perfect prey.

I can imagine the way he'd fuck me furiously, hungrily — feral — as soon as we saw two lines on the test. Growling “you’re mine” as he does — equal parts desperate adoration and powerful ownership.

He'd spend the first few months getting my wardrobe ready. There would be stricter rules than ever before, in place the second I start showing. Deep scoop neck fitted tops — form fitting dresses that show off every curve and swell — sweet empire-waist dresses that emphasize how much my belly is growing — low-slung skirts that sit below my stomach paired with skimpy crop tops pushed up above it. 

The first time I can tell that someone noticed in public, I tell him about it that night, and he reaches between my legs and finds me soaking. He tells me that more and more, the people — men — who see me will notice my belly and immediately think about me naked, getting fucked, getting bred — they’ll wonder what position I was in, what my naked body looked like, what noises I was making, what my cunt looked like after, cum slowly dropping out. Edging me again and again, barely a touch needed, as he tells me that soon everyone will see proof of what I am — his, owned, devoted, a vessel for him now in the most literal sense. He reminds me that whenever we’re out together, people will know that it’s his baby I’m carrying, that he’s the one who made me like this — the one who owns my body utterly.

I know I’ll be throbbing. I know I’ll beg. But he won’t let me come until I admit out loud what he already knows, what my body’s already betrayed — that I like knowing that people will think about me fucked, flooded with his seed, owned and used by him, that I want to show off my body, his prized possession, as I grow for him. That it makes me wet to think about men openly staring at my swollen tits when we’re out together, imagining them splattered with his cum or picturing what my engorged nipples look like or imagining how their soft heft feels to grope and grab, jealous of him for not just being able to enjoy my body’s new charms but also because he's the one who got to transform me like this.

Broodmare, puppymill, baby factory, whatever form it takes the idea of being locked into a life of having my fertile womb bathed in cum just to grow heavy with young, my breasts aching and leaking, my belly rounding and heavy only to birth and be mounted and bred again because that's my purpose and all about me that matters now.

It had been a nice, easy hike. One moment, you were watching the sunset, listening to the wind in the trees and the grass. Then there was a flash of lightning behind your eyes, pain blooming in the back of your head, and you were tasting dirt. Hands scrabbled at your waist.

"No," you muttered, dizzy.

You felt nails drag at your skin as your shorts were removed, underwear sticking with sweat.

"No, stop," you began to say, forcing out the words, as you realized you were about to be raped.

You tried to squeeze your legs together, keep me out, anything, but your body barely obeyed you. The pain in your skull was joined by another dull, blooming pain; I'd kicked your legs apart, heavy boots making heavy impact on the soft flesh of your inner thigh. "Bitch."

You whimpered as my forearms gathered underneath your waist, hoisting your ass up into the air, and with only a little spit, I ram myself inside you.

It's big. Uncomfortably big. With no prep, it's painful, too. You tried to fight, to flee, to writhe out of my grasp, but it wasn't happening. One hand grabbed your hair from behind, roughly, holding your face down in the dirt. You try to turn your head, but all you get is a glimpse of a black mask over my face, bared teeth and dark, dark eyes, before I force you back down. My hand slips from your hair to the back of your neck, iron fingers clamping you down.

You are prey, and you're being devoured.

It's rough, and not in the fun way you've played at. Tears flow down your eyes, mixing in with the soil. You give up and just wait for it to pass, for this thing inside you to stop thrusting, stop battering your insides, to stop stretching you like this. Your body betrays you, sending signals of pleasure, waves of it, up your spine.

Minutes pass this way as you sob, and beg me to stop. The pleasure builds, and builds, and against all hope you feel yourself orgasm, half moaning, half crying out. My grip on your neck gets tighter. My lips, then teeth, find your shoulder, and as I bite down you know I'm getting mercifully close.

"Please, please..."

But I cum anyway, shooting inside you, and it feels like I'm trying to push through to your throat, filling you, flooding you, and finally, slowly, I unsheathe myself from you and let you drop bodily to the earth. I remove my hand from your neck, and with both hands I spread your ass, examining your ruined hole. You hear the click of a camera, and shame you didn't know you had left fills you too.

Wordlessly, I leave.

Back in the present, you unfreeze. Your fingers keep climbing your leg, past the thigh, to find that you are soaking fucking wet. This is so wrong. This is so so so wrong. But you remember the feeling of my hand on your neck and can't help but feel yourself.

You turn over in your bed and hesitantly raise your ass in the air, remembering the powerful arm that held up under your waist while you were being raped. It had never been so easy to make yourself cum as it is right now, and, crying softly, moaning softly, remembering the feeling of me, the feeling of the seed of your rapist dwelling inside you, you bring yourself to a shuddering, trembling orgasm.

This was so fucking wrong.

You should have told someone back at the park. You have to call the cops. You have to tell someone. You have to... You have to feel that again. Helpless, weak, completely surrendered. Impaled on the ravenous, cruelly hard cock that has already rendered everything else you've felt inadequate.

The next day, when you head back to the park, you don't bring mace, or a taser. You don't even bring your underwear. Every rustle in the trees startled you, every sway in the grass might be where I'm hiding. You feel wetness run down your thigh as you imagine me jumping out at any moment. And then, finally: you whip your head around by chance, feeling that something was off, and there I stand. Masked, again, in jeans that do little to conceal the weapon I carry, in a plain white shirt. You run, but it's halfhearted. Your heart pounds in your chest anyway. Even before I catch you, you've dropped face down on the earth, pulled down your shorts for me. When you say "please" now, it means something very different than it did yesterday.

You peer back over your shoulder fearfully. There's a mean smirk on my lips as I stare back down at you.

"Please," you whisper.

I nudge your leg with my boot. "Silly little cunt came back for more, huh?" I unzip my jeans and pull them down around my knees, cock swinging in the air - Christ, that thing has to be the size of your forearm. I stroke it a few times before kneeling behind you. My hand strokes up your back, over the bite mark I left in your shoulder, before clenching my fist in your hair, turning your gaze back to the dirt. You gasp, and a flush runs through your pussy, already soaking wet and eager for me.

I lean over you, grinding your skull into the ground painfully. "Don't forget, you asked for this, you fucking slut."

You thought you were prepared for it, but your brain still short-circuits when I slam myself home, going fuzzy and slightly light at the pain of all that weight slamming into your cervix, wrenching past your walls, tearing you open.

It became apparent that I had been holding back yesterday as I covered you with bites. Your neck, your shoulders, your arms, your upper back. Sharp teeth digging into your soft skin. The pain brought you closer and closer to pleasure, and as you came, legs shaking, squeezing together around me, I pulled out unsatisfyingly.

You managed a single, teary "what?" before I thrust myself into your asshole, slick with your juices and my spit, and you almost pass out from the pain. The only intelligible sound you make is a single, sputtering, "ffffuck!" I push further in, deeper, deeper, ruining you, and you're distantly aware that there's two stinging handprints on your ass. My hand leaves your hair, and I grip your waist with both, fingers digging into you. Your own hands scrabble at the dirt, searching for any bracing purchase, anything to help you withstand; but despite the pain, you've never felt this horribly, horribly aroused.