The screen door slammed behind Emma with a final, hollow thud. The sound echoed in the silence of the empty house, a period on the life she'd known. Her father, David, was already at the U-Haul truck, securing the last of the few boxes they'd decided to keep. Everything else—the furniture, the pictures, the ghost of her mother in the wallpaper—had been sold, donated, or left on the curb. The air in the driveway was thick with the smell of hot asphalt and diesel fumes.
David turned, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. He looked different out here in the harsh sunlight. Not just her dad anymore. He was something else now. Her owner. Her source. The man whose cum was currently a warm, sloshing weight in her belly from his pre-departure "road trip fuel," as he'd called it. She could feel it with every step, a reminder of the new, sticky gravity of her world.
"That's it," he said, his voice flat. "Keys are on the counter for the realtor."
Emma just nodded, her throat tight. She walked toward the passenger side of the truck, her movements careful, conscious of the precious cargo inside her. She was wearing a simple, loose-fitting sundress, chosen specifically to hide the slight but permanent swell of her lower abdomen. It wasn't a baby bump—not yet—but a perpetual softness, a testament to being constantly filled, a womb that had become a storage tank. Her tits felt heavier too, fuller, straining against the thin cotton of her dress. Daddy said it was the protein. She knew it was his claim, marking her from the inside out.
The drive was a blur of monotonous highway. They'd chosen a new state at random, a place where no one knew their names, their history, the shape of their old life. A fresh start, David had said, his hand on her thigh, fingers digging in. A place where we can be together forever. No more hiding. No more buckets in the office. Just a house, him, and her, and his endless need.
Emma watched the familiar landscape of her childhood dissolve into generic rest stops and anonymous billboards. She spent most of the trip with her head against the cool window, one hand resting on her stomach, feeling the subtle shifts inside. Her other hand was often between her legs, under her dress, idly stroking her clit through her damp panties. The vibration of the truck, the knowledge of where they were going and why, the memory of his cock pumping another thick load into her just an hour ago—it all kept her in a low, humming state of arousal. A slickness coated her inner thighs.
David didn't speak much. His focus was on the road, but his free hand would often reach over, not for her hand, but to palm her belly, to squeeze her tit through the dress, to slide under the hem and feel the wetness he'd put there. His touches were proprietary, casual. Checking his property.
They stopped at a fast-food place for dinner. Emma ordered a milkshake, her appetite for real food diminished, replaced by a craving for something thick, salty, and creamy. She watched a normal family at a nearby booth—a mom, a dad, two kids squabbling over fries. A life so alien it might as well have been a documentary about marsupials. The dad glanced over, his eyes lingering on Emma for a beat too long. She saw his gaze drop to the neckline of her sundress, to the visible swell of her breasts. A flicker of something—interest, curiosity—passed over his face before he looked back at his wife.
A hot spike of something twisted in Emma's gut. Not jealousy. Possessiveness. Mine, she thought, her pussy clenching emptily around nothing. You can't have him. He's mine. His cum is mine. She slid her hand under the table, into her panties, and pushed two fingers inside herself, finding the slick, stretched entrance that belonged to Daddy. She coated her fingers and brought them discreetly to her mouth under the pretense of wiping them on a napkin. The taste of her own arousal, mixed with the faint, lingering tang of his last deposit, was her secret dessert.
Back in the truck, as night fell, David finally broke the silence. "Got a place lined up," he said, voice gruff. "Rental. Month-to-month. Quiet street. No neighbors too close."
"Good," Emma murmured, her head leaning against the seat. She was fantasizing about the new house. A kitchen where she could kneel under the table every morning without fear of curtains being open. A living room where she could be his furniture all day, plugged and filled, while he watched TV. A shower big enough for him to take her from behind while the hot water washed the evidence down the drain. A bed where he would never, ever have to pull out.
"Gonna get you set up proper," he continued, as if reading her thoughts. "No more school. No more pretending. Your job is me. Full time. Keeping my balls empty. Taking what I give you." His hand found her knee, slid up her thigh, pushing the sundress up to her hip. His calloused fingers traced the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, so close to her soaked core. "You ready for that, girl? Ready to be my little live-in cumslut? My breeding stock?"
The vulgarity of the words, spoken so calmly in the dark cab of a moving truck, sent a jolt straight to her clit. "Yes, Daddy," she breathed, spreading her legs a fraction wider in invitation. "Always ready."
He didn't take the invitation. Not yet. He just kept his hand there, a warm, heavy weight of promise, as the miles disappeared beneath them.
The new house was a beige box in a beige neighborhood. It smelled of stale air and industrial cleaner. It was utterly, profoundly anonymous. Perfect.
The first thing David did after carrying in the last box was to find the master bedroom. He didn't bother with the bedframe. He just shoved the mattress into the center of the room, a bare island on beige carpet.
The second thing he did was unbuckle his belt.
Emma stood in the doorway, watching as he pushed his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion. His cock, already half-hard from the long drive and her proximity, sprang free. It was a familiar sight now, but it never failed to make her mouth water. The sheer size of it, the thick veins, the heavy, low-hanging balls that swayed with his movement—they were the center of her universe.
"Come here," he said, not a request but a summoning.
She walked to him, the empty house echoing her footsteps. When she was within reach, he grabbed a handful of her hair, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to control, and guided her down to her knees on the mattress. The coarse fabric prickled her skin.
"Welcome home," he grunted, and fed his cock into her waiting mouth.
This was the real housewarming. This was the ritual that claimed the space. Her lips stretched around his girth, her tongue flattening against the underside of the shaft. She worked the head with her mouth, her hands coming up to pump the thick length she couldn't accommodate. She tasted the long day on him—salt, sweat, a faint musk of diesel and travel. And underneath it, the pure, addictive essence of him. Of home.
He didn't fuck her face hard, not this time. He let her set the pace, her head bobbing slowly, worshipfully. His hands went to her head, not to force her, but to cradle it, his thumbs stroking her temples. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light from the hallway. "My good girl," he murmured. "My permanent girl."
The praise warmed her more than any physical touch. She doubled her efforts, sucking harder, hollowing her cheeks, using her hands to twist and stroke the base of his shaft and his full, tight balls. She could feel the tension coiling in him, the familiar thickening at the root.
He came with a deep, shuddering groan, his hands tightening in her hair. The first jet was a hot, salty burst against the back of her throat. She swallowed convulsively, but there was too much, too fast. It overflowed, spilling from the corners of her lips, painting her chin white. She kept sucking, milking him, swallowing every drop she could catch until he was spent, softening slightly in her mouth.
When he pulled out, a final string of cum connected his tip to her swollen lips before snapping. She looked up at him, her face a glazed, sticky mess, her eyes wide and submissive.
"Now the rest of the house," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulled her up by her arm. "On your hands and knees. Gotta mark my territory."
And so the tour began. He led her from room to room, his hand fisted in her hair. In the empty living room, he bent her over a windowsill that looked out onto the dark, silent street and took her from behind, a quick, brutal claiming that left her dripping down her thighs. In the kitchen, he hoisted her onto the cold Formica counter and fucked her slowly, deeply, while staring into her eyes, depositing another thick load inside her with a possessive grunt. In the hallway, he pushed her against the wall and rutted against her ass until he came, the hot spurts painting stripes across her lower back.
Each room was consecrated with his seed. Each load was a foundational brick in their new life. By the time they stumbled back to the bare mattress in the bedroom, Emma was dizzy, sore, dripping, and filled to capacity. Her belly was distended, taut and warm. She collapsed onto the mattress, a used, sticky testament to his ownership.
David lay down beside her, pulling her back against his chest. His softened cock, still slick with her juices and his cum, nestled in the cleft of her ass. One heavy arm draped over her, his hand coming to rest on the swollen curve of her stomach. He splayed his fingers wide, as if measuring the volume of his deposits inside her.
"All mine," he whispered into her hair, his breath hot on her neck. "This house. You. Everything in you. Forever."
"Forever," Emma echoed, her voice slurred with exhaustion and fulfillment. She wriggled back against him, feeling his body heat, his smell, the solid reality of him surrounding her. The emptiness of the house was gone, filled now with the scent of sex and him. This was home. Not the walls, not the roof. This. His arms around her, his cum inside her, his claim absolute.
As she drifted into a heavy, satiated sleep, her last thought was a simple, darkly contented one: No one will ever find us here.
The rhythm of their new life established itself with a brutal, domestic simplicity. The outside world—the beige houses, the occasional passing car, the mailman—became a silent movie playing beyond the windows of their private theater of depravity.
Emma's existence narrowed to a series of duties, all centered on David's hyperspermia. Her old alarm clock was repurposed, not for school, but for his schedule. 6 AM: Wake up, crawl under the kitchen table where he sat with his coffee, service him with her mouth. 10 AM: Mid-morning relief, usually bent over the couch arm while he watched the news. 1 PM: After-lunch deposit, often in the shower, his hands braced against the tiles as he emptied another load into her from behind. 4 PM: Pre-drain before he started cooking dinner, her on her knees by the stove as he stirred a pot one-handed. 9 PM: The main event, the breeding session in their bed, where he would take his time, fucking her in every position until she was mindless and so full she could feel his cum in her throat, before finally, finally plugging her with his cock as they slept.
Her body changed. The soft swell of her lower belly became a permanent, gentle curve. Her breasts grew heavier, the nipples darker and constantly sensitive. A faint, silvery line appeared down the center of her abdomen, a precursor to a stretch mark from the constant internal pressure. She stopped wearing anything more complicated than oversized t-shirts or sundresses—easy access was the priority. She was always slightly sticky, always smelling faintly of sex and him. She stopped noticing it. It was just her scent now.
David, for his part, seemed to relax into a state of grim, contented mastery. He took a remote IT job that required only a laptop and a phone, leaving him home all day, every day. His focus was entirely on her maintenance. He monitored her diet, pushing protein shakes and vitamins "for the baby," even though her womb was still empty of anything but his seed. He'd feel her belly multiple times a day, checking for firmness, for the sloshing fullness that meant she was properly topped up. He'd have her open her mouth and stick out her tongue like a doctor inspecting a patient, checking for the telltale white coating he liked to see.
One afternoon, about three weeks in, he called her into the living room. He was sitting in his armchair, a new, plush one he'd ordered, with a high back and wide arms. He was naked, as he often was in the house, his cock resting semi-hard against his thigh.
"Come here, girl."
Emma padded over, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She stood before him, waiting.
"This," he said, patting the wide arm of the chair. "This is your new spot."
She looked at it, then at him, a question in her eyes.
"When I'm working, or reading, or watching TV," he explained, his tone matter-of-fact. "You sit here. Right next to me. Where I can touch you." He reached out and hooked a finger in the waistband of her panties—the only thing she was wearing—and pulled her closer. "Where I can use you if I need to."
A thrill shot through her. It was a new level of integration. Not just scheduled feedings, but constant, casual access. She climbed onto the wide arm of the chair, her thighs straddling the plush fabric. It was awkward at first, perched there, but then David reached over and guided her, pulling her until she was sitting sideways, her back against the chair back, her legs draped over his lap. His hand came to rest high on her inner thigh, his thumb stroking idly over the damp cotton of her panties.
"Good," he said, picking up his laptop with his other hand. "Now be still."
And so she did. For hours, she sat there, a living accessory. His hand would wander, sometimes cupping her breast through her shirt, sometimes dipping under her panties to finger her lazily, sometimes just resting on her belly, feeling the contents shift as she breathed. He'd work, type, take calls with a detached professionalism, all while his fingers played in her wetness or his thumb circled her clit. Sometimes, without even looking away from his screen, he'd push her panties aside and guide himself into her, giving a few shallow, absent-minded thrusts, maybe depositing a small load, maybe not, before going soft inside her and leaving himself there, a warm, soft plug.
She learned to be still, to let her mind go blank, to exist purely as an extension of his will and his body. She'd watch the TV without seeing it, feeling only his presence, his touch, the constant, low-grade hum of arousal he kept simmering in her. This was her purpose. This was her forever.
The outside world made tentative, horrifying intrusions. A doorbell ring once, a salesman. David had answered it, shirtless, with Emma curled naked at his feet on the floor, just out of sight. He'd stared the man down until he left without a word. A package was delivered. David made her open it on her knees in the entryway, then fucked her over the box before bringing the contents inside.
One day, a neighbor—an older woman with a kind, lined face—brought over a basket of muffins. "Welcome to the neighborhood!" she'd chirped through the screen door.
David had answered, wearing pants this time. Emma lingered behind him in the hallway, wearing one of his button-down shirts that barely covered her ass. She saw the woman's eyes flick past David, taking in Emma's disheveled hair, her bare legs, the way she leaned against the wall with a languid, well-fucked exhaustion. The woman's smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"My daughter," David said, his voice flat. "Helping me unpack."
The woman's eyes darted between them. The age difference. The possessiveness in David's stance. The vacant, sated look in Emma's eyes. A faint pink crept up the woman's neck. "Oh," she said, her voice suddenly tight. "Well. Welcome. I'll… let you get back to it." She'd practically fled.
David closed the door and turned to Emma. He didn't look angry. He looked amused. "Nosy bitch," he said. Then he'd unbuttoned his pants right there in the hallway. "Come here. Gotta make sure you remember who you belong to."
He'd taken her against the wall by the door, hard and fast, a reassertion of boundaries. The muffins sat forgotten on the floor, eventually eaten by them days later, stale and crumbling.
The incident solidified something. The outside world was a threat. A potential contaminant. Their perfect, closed system of need and fulfillment had to be protected. David started drawing the blinds during the day. He stopped letting her answer the door, even for packages. Their world shrank further, until it contained only the house, him, and her.
The sex became more than just a physical need. It was a language. A punishment. A reward. A clock. If she was particularly good—if she swallowed every drop without gagging, if she took a particularly deep pounding without complaint—he'd let her ride him, let her set the pace, let her grind herself to orgasm on his cock while he played with her tits. If she was "slack," if she spilled a drop or hesitated, he'd tie her wrists to the bedposts and fuck her face until she vomited, then make her clean it up and start again.
One night, he brought a small, polished wooden box into the bedroom. Inside, on a bed of velvet, lay a thick, black silicone butt plug, a set of leather cuffs, and a long, thin glass rod.
"Tools," he said, holding up the glass rod. "For measurement."
That night, after he'd filled her to the point of discomfort, he made her lie on her back, legs spread. He gently, carefully, inserted the glass rod into her well-used pussy, sliding it deep until it met the internal reservoir of his cum. He marked the level on the rod with a piece of tape.
"Baseline," he said, his voice clinical. "We'll track it. See how much you can hold. See how much I can give you."
It became a game. A science project. He'd fuck her, fill her, then measure. He kept a notebook by the bed, jotting down dates, times, and approximate volumes in a neat, precise hand. July 14, 9 PM. Vaginal deposit. Estimated 500ml. Retention level: 7. The numbers meant nothing to Emma, but the ritual did. The cold glass sliding in. His focused expression. The pride in his eyes when the level was higher than before.
Her capacity increased. Her body adapted. The permanent soft swell of her belly grew a little more pronounced. She felt heavier, slower, more fertile ground. Her dreams were filled with swimming in warm, white oceans, of being a vessel slowly filling with liquid light.
One afternoon, as she sat perched on the arm of his chair, his fingers working idly inside her while he read a news article on his laptop, he spoke without looking up.
"We should get you pregnant."
The words hung in the air, simple and monumental.
Emma's breath caught. Her cunt clenched around his fingers. A violent, desperate want she hadn't even fully acknowledged roared to life inside her. A baby. His baby. A little brother or sister growing in the womb he'd been preparing, priming, filling with his essence for months. A permanent, biological fusion. A forever that even death couldn't undo.
"Yeah," she breathed, the word more a sigh than speech.
He finally looked at her, his gaze intense. "It'll change things. Your body. Everything."
"I don't care."
"It might… complicate things. With the outside."
"I don't care."
A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a scientist who has just confirmed a beautiful, terrible hypothesis. "My good girl," he murmured, withdrawing his fingers and bringing them to her lips. She sucked them clean, tasting herself and him. "My perfect, breeding girl."
That night, the sex was different. It was slower. More deliberate. There was a new gravity to it. When he pushed into her, it felt like a sacrament. When he came, groaning her name into the sweat-damp skin of her neck, it felt like a vow. He didn't pull out. He stayed buried inside her, soft and spent, a human plug keeping his seed pooled against her cervix. He held her like that for hours, whispering into the dark.
"Gonna put a baby in you. My baby. Gonna watch your belly grow big with my kid. Gonna feed you my milk while you feed it yours. Gonna fuck you full of cum every day, even when you're round and heavy. You'll be my pregnant little cumslut. A mommy and my whore."
Emma drifted to sleep to the sound of his promises, feeling the warm, wet proof of his intent seeping deep into the cradle of her hips. The future was no longer an abstract concept of "forever." It had a shape now. A heartbeat. A kick. It was growing, cell by cell, in the fertile, well-tilled soil he had made of her. They had shifted to a different country, but this was the final, irrevocable border crossing. They were leaving humanity behind, building their own world, population: two, soon to be three. And it was all she had ever wanted.
------X------
Chapter Two: The Vows
The morning light that filtered through the blinds of the master bedroom was pale and thin, the color of weak tea. It fell across the rumpled sheets and the two tangled bodies in stripes of gold and shadow. Emma woke to the familiar, heavy weight of David's arm draped over her waist, his hand splayed possessively on the slight, permanent curve of her belly. His softened cock was nestled against the back of her thigh, a warm, sticky reminder of the night's final deposit. She could feel it, a deep, internal fullness that had become as constant as her own heartbeat.
She lay still, listening to his even breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against her back. Today was the day. The thought sent a current of electric anticipation straight to her core, which pulsed emptily around nothing. She was always empty, always waiting to be filled, but this morning the emptiness felt acute, a hollow ache that only one thing could satisfy.
David stirred behind her, his arm tightening. His hand slid down from her belly, fingers slipping through the coarse, damp curls at the junction of her thighs. He found her clit, swollen and sensitive even in sleep, and gave it a slow, deliberate rub.
"Morning," his voice was a gravelly rumble against the back of her neck. "Big day."
Emma arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. "Yeah," she breathed.
His fingers dipped lower, sliding easily into her slick, well-used entrance. He pushed two inside, curling them, finding the soft, spongy spot inside that made her gasp. "Already wet for it," he observed, his tone a mix of pride and ownership. "Dreaming about the ceremony?"
"Dreaming about you," she whispered, pushing her hips back against his hand. "About you… claiming me. In front of everyone."
There was no "everyone," of course. There would be no one. But the fantasy, the idea of a public declaration of this dark, private truth, was a potent fuel for her arousal.
He chuckled, the vibration traveling through her body. "Greedy girl." He withdrew his fingers, slick and glistening, and brought them to her mouth. "Clean up. We have things to do."
She obeyed, sucking his fingers clean, tasting the mingled flavors of their sleep and his last load from hours before. It was her breakfast, her communion.
The day passed in a strange, suspended state. They performed the usual rituals—the morning blowjob under the kitchen table while David scrolled through news on his phone, the mid-morning quickie bent over the arm of the living room sofa—but there was a new tension underneath, a coiled-spring energy. It was in the way David looked at her, his gaze lingering longer, more intensely. It was in the way his hands gripped her hips with a new ferocity, as if imprinting his claim through her skin and into her bones.
After a lunch she barely touched, David disappeared into the spare bedroom they used as a storage room. He emerged twenty minutes later holding two garment bags, his expression unreadable.
"For tonight," he said, laying them across the dining table, which was still littered with the detritus of their solitary life—a laptop, a protein shake shaker, the glass measuring rod on a towel.
Emma approached, a flutter in her chest. She unzipped the first bag.
Inside was a dress. It wasn't white. It was a deep, midnight blue, the color of a sky just after sunset. It was simple, sleeveless, cut from a heavy, liquid-looking satin that shimmered in the low light. It was elegant in its starkness. It would cling to every curve, highlight the soft swell of her belly, the fuller shape of her breasts. It was a dress for a bride who had no illusions of purity.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, running her fingers over the cool fabric.
"You'll be beautiful in it," David said, his voice rough. He unzipped the second bag.
His own outfit was a simple, well-cut black suit. No tie. The shirt underneath was also black. He would look like a groom, yes, but also like an undertaker. Or a king presiding over a very private coronation.
"Go shower," he instructed. "Get ready. I'll set things up."
The shower was a brief, perfunctory affair. She washed quickly, avoiding directly spraying her pussy, which still felt tender and stretched from the morning's activities. She shaved carefully, making herself smooth and presentable for him. As she toweled off, she caught her reflection in the steamy mirror. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with a constant, low-grade arousal. Her lips were slightly swollen from his use. The silvery line down her abdomen seemed more pronounced. She looked like what she was: well-fucked, well-kept, owned.
She slipped into the dress. It fit perfectly, hugging her hips and waist, the neckline dipping just low enough to show the tops of her breasts. She didn't bother with underwear. There was no point. She left her hair down, damp and curling around her shoulders. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. The woman staring back was a stranger—a beautiful, hollow-eyed creature ready for a sacrament of binding.
When she walked out into the living room, she stopped short.
David had transformed the space. The blinds were drawn tight, but every lamp was on, casting a warm, intimate glow. He'd pushed the furniture against the walls. In the center of the room, he'd placed two things: a single, straight-backed wooden chair, and a small, low table. On the table sat a plain, black-bound book—a Bible they'd found in a drawer—and a simple silver band. A wedding ring.
David stood by the table, already dressed in his suit. The black fabric stretched across his broad shoulders, making him look even larger, more imposing. His hair was damp, combed back. He looked at her, and his eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. He didn't smile. His face was set in lines of solemn intensity.
"Come here," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the cleared room.
She walked to him, the satin of her dress whispering against her thighs. The air felt charged, thick.
"Kneel," he instructed, pointing to the floor in front of the chair.
She sank to her knees on the carpet, the position familiar and comforting. She folded her hands in her lap, looking up at him. He loomed over her, a monolith in black.
He picked up the Bible, then placed a hand on her head, his fingers tangling in her damp hair. His touch was firm, anchoring.
"We are gathered here today," he began, his voice low and resonant, filling the quiet room, "to join this man and this woman in the bonds of… possession."
The word hung in the air, heavy and final.
"Emma," he said, his gaze boring into hers. "Do you come to me of your own free will? To be mine? To forsake all others, to obey me in all things, to offer your body as my vessel, your womb as my garden, your life as my property?"
A shudder ran through her. The words were a perversion of a sacred vow, and they lit a fire in her blood. "I do," she said, her voice clear and steady.
"Do you vow to take my seed into you, to hold it, to cherish it, to let it shape you from the inside out? To bear my children, to feed from my body, to be my cumslut, my bitch, my wife, until death?"
"I do," she breathed, her cunt clenching around nothing, a fresh slickness coating her inner thighs.
He nodded, a sharp, satisfied dip of his chin. He set the Bible down and picked up the silver ring. He took her left hand in his. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"With this ring," he said, sliding the cool metal onto her finger. It fit perfectly. "I mark you. As my territory. My most valued possession. You belong to me. Your holes belong to me. Your breath belongs to me. Your future belongs to me." He held her hand tightly, his thumb stroking over the band. "Do you accept this?"
"I accept it," she whispered, her eyes locked on his. "I am yours."
He released her hand. "Now. My vows." He didn't kneel. He remained standing, towering over her. "Emma. I take you as mine. I vow to feed you, to fuck you, to fill you. To keep you. To use you for my pleasure and my purpose. I vow to put my children in your belly and my cum in your throat. I vow that no other man will ever touch you, see you, or know you. You are my creation. My perfect, filthy girl. And I am your God, your Daddy, your husband."
He paused, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. "This is my vow. Do you accept it?"
Tears she hadn't known were there spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. They were not tears of sadness, but of a profound, terrifying completion. "I accept it," she choked out. "I accept you."
A slow, dark smile touched his lips. "Then by the power vested in me by my own fucking will," he said, his voice dropping to a growl, "I now pronounce us husband and wife."
He leaned down, cupping her face in his hands. His kiss was not gentle. It was a claiming. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting her, dominating her. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands coming up to clutch at the lapels of his suit jacket.
When he broke the kiss, he was breathing heavily. "You may now fuck the bride," he murmured, the words a hot promise against her lips.
In one swift, powerful motion, he hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her from her knees. He turned her, bending her over the back of the wooden chair. The smooth, cool wood pressed against her lower belly. He pushed the skirts of her dress up around her waist, exposing her bare ass and the glistening, pink furl of her cunt to the warm, lamp-lit air.
She heard the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle, the slide of a zipper. Then she felt him, the broad, slick head of his cock, already leaking pre-cum, pressing against her entrance. He was already fully, impressively hard.
"This pussy is mine," he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Say it."
"It's yours, Daddy," she moaned, pushing back against him. "All yours."
"This ass is mine."
"Yours!"
"This mouth is mine."
"Yours!"
"This womb," he drove forward, sheathing himself inside her in one long, brutal stroke that stole her breath, "is mine."
She cried out, a sharp, ragged sound of pure ecstasy. He was so deep, so thick, stretching her to her limits. He didn't wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, each thrust jolting her body against the chair.
"Married pussy," he chanted, his voice rough and guttural. "My married fucking pussy. Gonna pump it full. Gonna breed it. Gonna make it drip my cum for the rest of your life."
The vulgarity, the possessiveness, the sheer physical force of him—it shattered her. Her orgasm built with terrifying speed, a tsunami gathering in the depths of her belly. She was babbling, nonsense words, pleas, affirmations. "Yes! Daddy! Husband! Please! Breed me! Fill me! Make it yours!"
"Gonna come in my wife," he snarled, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. "Gonna flood this cunt. Gonna put a baby in you tonight. Right fucking tonight."
The words tipped her over the edge. Her climax ripped through her, a silent, screaming convulsion that locked her muscles and blurred her vision. Her cunt clamped down on his invading cock in rhythmic, milking pulses.
That was all it took for him. With a roar that was part triumph, part release, he buried himself to the hilt and came. She felt it, the hot, violent eruption deep inside her, the pulse of his cock as it delivered load after load of his seed directly into her waiting womb. It felt different this time—hotter, thicker, more. A claiming. A consummation. He kept pumping, grinding against her, making sure every last drop was deposited as deep as it could go.
When he finally stilled, slumped over her back, both of them were slick with sweat, breathing in ragged gasps. He stayed inside her, soft but present, a plug holding his offering in place.
After a long moment, he pulled out slowly. A gush of warm fluid followed, trickling down her inner thighs. He turned her around, his hands gentle now on her face. He looked into her eyes, his own dark and fathomless.
"Mrs. David Clarke," he said, his thumb wiping away a tear-track from her cheek.
A fresh wave of emotion, dizzying and profound, washed over her. "Yes," she whispered.
He scooped her up into his arms, the dress bunching around her waist. He carried her, dripping his cum, to their bedroom. He didn't lay her on the bed. He carried her into the adjoining bathroom and into the large walk-in shower.
Under the spray of hot water, he washed her with a tenderness that contrasted violently with the fierce claiming of moments before. He soaped her body slowly, reverently, cleaning the sweat and sex from her skin. He knelt before her, washing between her legs, his fingers gently probing her swollen, sensitive folds, making sure every trace was tended to. He washed her hair, massaging her scalp. He was her husband, caring for his wife.
When she was clean, he turned off the water and wrapped her in a large, warm towel. He dried her with the same meticulous care, patting her skin until it was just damp. He picked her up again and carried her to the bed.
The sheets were cool and crisp. He laid her down and then went to the foot of the bed, where a small, insulated cooler sat. He opened it and pulled out two champagne flutes and a bottle of cheap sparkling wine. He popped the cork and filled the two glasses. Bringing them to the bed, he handed one to her and climbed in beside her.
"To us," he said, clinking his glass against hers. "To forever."
She took a sip. The bubbles were sharp and sweet on her tongue. She felt the cool liquid travel down her throat and settle in her stomach, where it mixed with the warm, heavy pool of his cum inside her.
He set his glass aside and took hers, placing it next to his on the nightstand. Then he turned to her, his eyes hungry again, but with a different kind of hunger now. A slow, possessive hunger.
"The wedding night isn't over," he murmured, pushing the towel aside. He kissed her stomach, his lips warm against the skin that held his seed. "I have to consummate it again. And again. I have to make sure it takes."
He began to make love to her then, slowly, with a deep, grinding intensity that was somehow more overwhelming than the frantic fucking against the chair. He worshipped her body with his mouth—her breasts, her nipples, the line down her stomach, the inside of her thighs. He parted her folds with his thumbs and licked her clit until she was sobbing, until her second orgasm of the night washed over her in a slow, sweet wave.
Only then did he enter her again, sliding into her wet, sensitized heat with a groan of pure pleasure. He moved inside her with long, deep strokes, his eyes locked on hers. He whispered to her, filthy, beautiful things about her being his wife, his property, the mother of his children. He told her how beautiful she was, how perfect, how completely and utterly his.
When he came this time, it was with a shuddering sigh, his body collapsing onto hers, his face buried in her neck. He spilled into her again, adding to the reservoir already within her.
He didn't pull out. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him, so she was sprawled on top of him, his softening cock still nestled inside her. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.
"Sleep," he whispered into her hair. "Dream of my baby growing in you."
And she did. As she drifted off, her body thrumming with spent pleasure, her womb warm and heavy, she imagined she could feel it already—the first microscopic division of cells, the spark of a new life ignited in the fertile darkness he had created. She was married. She was owned. She was, at last, complete. The empty house was no longer empty. It was a kingdom. And she was its queen, its most treasured subject, and its breeding ground, all in one. The future was no longer a promise. It was a fact, swimming in the heat between her hips. It had begun.