it with me. A filthy, delicious reminder of the chaos we made behind that door.

I looked back once.

He was standing in the shadows, shirt still open, eyes locked on me with a hunger that hadn’t dimmed. A promise that if I stayed another second, he’d do it all again.

Maybe I should have.

But I walked. Shaky-legged, sex-dazed, split wide and leaking, my heart hammering like I’d survived something holy and profane all at once.

Not every part of healing is clean or careful.

Some parts are brutal, messy, soaked in sweat and sex and risk. Some parts make you feel alive in ways medicine never could.

And I’d take that kind of healing again—without hesitation.

He came to my house this morning to “follow up” with me with a house call.

Epilogue: The Last Embrace

The years slipped by, gentle as a lover’s caress, each one layering new memories atop the old. The wild nights in the breeding room became cherished stories, woven into the very fabric of my life. Laughter still echoed through the halls of our home-even after the children had grown and moved away, even as time softened the edges of our youth. Max and Ant grew older, their hair turning silver, their steps slowing, but their eyes never lost that familiar spark when they looked at me-a spark that spoke of mischief, unwavering devotion, and a love that had weathered every season.

Our days became a tapestry of simple joys: the aroma of morning coffee drifting through sunlit windows, the hush of quiet walks beneath golden autumn trees, hands always finding each other’s in the darkness. Sometimes, in the violet hush of twilight, we’d sit together in the fading light, reminiscing about those reckless, heady nights. They’d tease me with the same wicked grins, their voices colored by nostalgia and affection, their words a gentle reminder of the passion we’d shared and the intimacy that had always bound us so tightly.

Time, as it always does, moved forward. When their time came, it was gentle-like the closing of a well-loved book, the final page turned with care and reverence. Max went first, his hand warm in mine, his last words a whisper of gratitude and love that lingered in the air long after he was gone. Ant followed not long after, his final breath a soft sigh against my cheek, a promise that even this was not truly goodbye. I mourned, but I did not break. Our love had been fierce, shameless, and true-a fire that never dimmed, warming me through the quiet years that followed.

One night, as the moon rose high and the world was draped in velvet darkness, I found myself standing at the threshold of the breeding room for the last time. The air inside was thick with memory: laughter ringing off the walls, the scent of skin and longing, the echo of bodies entwined in devotion. I ran my fingers along the familiar furniture, letting the memories wash over me-joy, passion, and the certainty of being cherished. But as I stood there, I knew with quiet certainty that I no longer desired to step foot in that room again; without Max and Ant, the space had lost its magic, its meaning. Each object was a relic, a testament to the life we had built and the love we had dared to live out loud, but the chapter had closed.

With a steady hand, I locked the door. The key felt heavy in my palm-a symbol of a chapter that had ended but would never be forgotten. I walked through the sleeping house and out into the cool night air, the distant sound of waves guiding me to the edge of the cliffs. The ocean below roared softly, silvered by moonlight, the stars scattered above like memories themselves. Near midnight, I stood at the precipice, salt on the wind and the weight of years in my chest. With a deep breath, I let the key fly from my hand. It arced through the darkness, catching the moon’s glow for a brief, shining moment before disappearing into the endless blue-a final act of letting go, and of honoring all that had been.

Now, when I walk through the old house, I feel them everywhere-in the sunlit kitchen, the rumpled sheets, the rooms that witnessed our wildest confessions and our quietest moments. I smile, knowing what we shared was rare and beautiful, a love story written in laughter, longing, and the freedom to choose each other, again and again.

And when the very early dawn is still, I close my eyes and remember: the heat of their bodies, the sound of their voices and their moans, the way they made me feel cherished and adored beyond measure. In memory, we are always together-timeless, untamed, and unashamed. Our love, once lived in secret rooms and whispered promises, now lives on in every breath I take, as infinite as the sea.

After the wait

The breeding room feels charged with electricity-a place transformed by new freedom and old longing. Max and Ant move with purpose, their eyes dark with intent, their hands hungry and reverent as they undress me, as if rediscovering every inch of skin.

Max’s voice is a low growl in my ear. “I’ve thought about this every night. About you, about us. I missed the way you melt for us.”

Ant’s hands slide up my thighs, his lips brushing my neck. “We’re going to make up for every second we lost. All night, if you’ll let us.”

They take their time, worshipping me with mouths and hands, each touch a promise, each kiss a confession. Max’s lips trace fire down my body, Ant’s fingers leave trails of heat. They tease and coax, building the tension until I’m breathless and aching, lost in the pleasure of being adored by them both.

“Look at you,” Max murmurs, his gaze locked on mine as Ant’s hands explore. “You’re everything we want.”

Ant grins, wicked and tender. “And tonight, we’re not stopping until you can’t take any more.”

Their passion is relentless, their desire insatiable. Again and again, they bring me to the edge and over, their hands and mouths never let me forget how much I’m loved, how much I’m wanted. The room fills with the sounds of our pleasure-gasps, laughter, whispered encouragements, screams and the steady rhythm of bodies moving in harmony.

Between peaks, they hold me close, murmuring words of devotion and delight. “You’re perfect,” Max whispers, brushing damp hair from my face. “We could spend forever right here.”

Ant kisses my shoulder, his voice rough with emotion. “We missed you. Missed us.”

By the end of the night, we’re tangled together, spent and sated, the world outside forgotten. In their arms, I feel cherished, claimed, and completely free.

Unbroken Bond

The days continued to pass in a whirl of passion and tenderness, and the weight of my pregnancy seemed to heighten everything between Max, Ant, and me. They could not keep their hands off me, nor could I keep myself from wanting them. Their touches, their whispers, the way they claimed me — it all felt so inevitable. So deeply rooted in us.

One evening, as we lay together, the weight of their bodies on either side of me, a quiet conversation drifted between us. It was Max who spoke first, his voice low and steady as he brushed his fingers along my swollen belly, the twins inside me a constant reminder of how far we had come.

“You know, love,” Max murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles on my skin, “we’ve only just begun.”

Ant’s hands found my waist, pulling me closer, his body flush against mine. His voice was equally soft, but his words were no less intense. “We want more. We want you to have our children for as long as you can. And when you’re ready, we’ll wait for you to decide. But we’ll never stop, not as long as you’re willing.”

I closed my eyes, their words filling me with a warmth that spread through my entire body. They wanted this — wanted me to carry more of them, to bear their children, to keep giving myself to them. The weight of their desire settled over me, and in that moment, I knew that this was more than a physical craving. It was an unspoken promise that bound us together in ways words could not fully capture.

Without thinking, I turned toward them, my lips brushing against Max’s as I whispered my answer. “I don’t want to stop. I want to keep having your children, both of you. As long as you want me to.”

Ant’s lips pressed against my ear, his voice hot and eager. “You’re ours, every inch of you, love. We’ll keep you full, keep you carrying our children until you’re ready to stop. But we’re not going to let you forget how much we love you.”

Max’s hands slid down my body, cupping my breasts, teasing the tender flesh that had only grown more sensitive with pregnancy. He kissed me deeply, pulling me into him. “You’re more than just our lover,” he whispered. “You’re the mother of our children, our everything. And we’re not done with you.”

The passion between us surged again, a wave that I couldn’t resist, a wave I didn’t want to resist. As much as I wanted to savor the intimacy of these moments, I was drawn to their promise — the idea of continuing this journey with them, of sharing more of ourselves in ways that only we understood.

And so, we continued — together, bound by a shared desire, a love that pulsed through every inch of us. Their hands, their mouths, their devotion to me only deepened as we moved forward. Every day became a new chapter, one where we were united in purpose, in passion, and in the promise of what was yet to come.

 

Reclaimed

Opening Scene – Week 3 Postpartum

The house was quiet. The newborn rested in the cradle beside the bed, and I finally had a moment to breathe. Or so I thought.
Max’s fingers traced the curve of my waist, reverent and hungry.
“You’re ours again,” he whispered.
Ant stood behind him, shirtless, his eyes dark with a craving that hadn’t eased through the pregnancy—it had only changed.
“You healed enough?”
I nodded. Maybe not fully. But I needed them. Needed to be taken, touched, claimed again.

That night, they didn’t ravage—they worshipped. Slow, coaxing touches. Mouths at my breasts, drinking the milk that still flowed. Kisses down my belly. Gentle fingers parting me open. They didn’t fuck me to break me. They made love to reawaken me.

---

Week 4–7: Escalation
Desire returned faster than I imagined. My body remembered theirs.
They pushed the limits daily, sometimes hourly. Max tested how long I could take him deep again. Ant whispered his filth while I nursed, slipping his cock between my thighs.

They worked in shifts—one with the baby, the other with me.
Some nights, we ended in a tangled heap, baby dozing nearby, me dripping with cum, panting, milk wet on my skin.

By week six, they had only one goal.

“We’re going to knock you up again,” Ant growled.
Max grinned. “She’s never going to be empty.”

---

Week 8–9: The Ritual Begins Again
Ovulation returned like a signal flare. Max and Ant didn’t miss it.
They charted it. Timed it. Made every session count.

They bred me again, over and over. In the breeding room. In the nursery. On the kitchen counter while a nanny took the older kids to the park. Their obsession renewed, intensified by watching me nurse their newborn with one hand and stroke their cocks with the other.

---

Week 9: Confirmation
The test was positive.

“You’re really pregnant again?” Max asked, voice hoarse, already hardening at the thought.
I nodded. “You bred me. Again.”
Ant pulled me into his lap. “And we’re just getting started.”

---

Family Returns – Full Circle
The kids returned, loud and full of energy. I was already queasy and glowing.
Nannies helped—thank god. Max and Ant still pulled me away for quick, stolen sessions. A brush of their hands, a whispered promise, and I was once again on my knees in the pantry, or bent over the back stairs.

Even surrounded by chaos, they made time to share me.

To own me.

To start it all again.

 

Milk and Worship

By mid-pregnancy, my body wasn’t just theirs to fuck—it was theirs to nourish, to worship, to claim in even more intimate ways. My breasts had begun to swell, sensitive and heavy, and the moment Ant tasted milk from me for the first time, something in him shifted.

Max followed, eyes locked on mine as his mouth latched. Reverence and hunger tangled inside him.

“That’s it,” Max whispered, suckling slowly. “Let us feed from you. You’re not just carrying our baby. You’re made for us.”

They made it ritual. They took turns at my breasts while the other filled me—always gently at first, then with growing need. My body was tender, yes, but not fragile. They knew every curve, every sound, every inch of stretch. They read me better than I read myself.

---

Late Pregnancy: Shared Worship

The breeding room evolved.

It wasn’t just a place for sex. It became a shrine. My body—round, radiant, and marked by them—was the center of it all.

They massaged oils into my growing belly, tracing the lines they helped create. They knelt. Kissed. Whispered filth and devotion in equal measure.

Max licked a line from my navel to my breasts, murmuring, “You’re so ripe for us. Perfect. We’ll never stop.”

Ant’s hands were always gentle on my hips before they weren’t—gripping, anchoring, fucking me slow and deep until I was trembling again. I was never alone. Never untouched. They shared me even more in those final weeks—one licking between my legs while the other drank from my chest.

---

Days Before Labor

I was heavy with them—pregnant, leaking milk, body soaked in constant arousal and pleasure.

Even walking became a tease. A knowing glance. A stray hand under my dress. They still bent me over the nearest surface. They still filled me, slowly, reverently, sometimes both of them in a single session—mouth, cock, fingers, milk. I was taken, praised, fed.

They didn’t stop. But they also cherished me in a way that felt almost sacred.

“You're life and sex all at once,” Ant murmured into my ear one night. “A goddess we get to fuck.”

Max laughed low, his hand slipping between my thighs. “And we’re going to fuck you until the hospital begs us to stop.”

 

Possession Without Pause

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.

Bottom of Form

 

Claimed Beyond Flesh

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.

 

The Reckoning of Ruin

They didn’t pace themselves.

Max and Ant had waited too long—years of short stolen moments between diaper changes and family dinners. Now they had weeks of freedom, and they weren’t wasting a second.

They didn’t just want to take me.

They wanted to outdo each other.

---

Day One to Day Three
It started as a game.

Max grinned across the bed after the fourth time he made me scream, sweat slick on his skin. “That’s three for me,” he said with a cocky smirk, watching me tremble from the aftershocks.

Ant narrowed his eyes, already hard again. “You counting? Cute.”

He had me on my knees before I could breathe. Max sat back and watched, one hand stroking himself, the other fisting the sheets as Ant drove into me from behind like he had a vendetta.

That night, I came eleven times. They each made sure to beat the other by one.

I was wrecked.

And they were just getting started.

---

Days Four to Seven
They stopped pretending to be polite.

Ant dragged me into the kitchen at sunrise. Bent me over the island and didn’t even wait to undress me. “One before breakfast,” he grunted, slamming into me, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.

Max walked in with coffee. Saw the way I was panting, drooling, begging for more. He didn’t even blink.

“After he's done, you're mine for the next two hours. You don’t come unless I say so.”

He meant it.

He took me to the floor. Spread me open on the cold tile. Edged me until my legs shook. Then edged me again. And again. Until tears slipped down my cheeks and I was clawing at his forearms.

“Beg me louder, baby,” he murmured, cock heavy and leaking against my stomach. “Let him hear you.”

---

Week Two
The days blurred. Time didn’t exist. Just heat. Moans. The slap of skin.

They kept a tally on the mirror in lipstick.
Max: 49
Ant: 47
My orgasms: 94

They turned it into an art form.
Ant spent hours on my clit, face buried deep, mumbling between strokes: “I’m going to make her come so many times you’ll feel it in her next time, Max.”

Max laughed, low and wicked. “Good. So when I fuck her after you, she’ll scream even louder.”

And I did.

Every. Damn. Time.

---

They Shared Everything

They’d fill me up, then keep me open for the other. There was no jealousy, only greed. Shared obsession.

Sometimes they both stayed inside me. One in front, one behind, hips in rhythm. Their hands tangled in my hair, their groans low and filthy.

“You feel her gripping us both?” Ant hissed.

Max’s voice was feral. “She was made for this.”

I was. God, I was.

---

Week Three
My body didn’t belong to me anymore.

I was passed between them like a precious possession. Ant took mornings, Max claimed nights. Afternoons, they shared me—one fucking my throat while the other split me open from behind, both of them coming together like they needed it to breathe.

Sometimes they'd team up just to make me come so hard I blacked out.

Ant whispered, “She’s dripping down her thighs.”

Max pressed deeper. “Let’s keep her that way.”

---

Ruin Became Ritual

By the end of each day, I couldn’t walk. They carried me. Bathed me. Laid me between them and whispered praise like prayers.

But if I so much as whimpered in my sleep, Max would slide in behind me, cock already hard. Ant would wake up and say, “Again?”—but his hands would already be parting my thighs.

They couldn’t stop.

They wouldn’t stop.

Because I was theirs.

And this wasn’t about sex anymore.

It was about claiming. Devotion. Obsession.

---

Final Night of the Third Week

They didn’t speak. Just moved in sync, a dance of sweat and breath and need. One cock replaced by another, tongues tasting where the other left off. Cum leaking down my thighs, across my stomach, pooling under me on the sheets.

By morning, the mirror tally was full. The lipstick worn down. My body used in every way imaginable.

And when I lay there between them, raw and full and trembling, Ant kissed my temple.

“We ruined you, didn’t we?”

Max smiled against my throat.

“No. We worshipped her.”

 

No Interruptions

The house was silent.

Not the usual quiet after a long day. Not the stillness of kids tucked into bed. This was absolute. Echoing. Untouched.

Max’s parents had taken all seven kids for a few weeks—God bless them—and the second the door closed behind that whirlwind of little feet and giggles, something shifted in the air.

A tension. A hunger that had been restrained for years.

Now?

Now, there were no interruptions.

---

Ant stood at the edge of the breeding bed, shirt already discarded, eyes dark with purpose. Max hovered behind me, hands splayed across my hips, pulling me close. We hadn’t even spoken since the kids left—there was no need.

The way they looked at me said it all:
Now you’re ours. All day. All night. No breaks. No boundaries.

---

Reflection, Brief and Dangerous

Ant's voice broke the silence, low and rough as his hands moved up my ribs.

“We never really got time to just... have you. Not like this.”

Max leaned in, kissing my neck slowly, possessively. “We built this life together. But fuck, I’ve missed being greedy.”

Their touches softened just for a moment—reverent, almost. Fingers tracing stretch marks, lips kissing the scars of motherhood, eyes drinking me in like I was their religion.

Ant kissed the spot just beneath my jaw. “You gave us everything. The kids. The love. The chaos.”
Max added, voice quieter now, “But this—this right here—is ours too. Just as sacred.”

Then the emotion in the room snapped—like a string pulled too tight—and gave way to pure male desire.

---

They Took Me

Max shoved me back onto the bed. Ant followed, both of them already naked, already hard.

No warm-up. No small talk. No gentle pacing.

They’d waited too long.

Ant spread my legs wide, his hands gripping me like I might vanish. Max knelt between my thighs, licking, teasing, then plunging in until I cried out, thighs trembling around his head.

They took turns. They shared. They overwhelmed.

Ant’s cock replaced Max’s tongue. Max’s mouth took my cries. Then they switched. Over and over. My body was never empty. Never untouched. Always full.

---

They Didn’t Stop

One would fuck me while the other whispered filthy things, stroking himself, watching. Then they'd trade places, sometimes mid-thrust, slipping in while the other was still twitching inside me.

There were no rules. No limits.

Only possession. Only pleasure. Only two men who loved me so much they couldn’t help but devour me—together.

---

The Clock Didn’t Matter

The sun rose. Set. Rose again.

They didn’t stop.

Every hour brought a new angle, a new session. Bent over counters. Pinned to walls. Straddling them on the stairs. But the breeding bed remained the center—the altar to our carnal worship.

They came inside me so many times I lost count. My body sticky with them, stretched, aching, and adored. And used.

---

Drenched and Claimed

At some point, I collapsed onto the bed, unable to move. They weren’t done.

Max slipped in behind me, cradling me as Ant lifted my leg and entered me slow, deep. They both whispered in my ears—praise, filth, worship.

I didn’t know whether I was crying or moaning. Maybe both.

Ant came first, a rough grunt against my shoulder. Max followed, grinding in with a growl, making sure I felt every pulsing drop.

---

Sleep, Only Barely

They wrapped around me like armor. Their hands never left me. Their cocks never stayed soft for long. The moment I stirred, even in sleep, one of them was inside me again.

And I wanted it. All of it.

Because this wasn’t just lust.

It was years of devotion. Years of restraint, finally unleashed.

And we had weeks.

Weeks of no interruptions.

Boundless Devotion

The “breeding room” was our sacred escape—our filthy, tender kingdom where the world couldn’t touch us. Within its thick, soundproofed walls, we lost ourselves to need. At the center stood our altar: the bed. Wide. Deep. Built for three. The sheets were always rumpled, always damp with sweat or seed, and somehow, always waiting for more.

Even after seven children, even after I’d made the choice to tie my tubes, the ritual didn’t die. If anything, it grew stronger. Max, Ant, and I didn’t mellow with time—we grew sharper, hungrier. The bond we forged in sweat and breath and fluid was unshakable. And our need? Endless.

That bed didn’t just witness our pleasure—it absorbed it. Six times a day, or more if they couldn't get enough, we poured ourselves into one another. Some sessions slow. Some feral. But the need to fill me together—that craving—they never lost it. If anything, it grew.

---

Morning
Golden light kissed the bed as Max’s mouth found my neck, gentle but full of intent. Ant’s chest pressed against my back, his cock already hard, already twitching with anticipation.

“Gonna start the day off right,” Max murmured, sliding down between my thighs.

Ant nipped at my shoulder. “We want you dripping before breakfast.”

They took their time this morning—tongues tasting, fingers teasing, their cocks replacing each other in rhythm. I came three times before they spilled inside me, one right after the other, groaning my name like a prayer.

---

Late Morning
A whisper. A brush of skin. And I was pinned beneath them again.

Ant’s fingers gripped my hips while Max took me from behind, hard and fast, his thrusts lifting me off the bed. Then they flipped me—Max beneath, Ant driving into me from above, watching every reaction like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Their cum mixed inside me, slick and messy. And they didn’t stop. Not until I sobbed and shook and begged.

---

Throughout the Day
They found me. Again and again. A brush of lips, a bold hand at my throat, and we were back in the room.

Ant stretched me open while Max fed me his cock. Then they traded places. My body trembled under the weight of their passion. I couldn’t keep track of the orgasms. I only knew the moment they were both buried in me—one front, one back—that I was completely owned.

They didn’t just want to fuck me.
They wanted to fill me.
Together.

---

Midday
Laughter in the house. Clattering dishes. Kids playing.

And me? Pinned against the wall, then hauled to the bed, both of them hungry again. I spread for them without a word, knowing the routine, craving the chaos.

Ant fucked me while Max whispered filth into my ear, stroking himself. Then they switched. And switched again. Until I was boneless, panting, and their cum ran down my thighs in rivulets.

---

Afternoon
They slowed—somewhat.

Max licked between my legs like he was starving for it, teasing my clit until I thrashed. Ant held my hands down, whispered praise and threats in equal measure.

“Say it,” Max growled.
“I need you both,” I gasped. “I need your cum. I need to be filled. Again.”

And they did. Together. Always together.

---

Late Afternoon
They chased me down the hallway, laughing. Grabbed me. Tackled me to the bed.

No warmup. No teasing. Max was inside me before I could breathe. Ant took my mouth, then my hands, then my ass. They were rough, loving, merciless. I screamed, and they swallowed it with kisses.

By the time we collapsed, the sheets were soaked with our mingled cum, my body trembling, my skin flushed and marked.

---

Evening
They didn’t slow.

Ant laid me on my back, legs spread. Max took my mouth first, soft but claiming. Then he slid in beside Ant, both of them working me open again, watching their cum leak out only to be replaced.

“You’re ours,” Ant growled.
Max echoed, “Every hole. Every drop.”

I sobbed, overwhelmed with fullness and love. And still, they gave me more.

---

Nightfall – Final Breeding
The last session of the day always broke me. This one shattered me.

They didn’t speak. They just moved. Perfectly, in sync, two bodies and one goal: to share me, completely, simultaneously.

Ant lay beneath me, cock thick and pulsing as I sank onto him. Max knelt behind, spreading me wide, kissing down my spine before driving into my ass with a groan that vibrated through my bones.

Full. So full. Their rhythm matched. Their hands locked with mine. Their bodies pressed tight. Every thrust echoed in my chest, my cunt, my soul.

They growled my name. Whispered praise. Promised to never stop claiming me.

And when they came—deep, forceful, filling me with their last drops of heat—I shattered. Crying. Writhing. Worshipped.

They stayed buried in me, trembling, chests heaving, hands stroking every inch of my skin.

“I want you like this forever,” Max whispered.

Ant kissed my temple. “Ours. Always.”

---

Afterglow
Their seed still leaked from me as I lay between them, raw and wrecked, but at peace.

Their hands were soft now. Their love quiet, but fierce.

That bed wasn’t just our playground. It was our vow. Our battlefield. Our devotion made physical.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was everything.

This was boundless devotion.

 

The ritual

The Infernal Baptism

Midnight. Max’s hand tight in my hair, Ant’s lips at my neck. They lead me to the breeding bench, its steel frame cold beneath my skin. “No birth control. No holding back,” Ant says, securing my ankles in the stirrups. Max presses a vibrator to my clit-“You’ll come when we say,” he murmurs-before taking my mouth with a deep, claiming kiss.

The Reckoning

The miscarriage comes suddenly, pain and loss mixing with their touch. Ant soothes me, kissing away tears, his presence fierce and protective. Max holds me close, whispering, “We’ll try again. We love making you ours.” They take care of me, gentle but determined, promising I won’t be empty for long.

The Resurgence

Two weeks later: I’m ready again. They’re relentless, driven by the need to fill me. Max takes me first, slow and deep, his eyes locked on mine. Ant follows, rougher, his grip possessive. “Already ovulating,” Max says with a knowing smile. “Tonight, we make sure you’re full.”

Six weeks: The test is positive. Max presses it to my lips. “Ours,” he whispers, pride and devotion in his voice. They both celebrate, hands gentle on my belly, thrilled by the life growing inside me.

Three months: My body changes, and they adore it. Max traces my curves, Ant kisses every new mark. “You’re perfect like this,” Ant says, reverent. They love the transformation, the proof of their devotion and desire.

The Epilogue

Nine months: The baby arrives during a storm. Max is by my side, Ant brings comfort. When she cries, Ant presses his forehead to mine, Max weeps with joy, and already they talk about the next one.

The Breeding Ritual

They cherish the process even more after our child is born. Max tracks my cycles, Ant collects pregnancy tests as trophies, both whispering, “We’ll keep you full forever,” as they hold me close. They take turns, sometimes together, always with the same purpose: to make me theirs completely, to fill our home with life and love.

The Covenant
They love breeding me. It’s their obsession, their devotion. Max calls me his legacy, Ant his goddess. The nursery is filled with laughter and hope, and as my belly swells again, their hands are always there-loving, protective, and eager for more. And me? Fully satiated with their cum in my pussy.

No birth control. No barriers. Only love, risk, and the promise of new life-again and again

 

The Night Everything Changed

It started with a single text from Ant:

Unlock the door. I want you to get ready for me.

My heart thudded as I stripped off my clothes, anticipation making my skin tingle. The cool air in the apartment made my nipples pebble, but the heat inside me was already building. I lay back on the couch, legs parted, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles over my clit as I waited for him. Every second felt like an eternity.

The door swung open, and Ant was on me in an instant-his mouth crashed against mine, hungry and wild, his hands everywhere at once. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. His fingers slid between my thighs, finding me already wet and aching for him.

“You’re always so ready for me,” he growled, voice rough in my ear.

He knelt between my legs, tongue flicking over my clit, then plunging deep inside me. I writhed beneath him, moaning shamelessly, grabbing his hair and grinding against his mouth. He devoured me, relentless, until I was trembling and begging for more.

He stood, unzipping his jeans, eyes locked on mine.
“Turn over,” he commanded, voice thick with need. I obeyed, pressing my chest to the cushions, arching my back. He slid inside me in one hard thrust, filling me completely. I gasped, clinging to the couch as he pounded into me, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me back to meet every stroke.

“You love being filled, don’t you?” he whispered, slapping my ass, making me cry out.

“Yes-God, yes-don’t stop-”

He didn’t. He drove into me, faster, deeper, until I shattered around him, crying out his name. He followed with a guttural groan, spilling his release inside me, his body pressed tight to mine as we both caught our breath.

But the night was far from over.

The Shift

I was still shaking when Max’s key turned in the lock. I scrambled to pull on a robe, but Ant just smirked, lounging naked on the couch, utterly unashamed.

Max paused in the doorway, his eyes flicking from me to Ant and back again. There was no anger-just a strange, electric calm.

“So this is him,” Max said, voice low.

I nodded, heart pounding. The air was thick with tension.

Max poured three drinks, handing one to Ant, one to me. He sat across from us, his gaze never leaving my face.

“You like the way he fucks you?” Max asked, voice dark and smooth.

I swallowed hard, unable to speak. Ant answered for me, his hand sliding up my thigh.

“She loves it. But I think she wants more.”

Max’s eyes glittered. He set down his glass and stood, crossing the room in two strides. He cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“Do you want us both?” he asked, his voice a dangerous whisper.

I nodded, breathless.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I want you both. I want you to watch. I want you to touch me. I want-everything.”

The Three of Us

Max’s lips crashed into mine, fierce and possessive. His hands roamed my body, tugging at the robe until it fell away. Ant moved behind me, his hands sliding over my hips, his mouth hot on my neck. I was sandwiched between them, their hands and mouths everywhere, overwhelming me with sensation.

Max knelt in front of me, guiding my mouth to his cock. I took him eagerly, moaning around him as Ant’s hands slid between my legs, teasing me open.

“That’s it,” Max groaned, threading his fingers through my hair.

“You look so good with your mouth full,” Ant murmured, pressing kisses down my spine.

Ant knelt behind me, his tongue flicking over my entrance, tasting both of us. I whimpered, shuddering with pleasure, my body stretched between them. Max pulled me up, kissing me deeply, tasting himself on my lips.

They moved me to the bed, laying me out between them. Max kissed me slow and deep, while Ant spread my legs wide, his mouth and fingers working me until I was begging for release. When I came, it was with both their names on my lips, my body arching between them.

Then Ant was inside me again, hard and urgent, while Max stroked himself, watching us with hungry eyes.

“Fill her,” Max commanded, voice rough.
“I want to see her dripping with you.”

Ant groaned, thrusting harder, his hands gripping my thighs. I came again, clenching around him, and he spilled inside me with a shudder.

But Max wasn’t done. He rolled me onto my back, spreading my legs wide to see Ant’s release leaking from me. He slid inside, groaning at the sensation, moving slow and deep, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re so full, baby,” he whispered, kissing me hard.
“You love being used, don’t you?”

I nodded, lost in the pleasure, lost in them.

Max came with a growl, filling me even more, his body pressed tightly to mine. The three of us collapsed together, tangled and breathless, the air thick with sweat, the scent of sex and satisfaction.

Aftermath

The days that followed blurred into a fever dream of pleasure and abandon. I woke tangled between Max and Ant, their bodies pressed close, the scent of skin and sex lingering in the sheets. Each morning began with slow, lazy kisses-Max’s lips tracing the curve of my shoulder, Ant’s fingers gliding down my thigh, their hands staking their claim before the day even started.

Sometimes, Max would pull me against him, his touch gentle but insistent, coaxing soft moans from my lips as Ant watched, eyes dark with hunger. Other times, it was Ant who took control, pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth exploring every inch of me while Max’s hands roamed, teasing and tormenting until I was begging for release.

There were afternoons when they shared me-one kissing my mouth, the other trailing kisses down my stomach, their hands and lips everywhere at once. I was their playground, their obsession, and I reveled in the way they worshipped my body together. They took turns, sometimes slow and deep, sometimes rough and urgent, always leaving me breathless and aching for more.

At night, the boundaries between us dissolved completely. Max would wrap his arms around me, holding me steady as Ant moved behind, their rhythm in sync, their voices tangled with mine in the dark. I lost count of how many times they made me cry out, how many times I surrendered to the pleasure only they could give. Each time, I felt them both-filling me, claiming me, marking me as theirs.

Afterwards, we would collapse together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison. Ant would press a kiss to my forehead, Max’s hand stroking my hair, and I would drift off to sleep knowing I was cherished, adored, and utterly undone.

The hunger between us never faded. If anything, it grew-an insatiable need that pulled us back together, again and again. Every touch, every glance, every whispered promise was a reminder that I belonged to both of them, and they belonged to me.

And as the days passed, I realized that nothing would ever be the same. I didn’t want it to be.

 

Max's possession

Max’s jealousy had been simmering for weeks, but now it was a wildfire, crackling in every glance and word. At first, it was subtle-a sharp edge in his voice when Mark made me laugh, a possessive hand on my waist when Markian entered the room, a cold silence whenever Bob’s name slipped from my lips. But soon, Max’s need to have me all to himself was impossible to ignore. He found ways to push the others out of my life, sometimes with biting words, sometimes with a look that said everything. He wanted to claim me, and the realization left me both furious and electrified.

I’d grown used to the freedom of sharing my body, spreading my legs and affection, of being surrounded by horny men who wanted me in very different and very sexual ways. Now, Max’s possessiveness closed in around me, every decision he made tightening the grip, making me crave rebellion.

The more he tried to control my world, the more I felt the walls closing in. I missed the laughter, the thrill of being taken by many, the shameless way I could indulge in my own desires. Max’s attempts to “protect” me felt less like love and more like a challenge-a gauntlet thrown at my feet.

That night, I decided to push back. I stormed into his law office after hours, the city outside dark and silent. Under my trench coat, I wore nothing but the heat of my own anger. When Max opened the door, he froze-then something primal flickered in his eyes. I let the coat fall, leaving the door open just a crack. The message was clear: I was done playing by his rules.

He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing me with a hunger that bordered on desperation. His lips crashed onto mine, and the world spun away. We collided against the wall, his hands everywhere, rough and demanding. We barely made it to his desk before we were tangled together, scattering legal documents to the floor. Every touch was urgent, every kiss a battle. He lifted me onto the desk, sending papers flying, and pressed himself against me to fuck me hard as if he could erase the distance, the doubt, the memory of anyone else.

The room filled with the sound of our bodies, the slap of skin, the ragged gasps as we lost ourselves in the frenzy. The city lights outside flickered across our tangled forms, illuminating sweat-slicked skin and wild, hungry eyes. It was wild, raw, and reckless-the kind of passion that left bruises and bite marks, that made us forget who we were outside of this moment. When our orgasms finally tore through us, it was fierce and overwhelming, leaving us breathless and shaking, the evidence of our needs – our combined cum - scattered across the room.

A sudden noise in the hallway-a gasp, a slammed door-reminded us of the world outside. Max’s eyes flashed with anger and something darker, but I slipped out before the fallout could begin, my heart still pounding with adrenaline.

Hours later, he showed up at my apartment, flowers forgotten the moment our eyes met. We barely made it inside before we were fucking each other again-on the couch, against the kitchen counter, in the hallway, the urgency never fading. There was nothing gentle about it; it was all teeth and nails, desperate hands and hungry mouths. He wanted to fill me with his cum, to mark me, to remind me with every rough, urgent encounter that I was his. And I wanted it too - I wanted to be claimed, to be ruined and remade by the force of his obsession. I didn’t tell him that I was ovulating, but he knew….he shot every load of his cum deep inside of my pussy.

We lost track of time, days blurring into nights, the sheets tangled and the air heavy with sweat and longing. Sometimes we collapsed together, spent and shaking, only to find ourselves tangled again minutes later, unable to get enough. It was intoxicating, exhausting-a fever that burned through everything else.

When Max finally left, I was left aching, swollen and alone, the consequences of our choices settling around me like the aftermath of a storm.

Three months passed. My pregnancy was unmistakable, and I started seeing someone new-a boyfriend who knew about my pregnancy and accepted it. For a while, I thought I could move on, that the chaos Max brought into my life was behind me.

But four months later, at seven months pregnant, Max reappeared. He was captivated by the changes in me, his hands lingering on my belly, his eyes hungry and possessive. The tension between us reignited instantly. We crashed together again, the urgency undiminished, his touch reverent and rough all at once. He worshipped every curve, every change, his need for me as fierce as ever.

Just as we were lost in that moment, climaxing and him releasing his cum in me, my boyfriend walked in. The shock and betrayal on his face was a cold slap, but I barely had time to process it before he was gone-leaving me to face the future with Max’s memory and a new life on the way.

Max moved in, determined to be part of my life and the baby’s. He started his own law firm, pouring his energy into work by day and into us by night. Every evening, he came home with food I craved, but it always ended the same way-his hands on me, his mouth finding mine, the two of us tangled together in a cycle of hunger, climax and him releasing his cum in me. Sometimes it was slow and sweet, but more often it was wild, fierce, and unrestrained. He wanted to be everything for me, to fill every space left by those he’d driven away.

Yet beneath it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d traded one kind of chaos for another. Max’s love was fierce, but it was also consuming. As my due date approached, I wondered what kind of future we could build-one shaped by desire, jealousy, and the hope that, somehow, we could survive the fire we’d started.

Max promised that he would give me two to three weeks to heal before he’d mount me, ride me and fill my hungry womb with his hot cum again. I knew that I would love taking him and his loads of cum down my throat and in my ass. The man has needs and it’s my job as his baby mama, his sex toy and his love to take him when he wanted. I knew that he was my saving grace and how I’d heal from Vic.

Claimed and consumed

Three days after leaving Max’s, his message lit up my phone:

Max: We want you for a whole week. Just us, the house, and as much pleasure as you can handle. Are you in?

I replied instantly: Absolutely. I want all of you.

When I arrived, the air was thick with anticipation. Max, Mark, Bob, and Markian - each with their own hunger and style - were waiting, their eyes devouring me before a single word was spoken. There was no slow build-up; the week began with hands, mouths, and dicks everywhere, each man eager to claim his turn and his place.

The first night, they took turns. Sometimes I rode them, feeling their hands grip my hips, their bodies stretching me deep. Max would hold me close, his voice rough in my ear, “You’re so fucking perfect.” Mark pinned me down, fucking me until I screamed, while Bob and Markian watched, stroking themselves, their eyes locked on every movement.

But it wasn’t just about taking turns. The men loved to switch things up, keeping me guessing and my body constantly on edge. Sometimes Max and Mark would both slide into my pussy, stretching me wide and making me gasp, while Bob took my mouth and Markian pressed into my ass. Other times, Markian would take my pussy, Max at my ass, Bob at my mouth, Mark’s hands everywhere - pinning me, guiding me, making sure I was never empty. They’d pause to switch positions, dicks slick and hard, trading places so every hole was filled by someone new, every sensation fresh and overwhelming.

No matter where they were, they always finished inside me. Their cum was hot and thick, spilling deep, mixing and leaking from my pussy and ass, sometimes dripping from my lips after Bob or Max finished in my mouth. The sensation of being filled, stretched, and shared by all of them was almost too much, but I craved every second.

They praised me constantly, their voices a chorus of approval and filthy encouragement. “Just like that.” “Take it all.” “You’re incredible.” “So tight, so perfect.” The words blended with the relentless rhythm of their bodies, their hands, their mouths, until I was shaking and begging for more.

Between sessions, they cared for me-feeding me, hydrating me, letting me rest and recover before starting again. But as soon as I gave the word, the hunger returned, and I was theirs once more.

By the end of the week, my body was marked by their hands, their mouths, their teeth, my mind floating in a haze of exhaustion and bliss. We even joked about it, but it was true: combined, they came in me about two hundred times, every load claimed, every drop savored, every moment a testament to our insatiable hunger for each other.

I was utterly spent - sore, sated, glowing, and cherished, knowing I’d been shared and filled beyond my wildest fantasies. By the end of the week, I couldn’t walk or sit normally...and I can’t wait for the next time I’m invited over.

 

All holes, all night

With my apartment spotless and my body refreshed, I decided to indulge. I hit the tanning salon, letting the warmth soak into my skin until I was glowing with a golden sheen. At the nail salon, I picked out a deep, glossy red for my manicure-bold, dangerous, and perfect for the night ahead. I thought about getting my hair done, but laughed to myself. There was no point; I knew exactly what would happen to it.

As I was leaving the salon, my phone buzzed. It was Max.

Max:
You still up for tonight? The guys are prepped. We’ll take care of you.

Me:
Always. Safe word’s the same. And no surprises.

Max:
No surprises. Just you, me, Bob, Mark, and the cross. We’ll start slowly. You’re in control.

Me:
I trust you. But don’t go easy on me.

Max:
Never. You’re my good girl. I love filling you up.

His words sent a shiver through me, and my mind flashed back to that night months ago-when Max was supposed to pull out but didn’t. I remembered the heat of his nine-inch dick pounding into me, the rush as he came deep inside, and then the panic weeks later when I missed my period. The ER doctor’s detached words: “spontaneous abortion.” A miscarriage. I’d bled for weeks, guilt and grief tangling in my chest. Since then, my birth control pills have been my armor, and I rarely use condoms unless I’m on antibiotics. Tonight, I felt ready for anything, knowing I was safe and in control of my body.

When I arrived at Max’s place just outside of town, the air was thick with anticipation. The men were already there, lounging in their boxer briefs, their dicks all thick, long, and hard-each one a solid nine inches and already straining with need. Max greeted me first, his hands possessive on my hips, his lips brushing my ear. “Ready to be my good girl tonight?” he murmured.

“Yes,” I breathed, shivering as he led me to the St. Andrew’s cross. He fastened my wrists, his voice low and rough. “Remember last time?” he whispered, his fingers trailing down my spine. “Tonight, I’m going to fill you until you can’t take any more.”

He started with teasing, his hands roaming, lips finding every sensitive spot. Then he pressed inside me, slow at first, then harder, deeper. Each thrust was raw and unfiltered, skin against skin, the kind of sex that left no room for anything but sensation. He fucked me until I was gasping, begging, my body trembling with every climax. He came in me, again and again - seven times, each time his cum spilling deep inside me, each time he praised me, told me how perfect I was, how much he loved seeing me take it all.

Bob entered next, his shy smile belying the hunger in his eyes. He clipped nipple clamps on me, the sharp bite making me arch and moan. He stroked a feather over my skin, teasing, making my nerves sing. Then he slid a thick extender over his nine-inch dick and pressed into me, the stretch exquisite, the fullness overwhelming. “You’re the queen of taking big dicks,” he murmured, thrusting deep, making me shudder. He took his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and whimper. He filled me up with cum five times, each orgasm making me cry out, each time his cum mixing with Max’s, dripping from me, making me feel so thoroughly wanted.

Mark’s energy was electric as he handcuffed me to the headboard, his touch both tender and demanding. He dripped hot wax onto my nipples, the sting making me whimper, then soothed the burn with his tongue. He slid inside me, hard and relentless, his hands gripping my hips as he drove into me with his own impressive nine inches. “You should be worshipped,” he whispered, voice reverent and wild all at once. He fucked me with abandon, and every time he came-nine times in all-he made sure I felt every pulse, every spurt of cum filling me up, overflowing, marking me as his.

By midnight, I was high on pleasure and anticipation, my body humming, my mind floating as the three men surrounded me. Max caught my chin, his eyes searching mine. “Still want this, good girl?”

“Yes,” I whispered, breathless, my voice barely a whisper. “I want all of you.”

They positioned me - Max at my mouth, Bob at my pussy, Mark at my ass - their dicks stretching me impossibly wide. They moved in sync, alternating, filling every hole, their groans mingling with my cries. I lost count of how many times they came, but I knew I was overflowing, their cum leaking from me, my body shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction. Each man praised me, worshipped me, told me how perfect I was, how much they loved seeing me filled by all of them.

When dawn crept in, we lay tangled together, my body sore and sated, every part of me marked by their hands, their mouths, their cum. Max stroked my hair, his voice soft. “You did so well, good girl. Rest now. We’ll take care of you.”

I drifted off, a smile on my lips, already dreaming of the next time I’d let myself be completely, utterly shared.

The next morning, sunlight crept through the curtains, and I blinked awake, my body deliciously sore and marked by the night’s indulgence. The scent of sex and sweat lingered in the air, a tangible reminder of everything we’d shared. I stretched, feeling the ache in my hips and thighs, and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. With practiced routine, I took my birth control pill, swallowing it down and smiling at the small, empowering ritual.

Max stirred beside me, his hand tracing lazy circles on my back. “Good morning, good girl,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. I glanced around to see Bob and Mark waking too, their eyes glinting with mischief and hunger even after the marathon night.

Without needing words, the anticipation built again between us. They gathered around me, their bodies warm and eager, their dicks already hard and heavy - each one as thick and long as I remembered, all over nine inches, ready for more. Max brushed my hair from my face, searching my eyes. “You still want this?” he asked, voice low and full of care.

“Yes,” I whispered, my consent clear and eager. “I want all of you again.”

They moved in perfect rhythm, positioning me just as they had before - Max at my mouth, Bob at my pussy, Mark at my ass. The stretch, the fullness, the sensation of being surrounded and claimed by them all at once was overwhelming and intoxicating. They switched places, each man taking his turn in every spot, their hands and mouths worshipping every inch of my body. The room filled with the sounds of pleasure - moans, gasps, whispered encouragement - as they each pushed me higher and higher.

Again and again, they filled me, their cum spilling deep inside until I was overflowing, my body trembling with satisfaction and exhaustion. When they were finally spent, we collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the morning sun painting us in golden light.

I lay there, sated and cherished, my body marked by their touch and my mind already drifting to the next time we’d share ourselves so completely. I was Max’s good girl, and together with Bob and Mark, I knew I was exactly where I wanted to be-desired, cared for, and utterly fulfilled. And not a drop of cum wasted.