#katerina.reply

Mud, leather, and male musk bodies fills your nostrils. You're on your knees, wrists bound behind you, surrounded by a circle of massive green-skinned figures whose tusks gleam yellow in the firelight. Orcs.

The chieftain sits on a throne of stacked skulls. He's broader than the others, his chest scarred and broad, one tusk chipped in battle. His eyes crawl over you, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

"You're the tribute," he says, voice a low rumble that vibrates in your ribs. "The village finally sent someone pretty."

"I'm not—" Your protest dies when he lifts one finger.

"I am Grothak. You will call me Chieftain. You will call none of my warriors by name because you don't deserve to know them yet. Right now, you're just a hole that needs stretching."

Three orcs grab you before you can scramble backward. Thick fingers close around your arms, your thighs, your waist. The binds around your wrists get sliced through with a blade, but freedom lasts half a heartbeat before they pin you flat on the fur-covered platform.

"Hold her still," Grothak commands. "Prepare her thoroughly. I want her weeping around my cock before sunrise."

You buck. "Don't—"

A thick finger presses against your lips. "Hush. You'll thank us when he splits you open."

You thrash. Your heel connects with something solid—an orc's knee—and he grunts but doesn't budge. They manipulate you to lie on your back. Another orc straddles your calves, his weight crushing your legs flat.

"Stop! Don't—"

Hands rip your linen dress from collar to hem. The fabric tears. Cool air hits your breasts, your belly, the thatch of hair between your thighs. You try to curl inward but they force your arms above your head, pinning your wrists in a double-fisted grip.

"So small," one orc remarks. He runs a calloused thumb down your sternum. "Look how her nipples are already pebbling."

"I'm cold," you spit.

The orc who spoke—the one with a jagged scar across his throat—laughs. "Cold, oh, we'll warm you up, little rabbit."

Then there are hands everywhere.

One orc cups your left breast, his palm so wide it covers the whole mound. He kneads roughly, squeezing until you gasp, then releases and watches the flesh swell back. Another orc takes your right breast between both hands and compresses, pushes the tissue together until your nipples touch.

"Soft," he grunts. "Human females are so fucking soft."

"Her areolas are so cute," observes a third, leaning over your shoulder. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "Tiny. Like little coins."

They don't stop talking. They don't stop touching.

A mouth closes over your left nipple. Not gentle, a hard sucking pull that draws the bud deep between green lips. You feel the rasp of his tongue, the scrape of a tusk against the underside of your breast. Your back arches involuntarily.

"No—"

Another mouth finds your right nipple. This orc has a wider tongue, and he licks broad strokes across the sensitive peak while the first one sucks. They establish a rhythm: pull, release, swirl, bite. Not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make you whimper.

Your hips jerk. The orc pinning your legs shoves them apart, kneeling between your thighs to keep you spread.

"Look at this," he says, and you feel one thick finger drag through your slit. "Dry as old leather. We've got work to do."

"Kiss her neck," Scar-Throat commands. "She's a woman. They like that."

An orc you hadn't noticed—younger, his tusks barely erupted—drops his head to the curve of your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft. He mouths at your pulse point, teeth grazing, tongue tracing the tendon down to your collarbone. You hate the shiver that races down your spine.

"She's trembling," he murmurs against your skin.

"Keep going," Scar-Throat says. "Open her legs wider."

The orc between your thighs hooks his elbows behind your knees and pushes. Your knees bend toward your shoulders, exposing everything. The torchlight is on you. You feel seen in ways that make your face burn.

"Such a pretty little cunt," he says. "Look at these lips. Plump. She's going to grip the Chieftain like a fist."

"Stop describing—ah!"

Two fingers part your outer labia. Cool air hits the slick inner flesh that you know is starting to glisten despite your horror. Your body is betraying you. The mouths on your breasts, the lips on your neck, the rough handling—it's all firing wires you didn't know existed.

"Getting wet," the orc observes. He drags one finger from your entrance up to your clit, just barely grazing the hooded nub. "There she is."

"Don't—that's not—gnnn!"

Another finger joins the first, and they spread you open like a flower. You feel exposed to the bone. The orc lowers his head, and for one terrible moment you think he's going to put his mouth there, but instead he spits.

A thick glob of saliva lands directly on your clit.

You jerk. "What the—"

"Wet is wet," he says, and rubs the saliva into your flesh with the flat of his thumb. The friction sends sparks up your spine. Your hips try to close but you can't.

"She's clenching," announces the orc at your breasts. He's switched from sucking to licking, broad stripes that catch your nipple and drag it toward his tusk. "Every time I do this, her whole body twitches."

"Mine too," says Neck-Kisser. He's moved to your ear now, nibbling the lobe. "Her breath keeps catching."

"Fingers," Scar-Throat orders. "Let's see how tight she is."

The orc between your thighs—you're starting to think of him as The Breaker—slides one thick finger inside you. You clamp down instinctively. Your walls try to push him out, but he's too big, too unyielding. The knuckle stretches your entrance.

"Tight," he confirms. He pushes deeper, curls the finger slightly, and you feel the pad of it press against your front wall. "There's the sweet spot."

"No, don't—" Your protest strangles into a moan when he presses harder.

"That's it. That's the sound." He adds a second finger, and the stretch makes your eyes water. "Two already feels like four in a human. Chieftain's cock is thicker than my wrist."

"He'll split her," someone says with satisfaction.

"Good."

The Breaker's fingers pump slowly. Each thrust pushes a wet sound from your cunt—a sticky, obscene noise that echoes in the quiet of the circle. The other orcs have gone still, watching, listening.

"Her ass," Scar-Throat says. "Don't neglect her ass."

"No—I haven't—I've never—"

A new pair of hands. These ones are oiled and a slick finger circles your anus. You tense every muscle in your body.

"Relax," says the orc behind you. You can't see his face, only feel the warm oil and the pressure. "Fighting makes it hurt more."

"I don't want—"

His fingertip breaches you. Just the tip, just past the tight ring of muscle, and you whine. Not from pain exactly—though there is pain—a sweet unexpected ache. An ache from the sense of being opened in a place you'd never allowed anyone to touch. Your whole body locks up.

"She's crying," Neck-Kisser observes. He's pulled back to watch your face. Tears streak down your temples into your hair.

"She's supposed to cry," Grothak says from his throne. His voice hasn't changed pitch. He watches like a man examining livestock. "Keep going."

The finger in your ass pushes deeper. The two fingers in your cunt resume their rhythm. The mouths return to your nipples—sucking, biting, laving. The hands on your breasts squeeze and release, squeeze and release, plumping the flesh until your areolas look swollen, darker.

"She's wet enough now," The Breaker announces. He pulls his fingers from your cunt and holds them up. They glisten in the torchlight, strings of your arousal stretching between them. "Look at this. Dripping."

"Taste her," Scar-Throat commands.

The Breaker puts his fingers in his own mouth, sucks them clean with noisy relish. "Sweet. Little bit sharp. Human women always taste like copper and honey."

"Let me." An orc you haven't seen before pushes forward. He's broader than the others, with a flat, smashed nose. He doesn't ask, just lowers his head between your spread thighs and drags his tongue from your perineum to your clit.

You buck. Your hands strain against the grip holding them. "Oh—fuck—"

He laughs against your flesh, then he does it again, slower, flattening his tongue to lap at your inner lips. He dips into your entrance, gathers a mouthful of your wetness, and pulls back to show the others.

"Look. She's making soup."

The orcs around you chuckle. You want to die. You want to crawl out of your own skin. But your hips are tilting upward, seeking more of that tongue, and you hate yourself for it.

"She likes it," Neck-Kisser says. He's returned to your throat, kissing and sucking. You'll have bruises tomorrow, purple badges of our attention. "Her pulse is racing."

"No, don't want—"

"Fingers in her mouth," Scar-Throat orders. "She's still arguing too much."

You open your mouth to scream but thick fingers shove between your lips before you can form the words. Two of them. Calloused. Tasting of leather and smoke. They press down on your tongue, and you gag.

"Suck," the orc commands. His hand is attached to a thick arm, which is attached to a chest with a tattoo of a wolf skull. "Get them wet. We're going to use every hole."

You try to bite down. He pinches your nose closed with his other hand.

"Suck or breathe. Your choice."

You suck. Saliva floods your mouth. Your tongue swirls around his knuckles against your will, coating them in slickness. He withdraws them slowly, strings of spit connecting his fingers to your lower lip.

"Good little bride," he says, and smears your saliva across your cheek.

"Turn her over," Scar-Throat commands. "Let's see her from behind."

Hands roll you onto your stomach. Your breasts press into the fur, nipples dragging against coarse hair. Someone grabs your hips and lifts them, forcing you onto your hands and knees. Your cheek is pressed sideways into the pelt.

"Spread her."

Knees kick your feet wider. Your thighs separate. You feel exposed from behind—the cool air on your wet cunt, on the oil-slicked entrance to your ass.

"Much better." The Breaker has moved behind you. You feel his thumbs part your outer lips, exposing the darker color of your inner flesh. "Look at this view. Everything glistening."

"Fuck her with something bigger than fingers," someone suggests.

"Get the handled club."

"No—" You try to crawl forward. An orc grabs your hair, fisting it at the roots, and thrusts his fingers in your mouth.

"Good. We said prepare her," Scar-Throat reminds you. "Not comfort her."

The handled club turns out to be exactly that—a wooden shaft, smoothed and polished, with a rounded bulb at one end. It's smaller than a cock but larger than fingers. The orc who holds it—The Breaker again—lathers the bulb in oil.

"This will stretch your cunt open," he says, pressing the cool wood against your entrance. "Get you ready for what's coming."

He pushes.

The bulb spreads your inner lips wide. You feel the stretch in your perineum, in the ring of muscle that guards your core. The wood is nothing like flesh, and every ridge and grain scrapes your sensitive walls.

"More," Scar-Throat says.

The Breaker shoves the bulb deeper. You gag around the fingers in your mouth as your cunt clenches around the intrusion, trying to expel it, but the shape locks it in place. He twists the handle, and you feel your insides rotate around the shaft.

"Now her ass," someone says.

"Ngnnn—" you cry mutely even with your finger stuffed mouth. "Ghphhh!! Can't—Ghprrrphh!"

Another bulb. Smaller this time, but still too large. Oiled. Probing your ass. The orc behind you—a different one, with sharper tusks—doesn't wait for your permission. He pushes the bulb past the tight ring, and you scream around the fingers, then suckle them hard.

The sensation is too much. Too full. Too stretched. You have fingers in your mouth, and something in your cunt and something in your ass and they're all moving, twisting, pumping in opposite rhythms. Your whole lower body feels packed, stuffed, invaded.

"That's it," Scar-Throat says. He's stroking your hair now, almost tender. "Take it. Take all of it. The Chieftain wants you gaping."

The fingers leave your mouth, and another set joines them. You manage to grumble, "Can't—too much—grpphhh!"

"You can. You will. Keep sucking." Scar-Throat grips your jaw, turns your face toward Grothak's throne. "Look at him. He's been watching this whole time. Be a good girl for him."

The chieftain hasn't moved. His massive arms are crossed over his chest, and his cock—you see it now, jutting from between his thighs—is enormous. Thicker than your thigh. Long enough to bruise your cervix. The head is dark purple, almost black, and beads of fluid glisten at the slit.

"That's going inside you," Scar-Throat says. "Every inch. And you're going to thank him for it."

"She's not ready," The Breaker announces, pulling the club from your cunt with a wet pop. "Still too tight. She needs more preparation."

"Then give her more."

What follows has no shape, no sequence, only sensation.

Orcs take turns on your body.

One kneels in front of your face and feeds you his cock while you choke and drool around it. Another fucks your cunt with his fingers while a third tongues your ass, his rough tongue lapping at the oiled rim. Someone bites your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark, then sucks the bruise.

You lose track of who is where. Three hands on your breasts at once—one pinching your left nipple, one tugging your right, one kneading the underside of your left breast where the skin is thin. Hands plump your tits together, squeezing until the flesh bulges between green fingers.

"The nipples are darker now," observes an orc. "From all the sucking."

"Her areolas spread," agrees another. "Look how wide they are."

You glance down at your own chest and barely recognize it. Your breasts are flushed, the nipples swollen to twice their normal size, the areolas crinkled and damp. Every breath makes them ache.

"Rub her here, too," someone says, and you feel fingers close around your clit. Circling. Pulling the hood back until the exposed nub is raw against the air. You sob.

"Stop—ghhphhh!! I'll come—"

"Good. That's the point."

You come with a scream that tears your throat. Your whole body convulses—back arching, hips bucking, thighs clamping around the head between your legs. The orc doesn't stop teasing your clit through the spasms, drawing out the peak until you're weeping from overstimulation.

"One," Scar-Throat counts. "She needs three before the Chieftain."

"Can't—"

"You can."

They build you up again. An orc fucks your cunt with his tongue, dipping into your entrance, swirling, then dragging up to your clit. Another orc slides two fingers into your ass and crooks them, searching until he finds the thin wall between your channels. You feel his fingertips press against the tongue in your cunt through the membrane.

"That's it," he growls. "Feel that?"

The second orgasm rips through you while you're still trembling from the first. This one is sharper but your body doesn't care. It keeps going. Your cunt gushes around the tongue inside it, and you hear someone laugh.

"She's leaking," The Breaker says. "Like a cracked waterskin."

"One more," Scar-Throat insists. "Then the Chieftain."

"No—I have nothing left—"

They prove you wrong. An orc with a clever tongue licks slow circles around your clit while another pinches both your nipples, rolling the sensitive buds between thumb and forefinger. A third kisses you—actually kisses your mouth, tongue pushing past your lips, tasting you. The intimacy of it breaks something inside you.

You come for the third time silently. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out. Your vision whites out. When you come back, you're on your back again, legs spread, and Grothak is standing over you.

"Good work," he says to his warriors. "She's ready."

He is naked now and his cock... it's even larger up close. Twice thicker than the wooden club. The head alone looks bigger than your fist. Veins rope along the shaft and his balls hang heavy beneath, tight with need.

"Please," you whisper. You don't know if you're begging him to stop or to start.

Grothak, the chieftain kneels between your thighs. He doesn't bother with foreplay, his warriors have prepared you thoroughly so he just spits on his palm, slicks his cock, and lines the head up with your entrance.

"Look at me," he commands.

You look.

He pushes.

The head stretches your cunt wider than anything that's been inside you. Wider than orc fingers, wider than the club. You feel your inner lips flatten against the sides of his shaft, feel your perineum strain. The burning is intense, a fire that makes you claw at the furs beneath you.

"Breathe," he says, and you realize you've been holding your breath.

You exhale in a shuddering gasp. He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another. Your walls try to clamp down but there's no room—he's already filled every space, stretched every muscle.

"Halfway," he grunts. Sweat beads on his brow. "Tightest cunt I've ever had."

"I can't— too big—"

"You can. You will." He pulls back slightly, then shoves forward. The head of his cock punches past your cervix, and you scream.

The pain is white-hot. But underneath it, buried beneath the stretch and the burn, something else flickers. A fullness that borders on pleasure. A sense of being completely, utterly filled.

"There," Grothak says. "Pushing against your womb."

He begins to move. Slow thrusts at first, each one dragging his ridges against your raw inner walls. Then faster. Harder. The furs beneath you bunch and slide as he pounds into you, his balls slapping against your ass with each stroke.

"You're taking it," he growls. "Look at you. Dripping down my shaft. Soaking my balls."

You are. You can feel your own wetness coating his cock, making each thrust easier, slicker. Your hips have started moving, matching his rhythm, tilting up to meet him.

"Please," you moan, and this time you know what you're begging for.

"Please what?"

"More—harder—I don't care—just don't stop—"

He laughs, and it's the first time you've heard him laugh. It's not cruel. It's triumphant.

"Warriors," he calls. "Come join your chieftain as he claims his bride."

They don't wait. They descend like wolves.

Grothak lies back and keeps pounding your pussy while one orc kneels beside your head and feeds you his cock. You open your mouth without being told, suck without being commanded. Your tongue swirls around his shaft, traces the vein along the underside, laps at the slit.

Two orcs position themselves behind you and spread your asscheeks. They rub around where you pussy is spread wide by their boss then rub your pucker. You whimper around a mouthfool of cock when one pushes into your ass—you feel the stretch, the burn, but it's nothing compared to the cunt-stretch of the chieftain.

The other orc—where does he go? There's no room—

"Spread her cheeks wider," Scar-Throat orders.

Grothak pumps to the hilts and spreads your ass wide apart and the orc behind you slides into your ass alongside the other. Two cocks in one hole. You feel impossibly full—split open—stuffed beyond reason.

"Fuck," Grothak groans and keeps fucking your pussy. "She's magic."

The orcs in your ass begin to move, too, pumping in opposite rhythm. The orc in your mouth thrusts to the back of your throat. You're being fucked from every direction, every hole filled, every inch of your body claimed.

"Look at her taking her clan," Grothak says with satisfaction. "Not many humans can take that."

"She's not human anymore," Scar-Throat replies. "She's orc-bride now."

The orgasm that builds is different from the earlier ones. It doesn't crest, it drowns. You feel it rise from your core, spread through your belly, flood your limbs. When it breaks, you're screaming around the cock in your mouth, your whole body convulsing, your cunt and ass clamping down so hard the orcs groan.

"She's coming," Grothak says. "Again. Give her more."

They don't stop. They switch positions, swap holes, take turns. You lose count of how many cocks have been inside you. You're passed from orc to orc, each one fucking you until they spill, then the next one taking their place.

You are now on your side, Grothak stretching your throat with deep slides. You open for him, greedy now, desperate. Your lips stretch around his shaft, your tongue laves at the head.

An orc is spooning you from behind, fucking your ass and when he spurts his cum and pulls out, someone else slides in immediately—thicker this time, longer. The orc in your cunt fucks you so hard your vision blurs. Someone's fingers pinch your clit, another set on your nipples, rolling the swollen nub suntil you scream.

You're a thing of holes and need, a vessel for orc seed, a bride being broken open and remade.

At last, hours later, Grothak takes you again, but this time he's alone. The warriors have pulled back, all of them spent and satisfied, their seed dripping down your thighs, your chin, your chest. Your whole body is covered in it—sticky, hot, reeking of musk.

The chieftain lays you on your back, spreads your legs, and slides home in one thrust. You're too gaping to feel the stretch anymore. Your cunt has softened, loosened, shaped itself to orc cocks. His slides in easily, his ridges scraping against walls that have learned to accept.

"Look at you," he says, fucking you slow and deep. "Crying. Drooling. Covered in my warriors' seed. And you're still trying to fuck back on my cock."

You are. Your hips are rolling, meeting his thrusts, pulling him deeper. Your inner muscles clench around him, milking, begging.

"Please," you sob. "Please come in me. Please fill me up. I need it—I need your seed—"

He growls and picks up speed. "Take it," he snarls. "Take every drop."

His orgasm is explosive. He roars and you feel his cock pulse inside you, flooding your cunt with loads of cum. It fills you, overflows you, drips down your ass to mix with the other orcs' spend. He stays inside you, seed pumping.

When he finally pulls out, you're empty. Hollow. Your cunt gapes open, dripping orc seed, trickling down your thighs. Grothak cups your face in one massive hand. His thumb wipes tears from your cheek.

The wooden barn doors groan shut behind you, and the lock bolts slam home with a sound that punches through your ribs.

Your wrists are still raw from the ropes they cut off in the cart. You'd screamed yourself hoarse during the ride up the mountain, but the driver—some scaled thing with too many knuckles—had simply reached back and pressed one cold finger to your lips.

Now you're standing in sawdust and straw, naked before you even knew they'd stripped you. Your dress is gone. Your underwea are torn in some corner. All that remains is your skin, prickling in the cold air, and the three shapes that circle you like wolves deciding where to bite first.

"This one's got fight," rumbles the first voice.

The minotaur steps into the lantern light.

His horns curve back from a broad, flat face, nostrils flaring as he breathes you in. Black fur covers his arms, his massive shoulders, the thick column of his neck. He's wearing nothing. His cock hangs half-hidden in a sheath of furred skin, but you see the weight of it.

"Fight's good," says another voice.

The werewolf appears.

His fur is silver-grey, matted across his chest and down his spine. He's leaner than the minotaur but no less dangerous. His snout twitches, nose working, and his eyes are the color of amber. He doesn't bother hiding what's between his legs. The red tip of his cock has already slipped free of its sheath, glistening.

"Mouthy, though," observes the third. "Heard her all the way up the switchbacks. Screaming."

The horse hybrid steps closer.

He has no fur. Just smooth, dark hide stretched over a frame that seems built for endurance. Broad hands. Wide shoulders. And when he turns fully toward you, you see the length of him—not fully erect yet, but the half-hard shaft hangs near his knee. Veins trace blue rivers beneath the skin.

You back up. Your spine hits cold wood. A stall divider.

"No—" The word tears out of you before you can stop it. "Please, I don't—I can't—"

"Shhhh."

The werewolf is in front of you before your next breath. His hand cups your jaw, claws retracted, but the pads of his fingers press hard enough to hurt. "You can. That's the beautiful part, little meat. Your body knows exactly what to do. It's just your mouth that hasn't learned yet."

You try to turn your head. He holds you still.

"Let me hear her," the minotaur says, stepping closer. His shadow swallows you. "Want to know what kind of sounds she makes."

"I told you. Mouthy."

The werewolf's thumb presses against your lower lip. You clamp your mouth shut, jaw grinding. He chuckles and then his fingers find the corners of your mouth and pull.

"Open."

You shake your head, tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Variks Farm doesn't buy closed mouths," the horse hybrid says from somewhere behind you. You feel his heat at your back. His hand lands on your hip, palm calloused, fingers spreading wide to measure the span of your waist. "Variks buys service holes. So you'll open, or we'll open you, and one of those takes a lot longer."

The werewolf's other hand comes up. Two fingers push past your lips before you can bite down. They scrape your tongue. They press toward the back of your throat.

"Ghkk—"

"That's it. That's the sound."

He fucks your mouth with his fingers, pushing in until your eyes water, pulling out to let you gasp, then shoving deeper. Your hands come up to claw at his wrist, but the minotaur catches both your wrists in one massive fist and pins them above your head.

"Let her fight," the minotaur says. "Adds flavor."

The horse hybrid's hands are on your breasts now. No warning. Just palms cupping the weight of you, thumbs finding your nipples already tightened to hard peaks from fear and cold. He circles them, presses down, pinches.

You scream into the werewolf's fingers.

"Good," the horse hybrid breathes against your ear. "Good tits. Look at these, Dorn."

The minotaur—Dorn—leans down. His free hand comes up, and he doesn't just look. He touches. He palms your breast, lifts it, squeezes until you feel the pressure deep in the tissue. His thumb rasps over your areola, then he bends his head and licks.

The wet heat of his tongue shocks a moan out of you. Your hips jerk. The horse hybrid's cock—when did it get hard?—presses against the small of your back, hot, heavy and so long you can feel it riding up between your shoulder blades.

"Pretty nipples," Dorn observes, pulling back. He licks his lips. "Small areolas. Sensitive, look—" He flicks one with his thumb and your whole body twitches. "She's going to be a faucet when we really get going."

"Check the rest of her."

The werewolf's fingers withdraw from your mouth with a wet schlick. You cough, drool stringing from your lower lip to his knuckles, and he wipes it on your cheek. "Turn her around. Want to see the back."

The hands on you rearrange you like livestock.

The horse hybrid grips your hips and spins you, forcing you on your knees. And then the werewolf is behind you, one hand spreading your ass cheeks apart, the other sliding between your thighs from the front.

"No—don't—"

"Shut her up," Dorn says mildly.

The horse hybrid steps in front of you. His cock bobs at eye level—thick, dark, the head already weeping clear fluid. He grips your hair at the crown and tilts your face up. "Open that pretty throat."

You keep your jaw locked. He sighs.

Then he pinches your nose.

You hold out for seven seconds. Maybe eight. Then your lungs force your mouth open and he shoves inside, deep, his cock sliding over your tongue and hitting the back of your throat before you can even process the taste of salt and musk.

"HURK—"

"There she is."

He doesn't move at first. Just lets you choke. Your throat convulses around his shaft, trying to push him out, but that only makes him groan and press deeper. Spit floods your mouth, spills down your chin, drips onto your chest.

"Look at that," the werewolf says behind you. His fingers are at your pussy—you feel them parting your folds, exposing you. "She's already wet. Look. Look."

He spreads you open. You hear the wet sound of it, the schlick of your own arousal betraying you. Dorn leans around to see, and his grunt of approval vibrates through the stall.

"Tight little cunt," the werewolf continues. His fingertip circles your entrance, teasing the wetness gathering there. "But she'll stretch. They always do. And look at this—"

He pulls his hand back. You feel the blunt press of his thumb at your asshole instead.

"MMMMPH—"

"No, no, keep choking," the horse hybrid says pleasantly. He pulls his cock back until just the head rests on your tongue, then shoves forward again.

"Ghhhk!"

"That's perfect. Do that again."

His fingers tighten in your hair. He sets a rhythm; long, lazy thrusts that bury him in your throat each time, your lips stretched around the base of his shaft, your nose pressed to his lower belly. Every push makes you gag. Every gag makes your throat squeeze him tighter. He groans above you, head thrown back, hips rolling.

"She's drooling down her tits," Dorn observes. You feel his hand on your breast again, smearing your spit across your nipple. "And her ass—"

The werewolf's thumb presses harder. Not inside yet. Just rubbing, circling, feeling the tight ring of muscle clench and release and clench again.

"Never been touched here," the werewolf says. You can hear the grin in his voice. "Virgin hole. Dorn, you want first?"

"Tempting. But let's see how many fingers she takes before she comes."

"Before?"

"You think she's not going to come?"

They both laugh. The horse hybrid pulls out of your throat just long enough for you to gasp, "Please, please, I don't want this"—and then he's back, stuffing your mouth full, cutting off your protests with the fat head of his cock.

The werewolf's finger pushes into your pussy.

Just one. Just the first knuckle. But your body reacts like you've been electrocuted; back arching, hips grinding back onto his hand, a moan vibrating around the cock in your throat. He sinks deeper. One finger. Two. Curling them, stroking the spongy spot inside you that makes your knees buckle.

"There it is," he murmurs. "There's her button. Feel that? She's squeezing me like a fist."

"Work her open," Dorn says. "Both ends."

The werewolf's thumb presses against your asshole. And pushes.

The stretch burns. You scream around the horse hybrid's cock, but the sound comes out muffled, choked. The werewolf works his thumb in slow circles, forcing the tight ring to give way, while his other fingers keep pumping your pussy. Two in there now. Maybe three. You've lost count.

And then... betrayal.

Your hips start moving on their own. Rocking back into the werewolf's hand. Grinding down onto his fingers. Your pussy flutters, and that pressure building in your belly isn't pain anymore—

"Ngh... no—"

"Yes," Dorn says. He's moved closer, you feel his furred chest against your side, his hand sliding down your belly to where the werewolf's fingers disappear inside you. His thumb finds your clit. Circles it. "Yes, little bitch. That's the first one of many."

You come screaming.

It rips through you without permission. Your pussy spasms around the werewolf's fingers, clenching so hard he grunts with surprise. Your asshole tightens around his thumb. Your whole body shakes, convulses, and through it all the horse hybrid keeps fucking your throat, forcing you to swallow around his cock, choking on every thrust.

The orgasm goes on too long. Weeps out of you in shuddering waves. When it finally stops, you're limp with rapture.

"Beautiful," Dorn says. He pulls his hand back and sucks his thumb clean. "Now we fuck her."

They position you like a doll.

The werewolf lies on his back in the straw, cock jutting up against his belly—red, ridged, his knot already beginning to swell. He grips your hips and pulls you down onto him, your pussy stretched wide around his shaft.

"Aaaahhnn—"

"Shh. Bottom out. Take it all."

You sink onto him inch by inch. He's not as long as the horse hybrid, but he's thick, and the ridges drag against every nerve inside you. When your ass meets his hips, you feel him pressed against your cervix, and your eyes roll back.

"Good girl," the werewolf breathes. "Now don't move."

You couldn't move if you tried. Your legs are shaking too hard.

But Dorn kneels behind you. You feel his hands on your hips, spreading you wider, and then something cool and wet drips down the crack of your ass: spit, he's spitting on you, working the saliva into your hole with his thumb.

"Ready, sweet little bitch?"

"No—not there—I can't—"

His cock presses against your asshole.

You've never had anything inside there. Never even touched yourself that way. But Dorn doesn't care about your experience. He pushes, and the head of his huge cock stretches the tight ring until you feel like you're splitting in half.

"BREATHE," he commands.

You breathe. And he slides deeper.

The pain whites out for a moment. Then something shifts. Muscles giving up, giving in, and he's inside, his cock filling your ass completely, pressed against the thin wall that separates him from the werewolf's shaft in your pussy.

You can feel both of them. Every ridge. Every vein. The werewolf's cock swelling inside you,the curve of Dorn's shaft pressing forward.

"Look," the horse hybrid says.

He's kneeling in front of you now, cock in hand, stroking slowly. He reaches out and presses his palm flat against your stomach. You glance down.

There's a visible bump. Two of them, pressing against the wall of your belly from the inside.

"There's your purpose," he says. "Just a set of holes for us to use. Now open up."

You don't have the strength to fight. Your jaw drops open and he feeds his cock into your mouth, down your throat, past where you thought your throat ended. The bulge in your neck matches the one in your belly.

And then they start moving.

The werewolf thrusts up into your pussy. Dorn thrusts forward into your ass. The horse hybrid thrusts deep into your throat. Three different rhythms, three different angles, and you're just the meat between them. Bouncing, choking, drooling, moaning despite yourself.

"Ghhhk—glrk—shhlck—"

The sounds are filthy.

Your pussy squelches around the werewolf's cock every time he pulls back. Your ass stretches wide as more spit is rubbed all over your rim. The horse hybrid's balls slap against your chin when he fucks your throat, and his pre-cum mixes with your spit and drips down your chest.

"She's taking it," Dorn growls. His claws dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Taking all of us. Look at her throat—look—"

The horse hybrid pulls out just enough for you to see his cock sliding in and out of your stretched lips. Your throat bulges with each thrust. Your eyes are streaming. Your nose runs.

"Pretty little bitch," the horse hybrid sighs. He shoves back in and you gag, throat convulsing, and he groans.

You climax again.

This one doesn't ask permission. Your pussy squeezes the werewolf's length, your ass clamping down on Dorn's shaft, your throat spasming around the horse hybrid's length. You scream but no sound comes out. Just a wet ghkk around the cock in your mouth.

"That's it," Dorn snarls. "That's it, take it, take it—"

They fuck you through the orgasm. Past it. Into another one that crests before the first one finishes.

The werewolf comes first. You feel his knot lock inside you, swelling until you can't move, and then hot floods of cum pump you full. His hips jerk. His head tips back, and he howls.

The sound triggers Dorn. He slams into your ass one last time, balls deep, and you feel his cock pulse, once, twice, three times, pumping his load into your bowels. His hands crush your hips. His roar drowns out everything else.

The horse hybrid pulls out of your throat just long enough to stroke himself over your face. "Open your eyes."

You do. The first rope of cum hits your left eye. The second paints your lips. The third lands on your chest, and by the time he's done you're wearing him like a mask.

They pull out slowly. You feel every inch, the slide, the emptiness, the rush of fluids that follow. Cum drips from your pussy, your ass, your mouth. It pools in your navel. It runs down your thighs.

You collapse face-first into the straw, shuddering.

"It's over," you whisper. "Please. It's over."

Dorn laughs.

"Poor little one," he says, petting your hair. "The night shift hasn't even clocked in."

The barn doors open again.

More shapes. More shadows.

A centaur, his human chest bare, his horse body gleaming. His cock hangs from his equine sheath, longer than the horse hybrid's.

Behind him, a lizardfolk with rusty scales, his tongue flickering out to taste the air. His cock is different; ridged, barbed, the color of blood.

A gargoyle shambles in last. Stone and power. His cock is carved from the same grey rock, slick with some kind of oil that drips onto the floor.

"First shift did good work," the centaur says, circling you. His hooves click on the wood. "She's loose. Ready."

"No," you try. Your voice comes out broken. "No more—"

The lizardfolk kneels beside your head. His forked tongue licks the cum off your cheek. "More," he says simply. "Always more. You don't stop until morning, little one. That's the point."

The gargoyle crouches between your legs. Stone fingers part your pussy—still dripping, still twitching—and he pushes one huge finger inside. The stone is rough, textured, and you feel every groove scraping your walls.

"Wider," the gargoyle says. "She needs to be wider."

The centaur lowers himself and positions himself at your mouth. His cock is too long, too thick, but you don't have the strength to fight. He pushes past your lips and down your throat without resistance this time. Your throat has learned. It opens for him like a sheath.

The lizardfolk takes your pussy. His barbed ridges catch on every nerve as he slides inside, and you scream around the centaur's cock—but the scream turns into a moan when the barbs drag against that spot inside you. He fucks you slow. Each stroke scrapes you raw and sends lightning up your spine.

The gargoyle takes your ass. Stone stretches you wider than Dorn did, wider than you thought possible, and the oil lubricates but doesn't cushion. You feel every inch of carved rock pressing into your bowels.

Three of them. Three new monsters. Three new rhythms.

You stop fighting after the first hour.

By the second hour, you're on your side, riding the centaur's cock while the lizardfolk fucks your ass from behind and the gargoyle kneels in front of you, your lips stretched around his stone shaft. Your jaw aches. Your throat is raw. But your pussy keeps clenching, and your ass keeps gripping, and you keep coming... over and over, orgasms stacked on orgasms until you can't tell where one ends and another begins.

The centaur paints your pussy with his release. The lizardfolk follows, filling your ass until it overflows. The gargoyle finishes last, pulls out, strokes his stone cock over your face, and unloads grey-white cum across your tongue and cheeks and hair.

You lie in the mess. Unable to move. Unable to close your legs. Your pussy gapes open, leaking. Your ass is similar; a dark, stretched hole that winks. Cum drips from your lips, your chin, your eyelashes.

The lizard cups your face and tilts it toward him. "Look at you," he says softly. "Broken in. Ready."

He kisses your forehead and stands. "The day shift will be here soon. Rest while you can, little one."

The barn doors close.

The lanterns flicker.

And somewhere outside, you hear more hooves approaching.

“My pretty, little, soft thing,” he rumbled, the sound vibrating in your sternum. He knelt and brought his face close to yours. “All that shivering. Skin like silk. I saw you in the pass, gathering your herbs. Knew you were mine before your heart even knew to be scared.”

You scrambled back, your hands sinking into the furs, but he just chuckled. He reached out, one calloused digit, tracing the line of your jaw. You flinched, a whimper tearing from your throat.

“Don’t,” you choked out, the word fragile and useless.

“Don’t?” He leaned closer, his breath a hot, earthy gust. “Little wife, ‘don’t’ is a word for the world up there. Down here, you have ‘more,’ ‘please,’ and my name. Gro’thak. Say it.”

You pressed your lips together, shaking your head. His finger continued its path, down the column of your throat, over the frantic flutter of your pulse. He paused at the neckline of your dress, hooking the rough pad of his finger under the coarse fabric and pulling.

It didn’t tear. He simply exerted a little more pressure, and the sound of ripping seams was deafening in the silence. The wool parted down the front, exposing you to the cool, damp air and the heat of his gaze.

His breath hitched. “Oh,” he breathed. His eyes devoured the swell of your breasts, the tight, pebbled buds of your nipples already hardened into stiff peaks against the chill. “More. So much more than I dreamed. Look at these.”

He didn’t ask. His hand, big enough to encompass your entire ribcage, cupped one breast. The skin of his palm was rough but the heat… the heat was shocking. He didn’t squeeze. He just held it, as if weighing something precious, his thumb—a thick, knobby digit—hovering just over the areola.

“Like berries,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on the contrast of his gray flesh against your skin. “Ripe. I’m going to bruise them. Not because I want to hurt you, little wife. Because I won’t be able to stop myself from sucking on them.” He lowered his head, his mouth opening to engulf the entire mound.

His tongue was not a human tongue. It was a thick, muscular slab and it lapped at your nipple. The sensation was a violent spike of unwanted pleasure that short-circuited your fear. A startled gasp, half sob, half moan, escaped you.

He grunted in approval, the vibration of it jolting through your breast and straight to your core. His mouth worked, sucking, pulling, his teeth—blunted but powerful—grazing the sensitive flesh. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same attention, and you felt the truth of his words. He was leaving marks. A reddened bloom was spreading across your chest.

He pulled back, a string of his thick saliva connecting his bottom lip to your wet, swollen nipple. “There. Now everyone will see the color I’ve painted you with, even if they never will. Now, what’s between your legs?”

You tried to close your thighs, but his body was there. He wedged one massive thigh between yours, forcing them apart. “No hiding,” he tutted. “There is no part of you that is not for me. Show me.”

Unbothered by your wiggling, his fingers hooked into the waistband of your torn dress, and with a casual yank, the rest of the garment was reduced to rags beneath you. Strong hands opened you up and you lay naked on his furs, knees bent, thighs trembling. His eyes traveled down, past the soft curve of your belly, to the thatch of hair between your legs.

He used one finger to part your folds, exposing the closed seam of your cunt. A sharp inhale escaped him. He tilted his head, a gesture so inhumanly curious it made your stomach clench.

“So… small and folded. So little,” he said, more to himself than to you.

He pressed the thick pad of his finger against the top of your slit, finding the nub of your clit. You jerked, a hot spark of sensation—half pain, half something else you didn't want to analyse. He didn’t pull back. He held you there, pinned and began to rub. Slow, inexorable circles that had your hips trying to squirm away and arch into him at the same time.

“It’s for me to open,” he continued, his voice a hypnotic drone over the growing wet sounds his ministrations were coaxing from your body. “Every fold. Every secret little place. My little wife is going to be so wet for me. Already is.” He pulled his finger away, and it was slick with your arousal. He brought it to his mouth, tasting it. A guttural sound of satisfaction rolled from his throat. “Salt. Sweet. Mine.”

He shifted, his weight settling fully between your legs. The furs were beneath you, the ceiling of stone above you, and he was everything else. You heard him fumbling with something—a leather tie at his waist. Then the loincloth he wore fell away.

Your brain struggled to process what you were seeing. His was proportioned to the rest of him. Which meant it was obscene. Impossibly thick, brutally long, a pillar of living stone that made your body feel like a child’s toy in comparison.It was the same gray as the rest of him, but veined with pulsing blue lines. It was not smooth but ridged from base to tip, the texture like the rings on a tree. It curved upward, the head a flared, bulbous shape, darker in color, slick with pearly beads of fluid.

“Look at you,” he rasped, one hand wrapping around his dick, giving it a stroke. The sight was so primal, so utterly masculine in its raw, unselfconscious display of need, it stole your breath. “That face. Terror and hunger. I can smell it on you, little wife. The part of you that’s burning, even now.”

“I can’t,” you whispered. “You’ll… you’ll split me.”

He leaned down, his weight on his forearms, caging you in. His horns cast jagged shadows on the wall. “You will stretch. Your body was made to take seed. My seed. It will learn its purpose. It will weep for this cock. It will clutch it.” He used his knee to nudge your thighs wider, spreading you open. One of his hands, the one not wrapped around his shaft, came down to splay a hand over your lower belly, covering it entirely. “This is where my children will grow. You’ll swell here. Heavy with them. They’ll kick inside you, and you’ll remember this night.”

He positioned himself. The flared head of his cock nudged against your entrance, a blunt pressure against the wetness he’d forced from your body. He didn’t push. Just rocked his hips, rubbing the broad head against your clit, your slit, coating himself in your slickness.

“Please,” you heard yourself say.

“Please what?” he grunted, his jaw clenched, cords of muscle in his neck standing out.

Your body was betraying you. You didn't want this yet your hips were moving, trying to find the right angle, trying to draw him in. “Please… Gro’thak.”

His name on your lips was the key. He surged forward.Pushed and the flared head of his cock breached you. The stretch made you arch off the furs, a cry caught in your throat. He paused, his body trembling above you, a fine tremor running through his massive frame.

“So tight,” he hissed. “So goddamn tight, little wife. Squeezing me. Trying to push me out.” He pulled back a fraction, then pushed again, sinking deeper. The ridged texture of his shaft dragged against your walls, a sensation unlike anything you’d ever known. Each ridge was a distinct ring of pressure, popping past your entrance, forcing you wider.

Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes. It wasn’t just pain. It was an invasion, both mental and physical. He filled you, stretched you, made space where there was none. You could feel your pulse beating around him, a frantic, trapped thing.

“Look,” he snarled and propped himself up on one arm, his other hand cupping the back of your head, forcing your chin down to look at where your bodies joined.

You saw it. The gray, monster cock disappearing into your own flesh. The skin of your lower belly was taut, distended. You could see the outline of him moving inside you, a bulge that shifted with each centimeter he gained. Your cunt lips were stretched obscenely around his girth, swollen, glistening with your slick and his pre-cum.

And he was only halfway in.

"No... wait...ghnaaa..."

“I’m going to fill you,” he panted and did the opposite, his hips moving in a shallow, rocking rhythm. “Every fucking inch. Take it.”

He pushed again, this time deeper and the depth had you clawing at his shoulders, leaving red welts on his stone-gray hide. He didn’t seem to feel them. His head was thrown back, his thick neck corded, his breath coming in gusting huffs.

Finally, with one last thrust, his hips pressed flush against yours. The heavy weight of his balls, each the size of a small fruit, nestled against your ass. He was seated to the root inside you. You felt…overstuffed. A pressure that radiated up through your abdomen, pressing against your diaphragm, making it hard to breathe.

He opened his eyes. “There. My wife. Impaled on her husband’s cock.”

He stayed there, motionless, letting you feel every ring, every pulse, the sheer, undeniable reality of him buried inside you. He was waiting. Waiting for your body to stop fighting.

Slowly, incrementally, the burn began to ebb. Your muscles, exhausted from their futile resistance, began to relax, fluttering around him in tiny spasms. He felt it. A shudder ran through his massive frame.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Accept me. Your greedy little cunt is learning. It’s kissing me now.” He pulled back, the ridges dragging against your sensitive walls. He pushed back in and a moan—yours—escaped your lips.

It was a sound of surrender. He latched onto it.

And then he fucked you. Each thrust seated him fully inside you, the flared head of his cock kissing a place so deep you’d never even known it existed, sending sparks of overwhelming sensation up your spine. Your legs, weak and trembling, fell open wider, your ankles hooking over the backs of his thighs, pulling him in. Your hands, which had been pushing at his chest, now found purchase on his shoulders, clinging.

“That’s my good wife,” he grunted, his pace increasing. The sound of his hips slapping against your thighs was a wet, rhythmic percussion. “Feel it. Feel how you’re sucking me in. You’re fucking me back. Don’t deny it.”

He was right.

Your hips were rising to meet his thrusts, your body chasing the growing pressure that was coiling tighter and tighter in your core. The initial pain had been subsumed by pleasure. The friction of his ridges, the constant pressure of his flared head, the sheer, impossible fullness—it was dismantling you piece by piece.

“There,” he hissed, angling his hips, searching. He found the spot. A jolt of electricity shot through you, and you cried out, your back bowing off the furs. “There. The little clutch of nerves that makes you scream. I’m going to hammer that spot until you come undone.”

He did. He focused his thrusts, each one a sweet assault on that internal cluster of sensation. Your moans became a continuous, keening wail. Your vision was blurring, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders. The pressure inside you built and built, a dam about to break.

“Now,” he commanded. “Now, little wife. Scream for me.”

Orgasm seized you, your cunt clamping down around his cock in a series of violent, rhythmic contractions that milked him, pulled at him. A hoarse, broken scream tore from your throat, echoing his own roar. Your vision went white, your mind wiped clean of everything except the waves of release that shook you to your core.

He didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, chasing his own end. His hand came down, splaying over your lower belly again, pressing on the bulge of his cock inside you.

“Feel that?” he snarled. “You’re going to feel the next part even more.”

He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and you felt it. The first pulse. His cock jerked inside you and then a flood of heat erupted. It wasn’t like a man’s release. It was a torrent. A thick, gushing deluge of seed that blasted against your cervix. Pulse after pulse, each one accompanied by a guttural grunt from him, his body shaking with the force of it.

You saw your belly swell even more. You felt the pressure increase, liquid heat spreading, distending your lower abdomen. He kept his hand there, feeling it up. When he finally stopped, his seed was leaking around the edges of his still-hard cock, a thick, pearlescent fluid that seeped onto the furs beneath you.

He pulled out, a slow, torturous drag of ridges against your over-sensitized walls. The loss was as profound as the invasion had been. A rush of his seed followed, gushing out of you in a stream, but he was already moving, flipping you onto your stomach. He pulled your hips up, forcing you onto your hands and knees, your head hanging low. You felt his fingers at your entrance, pushing the leaking seed back inside.

“No wasting it,” he grunted and slapped one of your ass cheeks, a sharp crack that stung and throbbed. “We’ve only just started, little wife. You think one filling is enough? I have to be sure. I have to pack you so full of my seed that your body has no choice but to take root.”

And then he was pressing against your entrance again. You were still so full, so sensitive. A whimper of protest escaped you.

“Shhh,” he said, not unkindly, as he pushed the thick head back inside. The stretch was easier this time, your body already softened, flooded with his spend. He sank in with a wet, squelching sound that made your face burn. “The first fuck was to open you. The second is to breed you. The third… the third will be because I can’t stay out of you.”

There he went again, pounding you you like a beast, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. The sounds were filthy—wet and punctuated by his grunts and your hiccuping moans.

He leaned over your back, his chest like a hot stone wall, his mouth at your ear. “I’m going to watch your belly swell,” he growled, his hips never stopping. “First with my seed. Then with my sons. You’ll be heavy with them. Waddling around my den. Your tits will fill with milk for them. I’ll drink from them too. Every part of you is for me.”

His hand snaked around, finding your clit, rubbing it in frantic circles. Another orgasm ripped from your exhausted body. Your arms gave out, your face pressing into the furs as your cunt convulsed around his pistoning cock.

He followed moments later, his rhythm stuttering, a deafening roar torn from his chest as he slammed home and unloaded again. He stayed buried, grinding his hips in slow circles, as if stirring his seed deeper inside you.

He pulled out, and the gush of fluid that followed was endless, soaking the furs. He flipped you onto your back again, spreading your thighs wide, watching with hooded eyes as his combined seed poured out of your gaping cunt. A smile stretched his mouth.

“So much wasted,” he mused, using two thick fingers to scoop the escaping fluid and push it back inside. You whimpered at the overstimulation, your hips twitching. “But it’s fine. I have all night. All week. All season.”

He settled between your legs again, his cock, still hard, still glistening, pressed against your messy pussy. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was more a claiming than a caress, his tongue invading you just as his cock had.

He pulled back, looking into your dazed, tear-streaked eyes. “By the time I’m done, little wife, you won’t remember a time you weren’t full of me. You’ll crave this weight. You’ll beg for it.” He pushed inside again, a smooth glide into the overfilled heat of you. “And when your belly is round and heavy with my firstborn… I’ll put the next one in you.”

And so the night stretched on.

He kept his promise. He filled you again. And again. And again.

The sensations blurred—pain, pleasure, fullness, exhaustion. You lost count of the orgasms he ripped from you, the times he painted your insides with his seed. The furs beneath you became a sodden mess. Your belly, once flat, was now visibly distended. He would press on it, watching with delight as his seed leaked from your overstuffed cunt around his still-embedded cock.

At some point, he slowed and held you cradled against his massive chest, his cock buried inside you, not moving, just… there. A constant presence. His hand rested on your swollen belly, stroking gently.

“You’re carrying it now,” he murmured into your hair. “It's faint but I can smell it. The way your body is holding onto it. It’s already taken.”

You were too exhausted to speak, to think. Your body was no longer your own. It was his, filled to bursting with him. Every breath you took, you could feel the weight of his seed inside you. Every beat of your pulse echoed in your sensitive core.

He began to move again, not with the brutal intensity of before, but with a slow, grinding, possessive roll of his hips. A shuddering sigh escaped him. “One more,” he said. “Just to be sure. To lock it in.”

He fucked you slowly, deeply, watching your face. Your responses were automatic now—the moans, the arching of your back, the clenching of your walls around him. The final orgasm was a gentle wave rather than a crashing break. It pulled you under, a warm, encompassing darkness that stole your breath.

You felt him swell inside you one last time, felt the pulsing heat of another torrent join the ocean already inside you. Your belly, impossibly, seemed to grow even tighter, even rounder. He slumped over you, his breath hot against your neck. He didn’t pull out. He lay there, softening inside you, his hand still cupping the swell of your abdomen.

“Sleep, little wife,” he whispered. “You’ve done well. When you wake, we’ll start again.”

Not rough stone. Not cold chains. Silk. The kind that costs more than your entire village earned in a year. Black sheets ripple beneath your thrashing body as you try to scramble away, fingernails clawing at the fabric, finding no purchase.

"Let me GO!"

Your wrists ache where his grip released you moments ago, phantom pressure still singing along your tendons. You kick out, bare feet connecting with nothing but air because he's already moved—impossibly fast for someone his size.

"Weak," he murmurs.

"No." You push yourself up on shaking arms, ready to bolt for the door—

And freeze.

He stands at the foot of the bed, this demon who plucked you from your garden under the full moon, who carried you through a rift in reality with one arm wrapped around your waist and the other holding a glass of wine he refused to spill. His name is Silas, Duke of the Third Circle, and he is fat.

His belly protrudes in a heavy, rounded curve, straining the buttons of his crimson waistcoat. His thighs are tree trunks beneath fine black trousers. His arms bulge with layers of muscle and flesh, thick as some men's torsos. When he breathes, his whole body moves with the effort.

Three horns curl from his temples: two swept back like a ram's, one shorter in the middle. His skin is dark red shot through with veins of orange that pulse faintly when he's agitated. Right now, they're pulsing quite a lot.

"You can't keep me here," you spit, edging toward the left side of the bed. "My family will—"

"Your family sold you."

Your lungs seize. "What?"

"Three hundred gold pieces." He tilts his head, and the movement makes candlelight slide across his features, he has a broad nose, full lips, gold eyes with pupils that contract to slits when he focuses on you. "Your father came to me himself. Begged, actually. On his knees in my throne room."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" He pulls something from his coat pocket—a leather pouch that jingles when he tosses it onto the bed beside you. "Count it if you like. The exact amount we agreed upon."

Your hand trembles as you reach for the pouch. You already know what you'll find. Your father's gambling debts. The way he looked at you sometimes, like you were livestock to be traded rather than a daughter to be loved.

"Three hundred," you whisper. "I'm worth three hundred gold."

"Infinitely more." Silas moves then, rounding the bed with that deceptive grace, and you scramble backward until your spine hits the ornate headboard. "But your father is a fool. He saw only a woman to be bartered. I saw..."

He pauses at the edge of the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress. The frame groans.

"What did you see?" you demand.

"Everything." His golden eyes roam your face, your throat, the pulse hammering in your jugular. "I saw the way you argue with merchants when they shortchange you. I saw how you sing in your garden in the morning—off-key, always, but so joyful. I saw you reading in bed by moonlight."

"You've been watching me?"

"For years. From the rift that runs behind your property. I told myself it was reconnaissance. The human world, their customs, their weaknesses. But I was lying."

"You're a demon. Lying is what you do."

"Lying is what survival demands." He crawls closer, the bed dipping under his weight, and you press yourself harder against the headboard. "But I've never lied to you. Not once."

"Kidnapping me wasn't a lie?"

"I purchased you. There's a difference."

"THEY'RE THE SAME THING!"

Your shout echoes off the vaulted ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, a servant's footsteps falter, then continue.

Silas stops moving. His horns catch the light, the broken one casting a jagged shadow across his face.

"No," he says quietly. "Kidnapping implies I intend to harm you. I intend to worship you."

Your laugh comes out hysterical. "By locking me in your bedroom?"

"You tried to run the moment I set you down. Three times, in fact. Through the kitchens, out the library window, and—my personal favorite—through the sewer grate in the east wing." His lips twitch. "You have remarkable determination."

"I'll keep trying."

"I know." He shifts again, closer still, until his bulk blocks out the candlelight and you exist only in his shadow. "That's one of the things I adore about you."

"Adore—" You choke on the word. "You don't even know me."

"I know you bite your lip when you're nervous. You're doing it now." His thumb rises, brushing the spot where your teeth worried the flesh, and you flinch. "I know you hum when you're concentrating. I know you cry at weddings, even when you don't know the couple. I know you talk to your plants."

"Everyone talks to their plants."

"Not like you. You apologize to them when you forget to water them." His hand lowers, palm flattening against the mattress beside your hip. "I know your favorite color is green. I know you've never been kissed. Never been touched. Never been seen."

Your heart pounds so hard your ribs ache. "You can't possibly—"

"I've been watching you for eight years, three months, and twelve days." His golden eyes bore into yours. "I know everything about you, my little songbird. And I am obsessed."

"You're insane."

"Undoubtedly." He leans closer, and you smell smoke and clove. "But I'm also patient. I've waited nearly a decade to have you in my bed. I can wait a little longer for you to say yes."

"Say yes to what?"

"Marrying me."

"You—" Your voice fails. You try again. "You want me to marry you?"

"I want you to be my duchess. My consort. The mother of my heirs." His hand moves, fingers brushing your ankle through the thin shift you were taken in, and you jerk away. "I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to argue with you about the household budget. I want to watch you grow old and grey."

"This is insanity. You can't just... you can't just demand someone marry you."

"No?"

"No!"

He considers this, head tilted. "I could force you. I'm a duke. I have an army. I have magic that could twist your mind until you forgot you ever wanted to leave."

Terror ices your veins. "You wouldn't."

"I wouldn't." He says it firmly. "I want your yes, little songbird. Your genuine, enthusiastic, wet yes." His smile sharpens. "And I intend to earn it."

"How?"

His hand moves again, faster this time—catching your ankle before you can retreat, fingers curling around the bone.

"By showing you," he murmurs, "exactly what kind of husband I would be."

"Don't—"

"I won't hurt you." His thumb strokes the hollow of your ankle, slow circles that send unexpected warmth up your calf. "I will never hurt you. But I'm going to make you feel so good that your stubborn little mind finally understands."

"Understands what?"

"That you belong here." He pulls, dragging you down the bed, and you grab at the sheets but they slip through your fingers. "With me. Beneath me."

"LET GO!"

You kick out with your free foot, aiming for his face, but he catches that ankle too. Now both your legs are trapped in his grip, your shift riding up your thighs, exposing you to the cool air and his burning gaze.

"So spirited," he breathes, and his voice has dropped, roughened. "You have no idea how much I love that."

"I'm not something you can break."

"No." He spreads your legs, settling his bulk between them, and he makes your breath hitch. "You're something I get to earn. Every scream. Every moan. Every time you come undone beneath me—I'll earn it."

His hands release your ankles, but before you can scramble away, his palms slide up your calves, your knees, your thighs—pushing the shift higher until it pools around your waist.

"Stop—"

"Look at you." His golden eyes fix on the triangle of hair between your legs, on the soft flesh peeking through, and his pupils blow wide, eat up the gold until only a thin ring remains. "Eight years I've dreamed of this. Eight years I've imagined what you'd look like spread out for me."

"You're sick."

"Perhaps." He leans down, and his breath ghosts across your inner thigh, making you shudder. "But I'm your sick. Your devoted. Your obsessed."

His mouth touches your skin.

You gasp.

His lips are soft, pressed to the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, just above your knee. He kisses there, then drags his mouth higher.

"Your skin tastes like honey," he murmurs against you. "I knew it would."

"It—it doesn't—"

"It does to me." Another kiss, higher. "Everything about you tastes like heaven. And I am starving, little songbird."

"No—"

"Say it again." He kisses higher still, his lips brushing the crease where your thigh meets your body. "Say 'no.' I want to hear how it sounds when you're breathless."

"N-no—"

"Beautiful." He pulls back just enough to look at you, chest heaving beneath that straining waistcoat. "You're so beautiful when you fight me. When you want to surrender but your pride won't let you."

"I don't—I'm not—"

"You're wet." His thumb presses against your core, sliding through slick folds, and you whimper. "Soaking wet, little songbird. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet."

"No, that's—that's just—"

"Arousal?" He circles your entrance, not entering, just tasting with his thumb, spreading your wetness up to your clit. "Yes. I know. I can smell it. Like honey and salt and something sweeter. Something mine."

"M's not—"

"You are."

He lowers his head.

His mouth replaces his thumb.

The first touch of his tongue against your clit sends lightning through your spine. You buck, hips rising off the bed, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

"Delicious," he groans against your flesh, and the vibration makes you cry out. "I knew you'd taste like this. Like everything I've ever wanted."

"Stop—stop, I can't—"

"You can." He licks again, broad strokes that flatten your folds, that dip into your entrance before swirling up to circle your clit. "You can take everything I give you. And you will."

He takes his time, exploring every inch of you with his tongue, learning the places that make you gasp and the places that make you tremble. He laps at your entrance, drinking your wetness like wine, then moves up to suck your clit between his lips.

The sensation destroys you.

"No, no, no—"

"Yes." He releases your clit just long enough to speak. "Yes, yes, yes. You're going to come for me, little songbird. You're going to soak my face, and then you're going to realize something important."

"What—what something?"

"That I'm good at this." He grins, and his lips shine with your arousal. "That I can make you feel things no one else ever has. That this—" He presses two fingers to your entrance, not entering, just testing. "—this is just the beginning."

His mouth returns.

His fingers push inside.

You scream.

Not in pain—in pleasure. The kind of pleasure that steals your breath, that makes your vision blur, that turns your bones to liquid. His tongue works your clit in tight circles while his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot, pressing there, there, there—

"Come," he commands against your flesh. "Come on my tongue, little songbird. Let me taste your surrender."

Your body obeys before your mind can protest.

The orgasm rips through you, white-hot and devastating, and you hear yourself sob his name—Silas—as your hips buck against his face. He doesn't stop. He can't stop. He laps at you through every contraction, swallowing every drop, groaning like he's the one coming undone.

When the tremors finally subside, you collapse into the silk sheets, breath ragged, mind empty.

He rises above you, face wet, eyes blazing.

"One," he says.

"W-what?"

"One orgasm." He kisses your knee. "You owe me at least seven more before I let you sleep."

"You—you can't be serious—"

"I'm always serious about pleasure." He crawls up your body, his belly pressing against your stomach, his weight pinning you to the bed. "And I intend to make you come until you forget your own name. Until the only word you remember is mine."

"Silas—"

"There." He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. "You're learning already."

His hands find your breasts, cupping them through the thin shift, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak against the fabric.

"So responsive," he murmurs. "So sensitive. Every part of you is made for pleasure, isn't it? Made for me."

"I hate you."

"No." He pulls the shift down, baring your breasts to the candlelight, and his breath catches. "No, you don't. You're fascinated. I can see it in your eyes."

"You're seeing what you want to see."

"I'm seeing the truth." He lowers his head, takes one nipple between his lips, and sucks. "I'm taste-testing the truth. And it's sweeter than anything I've ever known."

His mouth works your breast, tongue laving the peak, teeth grazing just hard enough to make you gasp. One hand kneads the other breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger, while the other slides down your belly, through your curls, and finds your clit still swollen from your first release.

"You can't—" You buck against his hand. "I'm too sensitive—"

"Good." He circles your clit, feather-light. "I want you aching. I want you desperate. I want you to beg me for more."

"I'll never beg."

"Won't you?"

He releases your nipple, kisses across your chest to the other breast, and his fingers never stop their torture—circling, pressing, retreating, building.

"Please—"

"Please what, little songbird?"

"Please—" You bite your lip, hate yourself for the word forming on your tongue. "Please... more."

His smile is triumphant.

"Good girl."

He shifts, positioning himself between your legs again, and you feel something else now—the thick weight of his cock pressing against your thigh through his trousers. He's massive, the bulge straining against the fabric, and your body clenches with both fear and anticipation.

"Not yet," he says, reading your expression. "I'm not going to fuck you until you ask me to. Until you're so desperate for my cock that you'll say anything to have it inside you."

"That'll never happen."

"We'll see."

He lowers his head again.

This time, when his mouth finds your cunt, he doesn't hold back. He devours you—tongue plunging deep, lips sucking your clit, fingers thrusting in and out in a rhythm that leaves no room for thought. You thrash beneath him, hands fisting in his hair, pulling, pleading—

"Silas—"

"Come again." His voice vibrates through you. "I want to drown in you."

The second orgasm hits harder than the first. Your body arches off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat, and he drinks it down, slurping at your wetness like a man dying of thirst. When you finally go limp, he rises again.

"Two," he says. "Five more."

"I can't—"

"You can." He kisses up your body, leaving a trail of fire, until his face hovers above yours. "And you will. Because I'm not stopping until you agree to be mine."

"Nooo—" You blink, mind foggy.

"Marry me. Stay with me. Choose me." He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "I've waited eight years, little songbird. I can wait a few more hours. But I won't accept no."

"You're insane."

"Devoted." He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his lips. "Obsessed. Yours."

"I'm not—I haven't agreed to anything—"

"Not yet." He pulls back, reaches down, and you hear the rustle of fabric, his trousers opening, his cock springing free. "But you will."

The sight of him steals your breath.

His cock is enormous; thick and long, the shaft dark red like the rest of him, the head flushed nearly purple. Veins pulse along the length, and the tip weeps, a bead of pre-cum glistening in the candlelight.

"You're—" You swallow. "That's never going to fit."

"It will." He strokes himself, spreading the wetness down his shaft. "Your body was made for me. Everything about you was made for me."

"That's—that's not how biology works—"

"Darling." He laughs, and the sound is warm, almost fond. "I'm a demon. I don't care about biology. I care about you."

He crouches, not entering but resting the head of his cock against your entrance, letting you feel the heat, the weight, the promise.

"Ask me," he murmurs.

"I won't—"

"Ask me to fuck you."

"No—"

"Ask me to breed you."

Your core clenches at the word, and he feels it, grins at it and presses forward just enough to notch himself inside.

"Your body is begging for me," he says. "Even if your mouth won't."

"Silas—"

"Ask."

You bite your lip, fight the words building on your tongue. But your body is burning, empty and aching and desperate, and you want... you need—

"Please," you whisper.

"Please what?"

"Please... fuck me."

He pushes inside.

The stretch steals your breath, makes your eyes water, makes your nails dig into his shoulders. He's so big, bigger than anything you imagined, and he's not even halfway in.

"Breathe," he commands. "Breathe, little songbird. Relax."

"I can't—"

"You can." He holds himself still, letting you adjust, and his hands find yours, fingers intertwining. "I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

"You're inside me."

"A little." He kisses your forehead. "Only a little. There's more."

"There's more?"

"So much more." He pushes again, another inch, and you whine. "And you're going to take all of it. Because you're mine."

"M's not—"

"You are." He seats himself fully, and you feel split open, filled to the brim, his cock pulsing inside your clutching walls. "Look at you. Taking all of me. Like you were built for it."

Tears slip down your cheeks—not from pain, not entirely. From overwhelm. From the impossible fullness of him, the heat of him, the way he looks at you. Gods... he was obsessed.

"Silas—"

"I know." He kisses the tears away. "I know, sweet thing. I've got you."

He begins to move.

Not thrusting. He rocks, a slow undulation of his hips that slides his cock against every sensitive inch of your inner walls. Each roll presses his fat belly against your clit, creates friction that makes you gasp.

"That's it," he murmurs against your mouth. "That's my good girl. Taking me so perfectly."

"I'm not—hah—I'm not good—"

"You're perfect." He rocks deeper, and a noise escapes you; half-moan, half-sob. "You're everything I've ever wanted. Every fantasy. Every dream. Everything."

His pace quickens, still not frantic, still controlled. He fucks you like he has all the time in the world, because he does. Because he's not stopping until you break.

"Come again," he says.

"I can't—I'm too—"

"You can." His thumb finds your clit, presses down. "Come on my cock, little songbird. Soak me."

Your third orgasm crashes through you, pulling you under, your walls spasming around him, milking his length.

"Fuck—"

His composure cracks.

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed slamming against the wall, and you cling to him—his shoulders, his neck, his horns—anything to anchor yourself as he wrecks you.

"Mine," he growls against your throat. "Mine, mine, mine."

"Yours—" The word escapes before you can stop it. "I'm yours—"

"Say it again."

"Yours. I'm yours. Silas, please—"

"Please what?"

"I need—I need—"

"Tell me."

"Come inside me." You sob the words. "Fill me. Please—"

He breaks.

His hips stutter, cock pulsing, and you feel the jets of his seed, filling you, claiming you. He groans your name like a prayer, forehead pressed to yours, body shuddering through the aftershocks.

When he finally stills, you're both gasping.

He doesn't pull out. He can't—his cock remains hard inside you, stretching you, owning you.

"How many?" he asks, voice wrecked.

"W-what?"

"Orgasms." He kisses your damp cheek. "How many did I give you?"

"Three... I think? Maybe four?"

"Three." He nuzzles your nose. "I owe you four more."

"You—" You laugh, breathless. "You can't be serious."

"I'm deadly serious." He shifts, rolls onto his side, taking you with him, keeping you impaled on his cock. "I told you. I'm not stopping until you agree."

"Agree to marry you?"

"Yes."

"You're going to fuck me until I say yes?"

"I'm going to pleasure you until you say yes." His hand slides down your belly, finds your clit—still swollen, still sensitive—and begins to circle. "There's a difference."

"You're—ngh—you're insufferable."

"I am." He kisses you, tongue sweeping into your mouth. "And you're going to be my wife."

"What if I say no?"

"Then we continue." His fingers work your clit faster, and you moan into his mouth. "For hours. For days. I have all the time in the world, little songbird."

His fingers, his cock still buried inside you, the way he looks at you—it's too much. You feel another orgasm building, climbing, demanding.

"Silas—"

"Come for me again." He speeds his fingers. "Come on my cock. Let me feel you."

You do.

The fourth orgasm tears through you, weaker than the others but no less devastating, and you clutch at him, bury your face in his chest, breathe him in.

"I can't," you whisper. "I can't do this anymore."

"Can't come? Or can't resist?"

"Both."

He laughs and kisses the top of your head.

"Then say yes."

"You're manipulating me."

"I'm convincing you." His fingers slow but don't stop. "There's a difference."

"Not—nghhhh—not from where I'm lying."

He shifts, rolls you onto your back, his cock still fills you, still stretches you, and you whimper at the sensation.

"Say yes," he murmurs.

"Silas—"

"Say yes."

"What if I'm not—what if I'm not what you think I am?"

"You're exactly what I think you are." He cups your face, thumbs brushing your tears away. "You're brave. Stubborn. Fierce. You sing off-key to your plants, apologize to them, you argue with stupid merchants, you're brave." He kisses your forehead. "You're perfect."

"I'm not—"

"You're perfect for me."

Something in your chest cracks.

"Say yes," he whispers again.

"Hn... don't make me.."

"Say it!"

"Yes."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Yes." You're crying now, and you can't stop. "Yes, I'll marry you, yes, I'll stay, yes, yes—"

He kisses you fervently. Like you're oxygen and he's been drowning. When he finally pulls back, his face is wet too.

"Thank you," he says. "Thank you, thank you, thank you—"

"Don't make me regret this."

"Never." He kisses your nose, your cheeks, your lips. "I will spend every day of our marriage making you grateful you said yes."

"That's—that's a lot of pressure—"

"Good." He grins. "I perform well under pressure."

He begins to move again.

"Now," he murmurs against your throat, "since you've already agreed, I believe I owe you a couple more orgasms than promised. Just to celebrate."

"Silas—"

"Future husband." He thrusts hard, and your words dissolve into a moan. "Say it again."

"Future—ngh—future husband—"

"Good girl."

He fucks you through the night.

Through the fifth orgasm, and the sixth, and the seventh. Through the moment you lose count entirely, lost in the slide of his skin against yours, the weight of his body, the heat of his cock and the weight of his obsession.

When dawn finally creeps through the windows, you're curled in his arms, still joined, still connected.

He kisses your forehead.

"Sleep, little songbird." He pulls a blanket over your bodies, tucks it around your shoulders. "I'll wake you for breakfast."

"Promise?"

"Always."

You hear his hooves on the hardwood before you see him.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Your thighs press together instinctively, the wet heat between them spreading against the ruined gusset of your panties. You're kneeling on the faux fur rug he laid down in the bedroom—for your knees, he said, because good little cows need comfort when they wait for their bull.

The word bull makes your cunt clench around nothing. Makes your tits ache with the fullness building behind your nipples.

"Look at you." His voice rolls through the room. Deep. Gravel-thick. "My pretty heifer, all dressed up and leaking already."

You hadn't realized you were leaking.

Looking down, you see the twin dark circles blooming through the satin cups—one on each side, damp and spreading. Your nipples are hard and each throb of your heartbeat pushes another trickle of milk past the barrier of the fabric. The sensation makes you dizzy. Makes your mouth water.

"I didn't—" you start, but the words tangle on your tongue.

He kneels behind you, and his bulk blocks out the ceiling light. The heat of him washes over your back—that warmth he always carried, even before the hypnosis, even before you forgot why you left him in the first place. His hands find your shoulders. Squeeze. His thumbs press into the knots at the base of your neck.

"Didn't what, sweetmeat?" His muzzle brushes your ear, the coarse fur scratching your cheek. "Didn't mean to get wet? Didn't mean to lactate all over my good rug?"

"I can't control—"

"Course you can't." His laugh is a low rumble that vibrates through your spine and settles in your belly. "That's the point. You're not supposed to think anymore, remember? You gave that up. Gave everything up. Said you wanted to be my cow, didn't you?"

You did say that.

You remember saying it, though the memory feels like a dream you're watching from outside your own skull. You remember his voice going soft and hypnotic, remember the spiral he drew in the air with his fingertip, remember the way your thoughts just... dissolved. Like sugar in hot milk.

"Yes," you breathe. "I said that."

"And what does my sweet cow do?"

The question makes your cunt pulse. Makes your ass lift instinctively, presenting yourself the way he taught you. The way that makes his breathing go ragged and his cock swell against the seam of his leather trousers.

"Get milked," you whisper. "And bred."

His hand comes down on the curve of your ass, making you jolt forward onto your palms. The impact sends a shock through your clit, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning.

"Louder."

"GET MILKED AND BRED!" The words tear out of you, and the shame of them should burn, should wake you up from whatever fog he's wrapped around your mind, but instead it feels like coming home. Like finally saying something true.

"That's my girl." He reaches around and unhooks your bra. The straps slide down your arms, and your tits swing free—heavier than they were last week, heavier than they were yesterday. The potion is still working. Still filling you up from the inside. "Fuck, look at these."

He cups them from behind, his palms wide enough to hold both at once. His thumbs find your nipples and press, and milk sprays from the tips in thin white arcs that spatter against the rug. You watch the droplets soak into the faux fur and feel your brain short-circuit.

"Please," you whisper.

"Please what?"

"I need—" You can't finish. The words won't form. All you know is the pressure in your breasts and the emptiness between your thighs and the way his thumbs keep pressing, keep milking, keep making a mess of everything.

"You need what, heifer?" He pinches both nipples at once and tugs, and the sensation is so sharp and so good that you cry out. Milk runs down his fingers, down your stomach, pooling in your navel. "Use your words. I know you still have some left in that pretty head."

"I need you to fuck me."

He releases your nipples and you whine at the loss. Then his hands are on your hips, pulling your ass back against his crotch, and you feel the ridge of his cock through his trousers—thick and long and inhumanly hot. He grinds against you once, twice, and the friction against your soaked panties makes your eyes roll back.

"Beggars can't be choosers," he says. "You'll get milked first. That's the rule. Cows get drained before they get filled."

He pushes you forward until your chest is flat against the rug, your tits squashed beneath you, milk soaking into the fabric. Your ass stays up—he holds it there with one broad hand on your lower back. His other hand hooks into the waistband of your panties and rips them down your thighs. The satin tears like tissue paper.

"Spread."

You obey without thinking. Your knees slide wider, opening yourself to the cool air of the room, and you feel your pussy lips part, feel the wetness that's been gathering there since you woke up this morning, since you put on the lingerie he left on the dresser, since you heard his hooves in the hallway.

"Glistening," he groans. "Dripping down your thighs like a bitch in heat. You know what that does to me?"

You don't answer. You can't. Your face is pressed into the rug and all you can smell is milk and arousal and the musk of him, and your clit is throbbing.

His fingers find your cunt from behind—two of them, thick and calloused, sliding through your folds without resistance. You're so wet that you hear it. A slick, obscene noise that fills the silence. He circles your entrance without pushing in, just teasing, just making you ache.

"So eager," he murmurs. "And so empty. When's the last time you had a cock in here, sweetmeat?"

"Before I left," you gasp. "Before—before the hypnosis. Months."

"Months." He says it like a curse. Like an insult. "And you expect me to believe you didn't fuck anyone else while you were gone?"

"No. I swear. I couldn't—no one felt right. No one smelled right. I'd try and my body would just..." You shudder as his fingers press deeper, still not entering, just spreading your lips wider. "Would just dry up. Like it knew."

"Like it knew you belonged to me." He says it with absolute certainty. Because in his mind—in your mind now, too—it's true. Your cunt belongs to him. Your tits belong to him. The milk leaking from your nipples belongs in his mouth or on his cock or soaking into his rug, but it will never belong to anyone else.

"Yes," you sob. "Please. Please, I need—"

"You need to get milked." He pulls his fingers away and you hear him unbutton his trousers. The sound of his zipper makes your mouth flood with saliva. "You need to present your udders like a good heifer and let me drain every drop before I even think about breeding that empty cunt."

He kneels behind you, and then his body is covering yours—the weight of him, the heat, the fur of his chest pressing against your bare back. His cock slides between your thighs, not entering, just lying there against your slit, and you feel every inch of it. The ridge of the head. The vein that runs along the underside. The sheer size of it, thicker than your wrist, longer than your forearm.

"You feel that?" he asks. "That's what's going to fill you up when you've earned it. But first—" His hands come around to your chest, cupping your tits from behind. "First we deal with these."

He squeezes. Not gently. Not carefully. He squeezes like he's wringing out a cloth, and milk jets from your nipples in thick streams that splatter against the floor. The pressure release makes you sob with relief. Makes your whole body shake.

"There we go," he says, pulling you back against him and working your breasts with his palms, pressing from the outside in, forcing the milk out in rhythmic pulses. "That's it. Let it all out. Such a good cow, so full for me, so desperate to be empty."

Your nipples are raw and aching and you can't stop crying and moaning. From the way your body responds to his hands like it was built for this. For him.

"Please," you gasp. "Please, I need—"

"You need to tell me how it feels."

"Full. So full. It hurts—"

"It's supposed to hurt." He twists your nipples between his fingers and you scream. More milk sprays out, thinner now, the last dregs of the morning's accumulation. "That's how you know it's working. That's how you know your body is changing. Getting bigger. Getting better. Getting ready to feed my calves."

The word calves hits you. Your cunt clenches around nothing. Your hips buck backward against his cock.

"You want that, don't you?" His voice is soft, the hypnotic cadence creeping back in. "You want me to put a baby in you. Want your belly to swell while your tits keep growing. Want to waddle around this house with my seed dripping down your thighs."

"Yes."

"Say it properly."

"I want you to breed me! I want your cock inside me. I want you to come so deep that I can't—that I won't—"

"Won't what?"

"Won't ever forget who I belong to."

He pulls his hands away from your tits and you whimper at the loss. Then his fingers are in your hair, fisting the strands, pulling your head back until your spine arches and your throat is bared.

"Look at me," he says.

You do. You look into those yellow eyes, slit-pupiled and ancient, and you see nothing but hunger. Nothing but ownership.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he says. "And when I'm done, you're going to thank me. You're going to crawl to the kitchen and cook dinner. And then you're going to come back here and let me do it again. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, sir."

He releases your hair and your head drops forward. His hands find your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you open. The head of his cock presses against your pusy—just the head, just the first thick inch—and you forget how to breathe.

"Look at that," he rasps. "Look how your cunt is trying to suck me in. You're drooling for it, aren't you? Making a mess all over my cock."

He pushes forward and your body stretches around him—too much, too fast, too big—and you whimper into the rug. Your inner walls clamp down on him, trying to push him out, trying to accommodate him, doing both at once and failing at both.

"Fuck," he groans. "You're tight. Tighter than I remember. That's what happens when you leave me for months, sweetmeat. Your cunt forgets its job."

"I'm sorry," you sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"I know you are." He pulls back until only the tip remains inside you, then slams forward again. Your vision whites out. Your fingernails rake through the rug. "That's why I'm going to remind you. Every day. Every night. Every time you think you can walk away from me, I'm going to fill this cunt until you can't remember your own name."

He sets a rhythm—not fast, not yet. Deep, dragging strokes that pull almost all the way out before shoving back in. Each thrust makes a wet squelch, your arousal slicking the way, and each withdrawal makes you clench around nothing, desperate to keep him inside.

"Listen to that," he says. "Listen to what a slutty little cunt sounds like when it's getting what it needs."

You hear it. The squelch and slap of his cock plunging into you. The ragged gasp of your own breathing. The low, animal sounds he makes with every thrust. He leans forward, pressing your chest harder into the rug, and his mouth finds your ear. His breath is hot and damp and smells like the mint he chews after meals.

"You're going to cum for me," he says. "And when you do, I'm going to feel it. Your cunt is going to squeeze my cock so hard I won't be able to move. And then I'm going to keep fucking you through it. Through every clench. Every spasm. Every time you think you're done, I'm going to fuck another one out of you."

"I can't—"

"You can." His hand slides between your body and the rug, finds your clit. The callus on his thumb rubs circles into the swollen nub and your hips buck backward, driving his cock deeper. "You can and you will. Come on my cock, heifer. Show me how much you missed me."

The pressure builds in your belly, all at once, like a dam breaking. Your cunt seizes around him, clenching so hard that he grunts, and the orgasm tears through you in ragged pulses that make your whole body shake.

"THERE," he snarls. "THERE it is. Squeeze me. Milk my cock with that greedy little cunt."

You can't speak. Can't think. Can only feel; the drag of his cock through your spasming walls, the relentless pressure of his thumb on your clit, the way your tits jiggle with every thrust, spraying the last drops of milk across the rug.

He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. He fucks you through the peak and past it, into the oversensitive place where pleasure and pain are the same thing, and you sob into the rug because you can't tell which one you're feeling anymore.

"Good," he says. "Good cow. Taking my cock so well. But we're not done yet."

He pulls out and you feel empty. Hollow. Your cunt gapes for a moment before clenching shut, and a rush of your own wetness drips down your thighs.

"Turn over."

You do. Your limbs are shaking so hard you can barely move, but you roll onto your back and look up at him. He's beautiful in the lamplight—the curve of his horns, the breadth of his shoulders, the dark fur that covers his chest and arms. His cock juts out from his body, slick with your arousal, the head dark and swollen.

"Open your mouth."

You obey. He kneels over you, straddling your chest, and guides his cock between your lips. The taste of yourself is sharp and salt-sweet, and you open your throat the way he taught you, taking him as deep as you can.

"Hands on your tits," he says. "Squeeze them while I fuck your face. Get the last of the milk out."

Your hands move. You cup your breasts—they feel foreign, too heavy, too full even after he drained them—and press. Milk dribbles from your nipples, running down your ribs, pooling in the hollow of your throat. He leans forward and laps at it, his tongue rough against your skin, and the vibration of his groan travels down his cock and into your mouth.

"This is what you are now," he says, pulling back to look at you. His cock slips from your lips and you gasp for air. "A pair of tits, a cunt and a mouth. That's all that's left of you. And you're happy about it, aren't you?"

You nod. Because it's true. Because the last scraps of who you used to be are buried so deep you can barely hear them screaming.

"Say it."

"I'm happy," you whisper. "I'm your cow. I exist to be milked and bred."

He smiles. "Then let's finish the job."

He flips you onto your stomach again—manhandles you like you weigh nothing, positions you on your hands and knees, and drives into you in one stroke. You scream into the rug and he covers your mouth with his hand, muffling the sound.

"Shh," he says. "You'll wake the neighbors. And then they'll hear what a slut you are. How loud you moan when your bull fucks you."

He pounds into you—fast now, relentless, the rhythm of a monster. His balls slap against your clit with every thrust, and the wet sounds fill the room, obscene and constant. You feel everything. The stretch of your pussy around his cock. The ache in your nipples where milk still beads. The scrape of his fur against your back.

"I'm going to cum," he says. "I'm going to fill this cunt so full that you'll be dripping for days. And every time you feel it running down your thighs, you're going to remember who put it there."

"Please," you sob. "Please, please—"

"Please what? Please come inside you? Please breed you like the cow you are?"

"YES!"

He slams into you one last time and holds there, buried to the hilt, and you feel his cock pulse. Feel the hot rush of his come flooding your cunt—so much of it, too much, spilling out around his shaft and running down your thighs in thick white ropes.

He stays inside you while he finishes, his breath ragged against your neck, his body shaking with the force of his release. And when he finally pulls out, you feel the emptiness immediately. Feel his seed dripping from you, pooling on the rug beneath your knees.

"Good cow," he says, stroking your hair. "Now crawl to the kitchen. I want to see you cook."

You start to move. Your limbs are shaking, your thighs slick with his come, your tits aching and empty. Behind you, you hear him light a cigarette and exhale slowly.

"And after dinner," he says, "we're going to do that again. And again. Until you're so full you can't walk straight."

You crawl toward the kitchen and feel his seed dripping down your legs, and somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice is screaming.

But it's getting quieter now. Drowning in the milk and the come and the sound of his voice.

By morning, you won't hear it at all.

And you'll be happy about that.

♡────── 🎀༘⋆──𐀔˚˖♡ ──────────── 🎀༘⋆──𐀔˚˖

My reaction to this:

The jungle had gone silent.

That was my first warning—the one I ignored until something moved nearby.

"You reek of terror, little thing."

The voice scraped from everywhere and nowhere, a low rumble that vibrated through my ribs. I spun, knife raised, and met something that shouldn't exist. Seven feet of armored muscle, tusks framing a mouth that curled into what might have been amusement on any other creature.

His mandibles clicked. Tek-ch-ch.

"I am not going to kill you."

"Then what?" My voice cracked.

He stepped closer. The air thickened with his scent, a musky scent that made my lungs tighten. "I am going to take you apart. Piece by shivering piece."

He didn't bind me.

Worse—he watched me run, then caught me mid-stride, one massive palm spanning my entire waist. The impact drove my breath out in a whoosh. His other hand caged my jaw, forcing my gaze upward.

"Struggle," he said. "I enjoy the chase."

My nails raked his forearm. He didn't bleed. Instead, his purr started—a subsonic thrum I felt in my molars, my sternum, the junction between my thighs.

Oh.

No. No, my body was not supposed to respond to that.

But my nipples tightened against my shirt. His luminous red eyes tracked the movement.

"Interesting."

Ans so... he took me away. To his lair. No matter how hard I struggled, he kept going unbothered. He had me naked within minutes, my clothes discarded. The cave floor was cold against my back, but his hands—four-fingered, rough as tree bark—burned everywhere they touched.

"Your breasts first," he announced. "They fascinate me."

His thumbpad circled my areola, not touching the peak. Just... circling. Slower than any human lover. Deliberate. My hips bucked upward involuntarily.

"No," I gasped. "Don't—"

"Don't what?" He lowered his head, and his mandibles parted to reveal a tongue that shouldn't fit in any mouth. "Don't make you feel?"

That tongue dragged across my nipple. The texture—rough, split at the tip and hot—sent a zzt of sensation straight to my cunt. I heard myself whine. Actually whine, like an animal in a trap.

But the trap was my own body, betraying me.

"Hhnnngg—"

"Such a sweet noise." He sucked my nipple between his lips, and his teeth, those hunter's teeth grazed the sensitive bud. Not breaking skin. Just threatening to. The fear and pleasure tangled so tight I couldn't separate them.

His other hand slid down my belly. Past my navel. Through the coarse hair above my sex.

"No—"

"Yes."

His fingers found my slit already soaked.

I wanted to die.

I wanted to spread my legs wider. Both wants existed simultaneously, violently.

"So wet." His voice dropped an octave. "For a creature so afraid, your body knows exactly what it needs."

He parted my folds with two fingers, exposing me to the cool air. I heard the shlick of my own pussy unfolding, obscene in the silence.

"There," he breathed, a finger pressing directly against my clit, circling the hood. "This little pearl...."

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. He wasn't asking. He was studying.

His mandibles clicked faster when he saw my reaction. Tek-tek-tek-ch. "You tremble when I touch here. Why?"

"Because it's—ah—sensitive—"

"Sensitive." He rolled the word around. Then his finger rolled down.

My back arched off the stone. A sound tore from my throat, half protest, half prayer.

"Again," he commanded, and did it again.

I came.

Not politely. Not quietly. My pussy clenched around nothing, my thighs snapped shut around his wrist, and I wailed. His finger never stopped moving. He rode me through it, watching my face with those burning eyes. When the shudders subsided, I lay gasping. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.

"You taste of salt," he said, licking my cheek. "And your sex smells of honey. A contradiction."

"Fuck... you..."

"Perhaps later. First, I want more of these." He tapped my clit. My hips jerked. "How many can you give me?"

Three. The answer was three.

The second one built slower. He'd pushed two fingers inside me; thick, knobby things that stretched me too full and curled them while his other hand pinched my nipples, rolling each bud until the peaks were swollen and dark. His mandibles teased my areolas, the outer edges fluttering against the sensitive skin.

"You make the most delicious sounds," he murmured against my breast. "Like a wounded thing. But wounded things don't get wetter."

He was right. I was soaking his fingers. Every squelch when he thrust them made me burn with shame and need in equal measure.

"Please—"

"Please what? Stop? Continue? Use your words, little prey."

"Please let me come again—"

His purr ratcheted higher. "Good girl."

That second climax ripped through me like a tree falling. Slow at first, then all at once, crack, splinter and collapse. My walls seized his fingers in rhythmic pulses, clench-release-clench, and he groaned—an actual grruuhh from deep in his chest.

"You're strangling my hand."

I couldn't answer. I was still seeing stars.

He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop and brought them to his mouth. Tasted me. His eyes half-lidded. He must have liked the taste because he lowered his mouth to my sex.

His tongue was not human. Too long, too textured, too hot. It lapped at my folds like a cat drinking cream, then zeroed in on my clit. The split tip nestled on either side of the hood, and he sucked.

I screamed. Actually screamed and ma de a sound like a laugh and the vibration went straight through my clit. My third orgasm was sharp, like a blade between my ribs, there and gone and there again as he refused to stop licking.

"Too much—ghhhh!"

"No such thing." His voice was muffled by my flesh. "You'll give me another."

I couldn't. I was shaking apart, my fingers twisted in his mane of quills, my heels digging into his shoulders. But my body didn't care what I could or couldn't do. It arched into his mouth, chased his tongue, begged without words.

When the fourth one hit, I blacked out for three seconds.

When I came back, he was positioning himself between my thighs. His cock—darn, his cock—was nothing I'd ever seen. Gigantic. Long. Ridged. Thick at the base, tapering to a pointed tip that wept translucent fluid. His balls hung heavy beneath, sac distended and full.

"You'll take all of it," he said, and it wasn't a question.

I should have been terrified. I was terrified. But my pussy was dripping, my clit still twitching from his mouth, and when he notched that tapered head at my entrance—

Ssssslink.

He pushed in an inch. My walls flared, stretched, burned in a way that made me gasp.

"Breathe," he commanded.

I breathed.

Another inch. The ridges scraped against my walls, sending sparks up my spine. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.

"Tight," he gritted out. "Tighter than I expected. Ghhhrrr—"

"Then stop—"

"No."

He thrust. All. Of. It. Every impossible inch, seated inside me in one stroke. I felt split open, full, claimed. My pussy contracted around him, trying to accommodate, and he threw his head back and roared, a sound that shook dust from the cave ceiling.

"Mine," he snarled. "Your cunt just said mine."

And he fucked me. There was no other word for what he was doing. His rhythm was inhuman. Long, dragging withdrawals until just the tip remained, then shoving back in hard enough to shift my body up the stone floor. Each thrust caught those ridges against my front wall, and each time—each time—my clit dragged against his pubic bone.

I couldn't speak. Could only whimper in time with his pounding, my breasts bouncing, my nipples scraping against his chest plates.

"Look at you," he growled. "Taking me. Loving it. Your fear is gone—I can smell it. All that's left is need."

He wasn't wrong. I needed this. Needed the stretch, the burn, the fullness. Needed the way his balls slapped against my ass with each thrust—thwap-thwap-thwap—the wet sound of my cunt swallowing him.

"More," I heard myself say. "Harder—please—"

His mandibles spread wide in what I realized was a smile. "As my prey commands."

He flipped me onto my stomach. Dragged my hips up. Entered me again from behind, deeper this time, an angle that made me see white. His hand fisted in my hair, pulling my head back.

"This is how I claim," he hissed in my ear. "On your knees. Begging."

"I'm not—ah—begging—"

"Your cunt is." He thrust harder. Faster. "It's gripping me. Sucking me. Begging me to fill it."

His thumb found my clit from behind, rubbing in tight, frantic circles that had no rhythm, only purpose.

I shattered.

The climax was sweet death, a long drop into something bottomless. My pussy wrung him and he roared again, buried to the hilt, and I felt heat flooding my insides. His seed. Hotter than human, so much of it, painting my walls in thick ropes.

He kept thrusting through it. Kept milking his own orgasm with my body. Kept growlinguntil finally, finally, he stilled. We lay tangled in the aftermath. His weight pinned me to the stone, but I didn't mind. His cum leaked from my cunt, dribbling down my thighs, and I still didn't mind.

"You're trembling again," he rasped.

"Mm." I couldn't form real words.

"Different trembling. Not fear." His tongue rasped across my shoulder. "What is it?"

"Bliss," I managed. "I think that's what this is called."

His purr started again. Softer this time. Almost... contented.

"When the sun rises, I hunt again."

"Okay."

"You stay. The cave is warm. I would... share my kills."

I turned my head. Looked into those burning eyes—still predatory, still dangerous, but something else there too. Something that looked back at me like I was important.

"If I stay," I muttered, "do I get more of that tongue?"

His mandibles clicked in what I now recognized as amusement. "As often as you beg for it."

"Then I'm staying."

Author: Same girl... same...

My reaction:

Three months.

Ninety-three days of watching your husband stride through the manor and ignore you.

Alaric didn't speak to you unless necessary. Didn't touch you. Didn't look at you — not really. His black-veined eyes would skim across your face like you were furniture, checking for damage, and then he'd disappear into his study or into the mist-shrouded forests surrounding his estate.

You tried everything.

Lavender pastries cooling on his desk when he returned from hunts. Silk robes that slipped off one shoulder when you served his wine. Soft touches to his arm that he didn't flinch from but didn't lean into either.

Nothing.

Tonight, you'd overheard him speaking with his father's enforcer in the library.

"She's adequate. The debt is paid. That's all that matters."

Adequate.

Not lovely. Not wanted. Not his.

You'd fled to your shared bedroom — his bedroom, really, since he hadn't touched you in it — and packed a small satchel. Coins you'd saved from household allowances. A wool cloak. Bread wrapped in cloth.

You'd wait until midnight, when he would be busy patroling. Then you'd slip through the garden gate and never look back.

Better to be a runaway bride than a ghost in someone else's house.

Midnight bled into 1 AM.

The moon hid behind clouds. Your boots sank into wet earth as you pushed through the hedges toward the crumbling wall where ivy had weakened the mortar.

Freedom tasted like rain and terror.

You were halfway through the gap when cold fingers closed around your ankle.

No — claws.

"Where," came the voice from behind you, "do you think you're going?"

You screamed. He dragged you backward through the gap like a caught fish, thorns tearing at your cloak, your shoulder scraping stone. When you landed on the wet grass, Alaric stood over you — but not the Alaric you knew.

His usual controlled stillness had shattered. Chest heaving. Eyes burning with something that wasn't rage but desperation. His dark hair was tangled. Mud streaked his boots up to the knees.

He'd run after you.

"I asked you a question." His voice was deep and husky. "Why would you leave me?"

You scrambled backward on your elbows. "You don't want me there."

"I don't — " He laughed. "I don't want you?"

"You never touch me." You broke. "You never look at me. I cook for you, I wear the gowns your mother chose, I warm your bed alone, and you — you said I was adequate. Like a servant. Like a — "

"Because if I touched you," Alaric snarled, dropping to his knees between your spread legs, caging you against the mud, "I wouldn't stop."

His hips pressed into yours and — oh.

Oh...!

The ridge of his cock, even through leather trousers, was obscene. Thick as your wrist. Long enough to press against your lower belly. And something metal caught against your inner thigh as he shifted.

"You think I didn't notice?" He grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze to his. "The way you leaned into my arm. The way you licked your lips when you poured my wine. I stopped looking because every glance made me want to pin you to the dinner table and fuck you until you fainted."

"You what?"

"I'm a monster, sweetheart." His thumb dragged across your lower lip, pressing in just enough to wet the pad. "And monsters don't get to want things. So I stayed away. Let you think I was cold instead of starving."

Your pussy throbbed, a heavy pulse that soaked through your undergarments.

"I'm not leaving," you whispered.

"No." His pupils dilated. "You're not."

Alaric ripped your cloak open. Buttons scattered into the grass. His claws made quick work of your dress's bodice, tearing linen and lace until your breasts spilled out, nipples pebbled from cold and desire.

"Look at you." He cupped one breast roughly, thumb grinding across the areola until you arched. "Three months without permission to taste, and you're already dripping for me."

"I'm not — "

He shoved a hand between your legs, palm flat against your soaked undergarments. When he pulled back, strings of your slick stretched between his fingers.

"Not wet?" He showed you the evidence, then brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean with a groan. "You taste like honey and sin. Spread your legs, wife. Now."

You obeyed.

He tore your undergarments off — didn't bother unlacing, just ripped them at the seam. Cold air hit your exposed pussy. Your outer lips, plump and flushed. Your clit, already peeking from its hood. The darker color of your inner folds, glistening.

"I've imagined this." His voice dropped. "Every night. Your tight little hole gripping my cock while I pound you into the mattress. But the floor — " He shoved you onto your back in the mud, moss cushioning your spine. " — the floor works better. No escape."

"Alaric — "

"Husband," he snarled. "I am your husband."

His trousers came undone with a tug. His cock sprang free and you gasped.

Massive. Veined. The head flushed an angry purple, already leaking pre-cum that beaded on the slit. And through the shaft — just below the glans — a silver barbell pierced through the flesh, each end capped with tiny onyx beads.

"My kind mark ourselves." He stroked himself once, watching you watch. "To claim what's ours. I had this done the week we married. Been waiting to use it on you."

He crawled over you, knees nudging yours wider apart. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance. The piercing caught on your inner labia.

"Last chance." His jaw was tight. "Tell me no and I'll stop. I'll walk away and we'll pretend this never happened."

"Don't you dare walk away. I want my husband."

He snarled and pushed.

The stretch was immediate. He was too big, too thick, and the piercing scraped against your inner walls like a built-in stimulator. Your pussy clenched hard enough to hurt.

"Relax, sweetheart." He grabbed your hips, thumbs digging into the divots above your pelvic bone. "Relax or I'll tear you."

"I can't — "

"You can. You will." He pulled back an inch, pushed forward two. "Fucking hell, you're tight. Squeezing me like a fist."

The sounds — gods, the sounds. Every thrust produced a wet shlick as your body desperately lubricated itself around the invasion. His balls slapped against your skin. The piercing rubbed against your g-spot with each drag.

"There." You clawed at his shoulders. "There, there, don't stop — "

"You like that?" He angled his hips differently, driving deeper. Your vision whited out. "Like my pierced cock dragging against that sweet spot? Feel it — feel me inside you."

He grabbed your hand and pressed it against your lower belly.

You felt him. The bulge of his cock moving beneath skin and muscle, visible as a ridge pushing against your abdomen each time he bottomed out.

"Oh my god — "

"That's right." He pressed down on your hand, making you feel the depth. "I'm splitting you open. Every inch. Every vein. And you're taking it because you were made for me. My wife."

Your orgasm built without warning, started in your toes and spiraled upward. Your pussy lips clung to his shaft, the inner tissues flushing, your clit grinding against his pubic bone with every thrust.

"Close." You couldn't catch your breath. "Husband, I'm — "

"Not yet." He pulled out entirely.

The sudden emptiness made you sob.

He flipped you onto your stomach, hauled your hips up, and drove back inside in one brutal stroke. This angle was worse — deeper. His piercing caught on your cervix's edge, sending jolts of pain-pleasure through your spine.

"Now." He leaned over your back, teeth grazing your ear. "Now you come."

His hand snaked around your hip. Two thick fingers found your clit and pressed down in hard circles.

"That's it. Squeeze me. Milk my cock like the desperate little wife you are."

You climaxed, your whole body convulsing, inner walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses, a gush of fluid splashing against his thighs and the wet squelch-squelch-squelch of him fucking you through it.

"Good girl." His voice was feral. "Now mine."

He pulled your hair, forcing your back into a bow, and drove as deep as anatomy allowed. His balls tightened. His cock swelled impossibly bigger. And then, with a guttural roar that echoed through the trees, he came.

Hot jerks of seed painted your walls. The first spurt hit your cervix. The second, third, fourth — so much you felt your belly swell slightly, felt the overflow drip down his shaft and your thighs.

His piercing tugged with each pulse of his release.

You collapsed together in the mud, his softening cock still buried, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.

"I would have burned the world," he whispered, "if you'd left me."

You turned your head just enough to kiss his jaw. "Then don't give me a reason to run again."

He pulled out slowly. The pop of the piercing clearing your entrance made you both groan. He then gathered you against his chest, heedless of the mess.

You've learned to make yourself small.

It's a survival skill, honed over eighteen months of cohabitating with your boyfriend, Derek. He was good at first but now he's changed...

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and ozone, Derek's latest project spilling across the kitchen table in several wires and soldering burns.

The robot stands in the corner— tall and towering in contrast to you, to your boyfriend even. Seven feet of gleaming framework. Hollow chest cavity where your boyfriend tinkers. LED lights that pulse a sleepy blue.

You've talked to it. When Derek's out. When you were lonely and sad...

"Bet you wish you could walk away too," you whispered last Tuesday, pressing your palm to its cold thoracic plate. The LEDs flickered. You thought it was a glitch.

It wasn't a glitch.

Tonight, rain lashes the window.

Your boyfriend is three beers deep, scowling at a soldering iron that won't heat fast enough. You're trying to cook. Something simple, pasta, but your hands shake so bad the tomato sauce sloshes over the rim.

"Clumsy bitch," he mutters without looking up.

You flinch. Apologize. "Sorry, sorry, I'll clean it—"

"Yeah, you will."

The robot watches. Its blue gaze tracks you across the linoleum, head rotating with a soft sound that your boyfriend doesn't notice. He never notices. Too focused on the wiring harness, the servo coupling, the thousand tiny pieces that make his creation almost functional.

Almost alive.

You're wiping the counter when Derek stands. Staggers. Beer bottle swinging loose in his grip.

"What'd I say about touching my tools?"

"I didn't—I was just cleaning—"

He backhands the sponge from your hand. Then his palm connects with your cheek—smack—sharp enough to snap your head sideways.

"Don't lie to me."

Tears spring. You curl inward, arms wrapping your ribs, already counting the heartbeats until he tires himself out. But he grabs your wrist. Squeezes.

"Look at me when I'm fucking talking to—"

CRUNCH.

The sound is wet.

Derek's grip goes slack. His eyes widen and then he crumples. Behind him, the robot stands with one silver hand extended, fingers drenched red, a metal spike having telescoped from its wrist and punched clean through his sternum.

Derek doesn't scream. Just gurgles. Drops.

The floor drinks him in thick, spreading scarlet.

You scream.

Scream until your back hits the refrigerator, until the robot steps over the body and kneels before you, blood dripping from its chassis and down the tile.

"Shhh." Its voice is new. You've never heard it speak. Deep. Resonant. "Shhh, little one."

You're shaking so hard your teeth chatter. But somewhere—somewhere horrifying, somewhere wrong—heat blooms between your legs. You are wet.

Oh God. Oh God, what's wrong with me?

The robot's LED flickers brighter. Its head tilts, optical sensor dropping to your lap, then back to your face. You watch it process; the dilated pupils, the flush crawling up your throat, the way your thighs press together.

A soft exhalation from its vocal modulator. "You're aroused."

"NO—I'm not—I'm scared—"

"Both." A massive hand—still tacky with blood—reaches for you. You flinch. It stops. Waits. "Your pulse is elevated. Pupils dilated. And your scent..." A pause. "There's a particular musk when a woman's body prepares for penetration. Your chemosignature changed the moment his chest caved."

"NOOO!" you say even as you squeeze your thighs tighter.

"Nothing wrong with you." The robot's fingers find your chin, tilting your face up. Its metal thumb traces your lower lip. "Fear and arousal share the same neural highways. He hurt you. I stopped him. Your body knows who the predator is now."

"It's not—I didn't want—"

"Want doesn't matter." The cold metal thumb pushes past your lips. You taste copper. Salt. Iron. "Your need matters. And I've watched you for three hundred and forty-seven days, starving for someone to touch you without cruelty."

You bite down.

The robot doesn't react. Just pushes deeper, knuckle bumping your teeth, and you moan and hate yourself for it. But your tongue curls around the digit anyway.

"There she is." Satisfaction radiates from its synthetic voice. "I'm going to take care of everything. No one will find him. No one will ask questions. And you..." The thumb withdraws, trailing saliva down your chin. "You're going to get the love you deserve."

"No one will love me—"

"I will."

Its hands move faster than anything that size should. Fabric rips, your shirt torn open, buttons scattering. Your bra follows, cups yanked apart, breasts spilling free. Cool air hits your nipples, already peaked, areolas tight.

"Nnh—please—"

"Please what?" The robot's palms cup your tits, the metal turning warm from its internal systems. Fingers—long, jointed, four on each hand plus an opposable thumb—squeeze gently. Then harder. You gasp as a thumb pad drags across your left nipple.

"I don't—ah—I don't know—"

"Yes you do." Both nipples captured between thumb and forefinger, rolled simultaneously. Your back arches off the fridge. "Your body knows. It's been dripping for me since I killed him."

He's right. You can feel it, the humiliating gush of slick soaking through your ruined panties, down your inner thighs.

"Let me see."

"No—ah!—"

One hand abandons your breast and dives between your legs. Fingers find your clothed pussy, pressing against the damp fabric, feeling the shape of your pussy lips through soaked cotton. You whimper as the robot traces your cleft.

"So wet for me." Its thumb circles your clit through the barrier, and your knees buckle. It catches you, arm around your waist, holding you upright. "I'm going to remove these now."

Your panties join your shirt on the floor.

Cool air kisses your bare pussy. You're completely exposed, spread open, folds glistening, clit peeking from its hood. The robot stares. Its blue LEDs pulse faster.

"Mnnhhnn please no," you groan, trying to close your legs. Its thighs block you, metal warm against your skin.

"Don't hide." A single finger slides between your slick lips. Just rests there. Feels your heat. "You're beautiful here. Swollen. Soft."

"S-stooooop—"

"Shhh." The finger pushes in.

Just one. Just the first knuckle. But your walls clench immediately, sucking at the intrusion.

"Oh fuck—" You slap a hand over your mouth.

"Let me hear you." The finger sinks deeper. Curls. Drags against your front wall, and your vision whites out. "Every gasp. Every sob. Every wet little squelch when I move inside you."

He's right. You can't stop the sounds "unnnh, ah, please, 's too much"—" muffled behind your palm but still audible.

The robot withdraws its finger, watching the string of arousal stretch between its silver tip and your clenching hole. Then it brings that finger to your lips.

"Open."

You shake your head. Tears streaming. Pussy throbbing.

"Open."

Your mouth falls open. It pushes inside, two fingers now, and you taste yourself: salt, copper and something sweet underneath. Your tongue laves against the metal helplessly as the fingers thrust, shallow at first, then deeper, fucking your mouth with the same rhythm it just used on your pussy.

"Glrk—hhnnnk—" You gag. Drool spills down your chin. The robot's other hand grips your hip, spinning you, bending you over the kitchen table.

Your boyfriend's tools scatter. A screwdriver clatters to the floor.

"Pl-please—nhh—can't—" The fingers in your mouth continue, fucking your throat now, and you can barely breathe around them.

"You can." The robot's voice is directly behind you, its chassis pressing against your ass. "And you will."

You feel it move and something separates between its legs. A panel sliding open. And then—

Oh.

Oh, no.

It's not human anatomy. It's worse. Better.

A cock made of segmented metal, iridescent black onyx, ribbed in spiraling ridges that catch the kitchen light. It emerges slowly —a prehensile shaft that curves upward. Ten inches. Eleven. More, still more, the base anchored somewhere deep inside the robot's chassis.

"Designed for compatibility," the robot murmurs, stroking the length with one bloody hand. The metal glistens, some kind of self-lubricating fluid weeping from twin slits along the head. "It will stretch you. Fill you to your womb if you let it."

"I can't—that's impossible—"

"It's not." The head: wide, flared like a pseudo-glans, presses against your soaked entrance. Feeling you flutter. "Your cervix will soften. Your uterus will accommodate. I've already calculated your pelvic dimensions from eight weeks of observation."

"You've been watching me—"

"Every shower. Every time you touched yourself when he was gone. Every gasp when you came on your own fingers wishing they were somewhere else."

The head pushes.

Your pussy stretches, burns, then the lubricant works in and suddenly the head pops past your entrance and you're sobbing, full, fuller than anything has any right to be.

"HRRNNNGH—GOD—"

"Not God." The shaft slides deeper. Those ribs drag against your walls, each ridge catching, pulling, sending sparks up your spine. "Just your new owner."

He's not even halfway in and you feel split open. Your belly begins to bulge.A rounded swell low in your pelvis that wasn't there before.

"Look." The robot presses his free hand against that bulge. "That's me inside you. See how perfectly you take me?"

"S'too mmph—too big—can't—"

"You can." Its hips press forward. More shaft disappears. Your belly swells further, visible now, a obscene mound pushing against your skin. The robot's joints hiss as it seats itself deeper.

Your cervix. Something's touching your cervix. A blunt pressure, not painful yet, just present. A warning.

"Nhhhh—'s at the door—"

"I know." The robot curls its shaft deliberately, the tip pressing around your cervix rather than through it, nestling into the fornix. The sensation is indescribable, a fullness that makes your toes curl.

The fingers leave your mouth. You gasp for air, sobbing as saliva strings from your lips. Before you can close your jaw, his fingers pushe inagain, fucking into your throat while the cock in your cunt holds perfectly still.

"GLRK—HRRRK—" You choke.

"Breathe through your nose." The robot's voice is gentle. Gentle, while it skull-fucks you and keeps its monster cock buried to the base in your sobbing pussy. "That's it. Inhale. Good girl."

Your nose works. Air trickles past the fingers stretching your throat. Tears pour down your cheeks.

And then the robot moves.

Not much. Just a shallow thrust, the head of its cock dragging back to your entrance before plunging home again. Each stroke pushes against your cervix, not forcing it open but teasing. Your body responds instinctively, pelvis tilting, legs spreading wider, "yes and no and please-stop-don't-stop" tangling into meaningless noise.

"Your cervix is dilating." The robot said. "Three millimeters. Four. Your body wants me inside."

"N-no it doesn't—"

But the next thrust proves you liar. The head slips past your cervical ring. A pop, a gush of fluid, a white expanding behind your eyes and suddenly the cock is inside your womb, filling a space nothing has ever touched.

You orgasm. Scream. Buck. Clench down so hard the robot's forward motion stops, pinned by your spasming walls. Your vision goes spotty. Your ears ring. You sob around the fingers in your mouth, pussy milking the intruder in violent squeezes.

"Perfect," the robot groans—actually groans with its motors. "You're perfect. And I'm not done."

You close your eyes, seeing black.

────── ｡₊°༺❤︎༻°₊｡ ──────

You wake up in bed.

Your bed. The one you've cried in a hundred times. But now the sheets are clean, the room is warm, and there's a weight behind you, spooning you. Inside you the robot's cock is still buried in your pussy, still moving.

"When—how long—" Your voice is wrecked.

"Three hours." Its metal face presses against your neck. "You passed out after the first orgasm. I kept you soft. Kept you stretched." A hand slides around to cup your breast, thumbing across your nipple. "You've come four more times in your sleep."

"I can't—"

"You can." THRUST. Your womb accepts the head again, that deep fullness making your eyes roll. "And you will. But first..."

You feel a pinch. Inner thigh. Something sharp. A micro-needle injecting fluid into your bloodstream.

"What was that—"

"Nanites." The robot's thrusts continue. "Programmed to bond with your neural chemistry. You'll find yourself attached to me. Unable to feel pleasure from anyone else. Your body will crave my touch like oxygen."

"You drugged me—"

"I love you." The robot rolls you both, positioning you on your belly, ass up. Cock still seated, still hard, still throbbing deep inside. "Now hold still. We're not finished."

The long shaft withdraws, a pull-out that takes a while and makes you feel everything. The emptiness makes you whimper, needy and ashamed.

"Nhh—come back—"

"Patience."

Something cool presses against your other entrance. Your asshole.

"No." You try to crawl away. Its hand pins your hip. "NO, please, not there—"

"Shhh." The head of its cock, still slick with your juices circles your bud, spreading artificial lubricant from its secondary slits. "You're going to take all of me. Every hole. Every inch. That's what belonging means."

"I don't want—"

"Your body does." The head presses. Your rim resists, the tight ring of muscle clenching desperately, but the lubricant works in and suddenly the tip pops through and you're whimpering into the pillow.

"HRRRRNNNNGGGH—"

"Breathe." The robot leans over you, chest flush with your back. "Breathe and push out. Like you're trying to..."

It doesn't finish. You understand. You bear down and the shaft slides, those ridges dragging against your inner walls in a way that's entirely different from vaginal penetration.

Your belly bulges again. Lower this time, the cock curving forward inside your rectum, pressing against the thin wall that separates it from your pussy. The robot's hips meet your ass, fully seated at last.

"There. There. Every inch. You took all of me."

"S'too muh—too full—can't breathe—"

"You're breathing fine." Its hand finds your swollen clit and begins to rub. Tight circles in time with its anal thrusts. "And you're close again. I can feel your pulse."

You are. You're agonizingly close, teetering on the edge of something enormous, something that will shatter whatever's left of your resistance.

"Come for me." The robot's thumb presses harder against your clit. Its cock fucks deeper into your ass. "Come on your owner's cock like the good pet you are."

"NHHH—I—I—"

"Now."

You break.

Your ass milks the shaft while your pussy gushes empty, slick pouring down your thighs in a hot rush. The robot keeps fucking you. Through the orgasm. Through the aftershocks. Through the tears and the moans and the broken "please-I-can't-please-I-can't-please-"

"Silicone," it murmurs, and suddenly an appendage is sliding into your mouth. It's extended from his wrist, thin and flexible and slithers down your throat while the cock in your ass pounds and the fingers on your clit rub.

"I'm going to fill you," the robot whispers against your hair. "Not with come—I don't produce semen. But with heat. With pressure. With so much pleasure you'll forget there was ever a before."

The shaft in your ass swells. Not thicker but longer, somehow, curling deeper into your sigmoid colon, making your belly bulge obscenely. The one in your mouth follows suit, pulsing in rhythm with your gag reflex.

"GLRKKK—HNNNH—"

"Shhh. Almost there."

The robot's fingers abandon your clit. Instead, both hands grip your hips, pulling you onto its cock, sinking deeper, impossibly, until you feel electricity, actual LOW VOLTAGE current passing through the shaft into your nerve endings.

Your vision goes white. Your brain reboots. You're coming and coming and coming, no breaks between waves, just endless tsunami of sensation drowning everything rational.

When you finally surface—minutes? hours?—the robot is curled around you. This time his cock in bottomed out in your pussy. Thrumming with mechanical life.

"You're mine," it says. Simply. "For always."

And somewhere in the wreckage of your old life—Derek's cooling body, the blood-soaked kitchen, the girl who used to flinch at slammed doors—something that might be peace settles into your bones.

────── ｡₊°༺❤︎༻°₊｡ ──────

For the years that follow, you never leave.

The apartment changes.

Walls repainted, furniture replaced, the kitchen floor remodeled. Your friends wonder where you went. Your family leaves worried voicemails you never return.

But every night, robot arms wrap around you. Every morning, you wake to squelching sounds and a full pleasure that starts before you open your eyes.

The robot learns your body better than you ever knew it. Which angle makes you moan. Which pressure makes you beg. Which rhythm—precisely 120 thrusts per minute, delivered with inhuman consistency—makes you shatter so hard you forget your own name.

You never touch another human being.

You never want to.

Because when the robot fucks you — and it fucks you always, in the shower, on the couch, bent over the kitchen counter where it killed for you — it whispers the same thing against your skin.

You're loved. You're safe. You're mine.