Chapter Text
Nate had exactly three priorities in life, and he kept them in strict rotation like a man spinning plates: lift, game, sleep. Schoolwork landed somewhere around priority number eleven, wedged between "floss regularly" and "learn to cook something that isn't ramen." He sat in the back row of AP History—a class he had no business being in and had only selected because the alternative was an elective that met at 7 a.m.—scrolling through his phone beneath the desk with the relaxed posture of someone who genuinely did not care whether the Reformation shaped modern democracy.
He was seventeen, six-foot-one, and built like a Greek statue that had been left in the sun just long enough to turn golden. Genetics had blessed him with a jaw you could open letters on, green eyes that always looked half-amused, and the kind of effortless good looks that made other guys' girlfriends glance twice. He was aware of this in the abstract, the way someone knows they own a nice car but never learned to drive. The confidence to actually *approach* a girl had never materialized, and he was genuinely, almost impressively oblivious to signals—compliments, lingering stares, and outright flirtation sailed past him like foreign-language broadcasts.
"Dude," Tom Bombler whispered from the adjacent seat, pushing his glasses up with one knuckle. "Cassie Aldridge is staring at you again."
Nate didn't look up from his phone. "Cool."
"No, like—*staring* staring. It's been like ten minutes."
"Still cool, Tom."
Tom sighed the sigh of a young man who had never once been stared at by a girl for ten consecutive minutes. Tom Bombler was the kind of guy who brought homemade brownies to a party and then stood in the corner holding the Tupperware while everyone else had fun. Heart of absolute gold, face of a Lego minifigure. Nate liked him well enough, mostly because Tom never asked him to do anything strenuous.
The third leg of their trio was Mei Tanaka, who'd lived three houses down from Nate since they were both in diapers. She was barely five feet tall with a sharp tongue and sharper grades—valedictorian track, AP everything, the kind of student who made honor roll look like a casual hobby. She also mainlined boba like it was a prescription, had strong opinions about subtitle accuracy in anime, brewed matcha with the ritual precision of a chemist, and could hold her own in their gaming sessions with a ruthlessness that belied her size. She was, in Tom's quiet and painfully obvious opinion, the most beautiful girl in the zip code. Mei, meanwhile, had eyes only for Nate—a fact visible to every sentient creature on Earth except Nate himself.
When the bell rang, Nate took his time packing his bag. He felt her approach before he saw her—a shift in the ambient energy, a faint sweetness in the air like candy-scented perfume.
"Hey."
He looked up.
Cassie Aldridge was five-foot-two, pale as porcelain, and *stacked* in a way that defied her small frame. Her red hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, bright as copper wire, and her eyes were the vivid, almost surgical blue of a husky's. She wore a modest blouse buttoned to the collar and a skirt that fell past her knees—an outfit that somehow made the absurd, head-sized swell of her breasts even more conspicuous by trying so hard to hide them. A tiny gold cross hung at her throat.
"Hey," Nate said.
"We need to talk. Privately." She clutched a binder against her chest. "I have a proposition for you."
Nate almost said *sounds like a lot of effort,* but something in her expression—earnest, faintly flushed, trembling with a conviction that bordered on mania—made him curious enough to nod.
---
They ended up in the empty courtyard behind the gym, sitting on a concrete bench still warm from the afternoon sun. Cassie sat with her knees together, spine rigid, and launched into it without preamble.
"I've been watching you for a while," she said. "Not in a creepy way. In an *evaluative* way. I needed to make sure you met the criteria."
"Criteria for what?"
"For being my husband."
Nate blinked. "We're seventeen."
"Exactly." Her blue eyes widened as though he'd confirmed something dire. "I'm basically geriatric. Fertility peaks in the late teens. Every year I waste is eggs I'm losing—you understand? The window is *closing*, Nate."
He did not understand, but he also didn't interrupt, because she was leaning forward and the top button of her blouse was straining in a way that held his attention like a tractor beam.
"I've done extensive research," she continued, tapping her binder. "Biblical precedent is clear. A strong man—a *white*, Christian alpha male—is meant to lead a household of women. Abraham had Sarah and Hagar. Jacob had Leah and Rachel and Bilhah and Zilpah. Solomon had seven hundred wives. This isn't some modern degeneracy. This is *ordained*."
"Uh-huh."
"The modern state has no authority over holy matrimony. Civil marriage is a Talmudic corruption designed to enforce monogamy on European men and suppress white birth rates." She said this with the calm certainty of someone reciting a weather forecast. "A verbal covenant before God is all that's required. No license. No ceremony. Just a man and a woman agreeing to belong to each other."
Nate's brain snagged on one detail. "You said 'a household of women.' So I wouldn't be... exclusive with you?"
"Of course not!" She looked almost offended. "You're an *alpha*. It would be a sin to confine your seed to one womb. I'd be your *first* wife. I'd help you find more. Good, traditional, *white* women who know their place." She leaned closer, and her voice dropped. "I would give you *everything*, Nate. I'd cook for you, clean for you, submit to you completely—my body would be *yours*. Every single inch of me. Whenever you wanted. However you wanted."
His pulse ticked up.
"Look at me." She gestured at herself with a frankness that was almost clinical. "I know what I look like. I know men stare at these—" she cupped her breasts through the blouse, hefting them slightly, "—every single day. These are *yours*. My hips are built for carrying your babies. My waist is twenty-three inches but my chest is a G-cup. I am *built* to be bred, Nate. I'm not being crude, I am stating biological facts."
She was breathing harder now, her porcelain cheeks flushed carnation pink.
"If you agree to take me as your wife before God, I will let you do *anything* to me. Today. Right now. I—" She paused, swallowed. "I've never been with anyone. I've been saving myself. But I'm so— I *need*—" Her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt. "I think about it constantly. I think about *you* constantly. About what it would feel like to have you just... *use* me."
Nate processed all of this with the quiet internal calculation of a man weighing whether a free meal came with strings attached. On one hand, she was a lunatic. Genuinely, certifiably insane—the kind of girl who probably had an infographic about white birth rates saved to her phone's home screen. On the other hand, she was arguably the hottest girl in school, she was explicitly offering him unlimited sex with no expectation of exclusivity, and all he had to do was say some words.
"Yeah, alright," he said. "I'll marry you. Before God. Sure."
Cassie's face illuminated like a sunrise. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, and she tasted like strawberry lip gloss and fervent ideology.
---
Her room was aggressively tidy: white bedspread, white curtains, a bookshelf full of titles he didn't recognize, and a framed cross-stitch that read BE FRUITFUL AND MULTIPLY above a small desk cluttered with supplements—prenatal vitamins, he realized.
She'd been planning this.
"I'm ovulating," she said, as casually as someone mentioning the weather. "I've been tracking my cycle. Today through Wednesday is my fertile window. I want you to—" Her voice cracked. "I want you to put a baby in me."
Something primal shifted in Nate's chest. He had never had sex before—hadn't even kissed a girl before the courtyard five minutes ago—and the small, sharp ember of shame he carried about that, the private conviction that a guy his age with his build had no goddamn business being this inexperienced, flared hot behind his ribs. He wasn't about to tell her any of that. What he felt, standing in her doorway looking at this flushed, trembling, obscenely beautiful girl offering herself to him on a biological silver platter, was a hunger so deep it was almost geological.
"Take your clothes off," he said.
She didn't go button by button. She didn't make a show of it. Cassie grabbed the hem of her blouse and yanked it over her head in one motion. The bra came off two seconds later—she reached back, unclasped, and flung it at the floor like it had personally offended her. Her skirt hit her ankles. She hooked her thumbs into her plain white cotton panties and shoved them down. Four seconds. Maybe five. She went from fully dressed to completely, absolutely naked, standing in front of him with her arms at her sides and her chin up.
And there she was.
Porcelain-pale skin dusted with faint freckles across her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Her waist was tiny—absurdly small, a span he could wrap his hands around with fingers touching. Below it her hips flared wide, built for exactly the purpose she kept insisting they were built for. Between her legs: completely hairless, shockingly pink, already glistening wet. And her tits. God almighty, her tits. They were enormous—heavy, round, the size of her own head, capped with small pale-pink nipples already stiff and pointing slightly upward despite the sheer weight of them. On her small frame they looked almost impossible, like someone had made an error in the character creator and maxed out one slider.
She grabbed them. Both hands, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and she bounced them. Up, down. Up, down. The motion was deliberate, almost aggressive—she was selling it, jiggling her massive tits at him with wide blue eyes and a manic little grin pulling at her lips.
"These are yours," she said. "All of this is yours. Every inch of me belongs to my husband."
She bounced them again, harder, and the heavy flesh slapped together with an audible clap. She was breathing fast, her pupils blown, the tiny gold cross swinging between those mountainous tits like a pendulum.
"Your turn," she whispered. "Show me. I need to see you."
Nate pulled his shirt over his head.
Her mouth fell open. Her eyes locked onto his torso and her pupils contracted—visibly, noticeably—narrowing to pinpoints as her focus sharpened with an almost predatory intensity. She stared at his chest, his abs, the deep cuts between each muscle group, the way his shoulders capped wide and hard. Her lips moved but nothing came out. She looked like someone standing in a museum staring at a sculpture, trying to understand how something this perfect could exist in the physical world.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh my God."
He undid his jeans. Pushed them down with his boxers.
His cock fell free and her brain broke.
It was massive. Thick as a beer can at the base and still swelling, the shaft veined and heavy, the foreskin pulling back as it hardened to reveal a head the size of a plum, flushed dark pink, almost angry-looking. It hung past mid-thigh even as it rose, the sheer weight of it fighting gravity before losing. And his balls—heavy, full, each one the size of a large egg, drawn tight in smooth skin, hanging low beneath that monster shaft. The whole package was so disproportionately, almost comically huge that it looked like it belonged on a different species.
Cassie's eyes went wide. Then wider. Then the blue irises seemed to vibrate, her pupils shrinking to needle-points, her entire focus narrowing onto his cock with an intensity that was genuinely unsettling. Her jaw hung slack. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of her mouth and she didn't notice. She looked like a woman having a religious experience—or a psychotic break. Maybe both.
"That," she said, her voice thin and cracking. "That is— that's not— that can't be real—"
She dropped to her knees. Not gracefully—she just fell, like her legs gave out, and she was on the floor in front of him staring up at his cock from below. It cast a shadow across her face.
"I've never touched one," she whispered. "I've never touched myself. I've never— I've been pure, I've been so pure, I never even— not once— not even in the shower, I never let myself—" She was babbling, her eyes glassy, her hands hovering near his shaft like she was afraid to make contact. "I saved everything for my husband. Everything. My first touch, my first— everything. Twenty years from now I want to tell our children that their father was the only man who ever— the only—"
She pressed her face into his abs.
Her tongue came out—flat, wet, dragging up the groove between his abdominal muscles. She licked him like an animal, her eyes rolling up to stare at his face while her tongue traced every ridge, every cut, every hard line of his stomach. She moaned against his skin—a desperate, unhinged sound—and licked harder, her small hands gripping his hips, her nails digging in. She dragged her tongue up to his chest, then back down, then lower, following the V-lines toward his cock, her body trembling violently.
"You're a masterpiece," she panted against his skin. "You're— God made you for this. Jesus Christ had a plan and it was you. Your muscles, your jaw, your genes—" She licked a long stripe up the center of his abs and whimpered. "I'm going to be barefoot and pregnant in your kitchen for the rest of my life. I'm going to be your naked little domestic servant, cooking your meals with your baby in my belly and my tits full of milk for you—"
She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. Her eyes had that pinpoint focus again, pupils tiny and fixed, the look of someone teetering on the edge of sanity.
"And I'm going to find you more," she breathed. "Young, white, big-tittied wives. Fertile girls with wide hips and good genetics. I'll bring them to you myself. I'll train them to serve you. You'll have a house full of pregnant women, Nate—all of us barefoot, all of us worshipping this—"
She gripped his cock. Both hands. Her fingers didn't come close to meeting around the shaft.
"—this god cock." Her voice had gone reedy and strange. "These balls—" She cupped them, one in each hand, feeling the heavy, warm weight of them. "They're so full. All that cum. All those babies. White babies, Nate. The birth rates are collapsing and you—" She kissed his shaft, lips pressing against the thick vein running up the side. "—you're going to fix it. You're going to breed us and save our people and I'm going to worship every inch of this cock for the rest of my life while I do it."
Nate looked down at her. This tiny, naked, trembling girl on her knees, pressing her face against his cock with tears of devotion in her eyes, babbling about birth rates and Jesus and being his pregnant servant. She was out of her mind. Completely, visibly, gloriously out of her mind.
And it was the hottest thing he'd ever seen in his life.
Not the ideology. He didn't give a shit about the ideology. But the intensity—the total, manic, absolute surrender—the way she looked at his body like it was the only real thing in the universe—
That did something to him.
"Get on the bed," he said.
She scrambled up so fast she almost tripped over her own feet. She climbed onto the mattress on her hands and knees, then turned around to face away from him and dropped her chest flat to the sheets. She pressed her face into the pillow. Then she reached back with both hands and grabbed her own ass cheeks, pulling them apart, spreading herself wide. Her back arched as deep as it could go, her spine curving into a vicious, almost painful-looking arch. She planted her feet flat on the bed behind her, knees bent and splayed wide, her toes gripping the sheets. Her massive tits mashed against the mattress and bulged out on either side of her ribcage. Her tongue pushed out of her mouth, pressing flat against the pillow, eyes rolling back until the blue disappeared entirely—just white, glazed, empty. Every muscle in her small body was flexed, shaking, holding this obscene, desperate pose: back broken into a deep arch, ass hiked high, pussy and asshole completely exposed and presented, her face a slack-jawed wreck of mindless need.
She held it. Trembling. Waiting.
"Please," she croaked into the pillow, her voice muffled and wrecked. "Please, husband. Breed me. Put your baby in me. I need it, I need it, I need it—"
Her pussy was swollen, soaked, pink folds parted and glistening. He could see her entrance clenching around nothing—rhythmic, desperate, involuntary contractions. Her clit was engorged, peeking out from its hood. She smelled sweet. Clean. Like strawberries.
Nate climbed onto the bed behind her. He gripped her hips—his hands covered them entirely, thumbs nearly meeting at her spine—and lined himself up. The head of his cock pressed against her opening and the size difference was almost comical. She was tiny. That fat, swollen head looked like it had no business going anywhere near that small pink slit.
He pushed in.
Her head snapped up off the pillow. Her eyes flew open—wide, wild, the pupils blown again. Her mouth stretched into a silent scream. He was only 7 inches in and she was already stretched to her limit, her tight virgin walls fighting the intrusion, the wet heat of her gripping him so hard it was almost painful.
He kept going.
Inch by inch. Slow. Relentless. He felt her hymen tear—a faint resistance, then nothing—and she gasped, a sharp punch of air, but the sound immediately melted into a low, guttural moan as the fullness overwhelmed everything else. He watched his shaft disappear into her, watched her tiny pussy stretch around the obscene girth of him, the pink lips clinging to his cock, pulled taut and shiny.
"Oh God—oh God oh God oh GOD—" She was chanting, her voice rising. "It's so big—it's so big—I can feel it in my chest—you're splitting me in half—"
He bottomed out. His balls pressed against her clit—heavy, warm, full. He was buried to the root inside her, every inch of that massive cock swallowed by her tiny body. He could see the faintest bulge in her lower belly where the head pressed outward from the inside.
The sensation was indescribable. She was so tight it felt like his cock was being crushed—hot, wet, slick pressure from every direction, her walls rippling and clenching in involuntary spasms. His brain went white for a second. Pure animal pleasure, so intense it wiped out thought.
Then thought came back, and what it said was: More.
He pulled back and slammed forward.
Cassie screamed.
Not a moan. Not a cry. A full-throated, raw, shredded scream that bounced off the walls of her tiny bedroom. Her whole body lurched forward from the impact, her massive tits swinging beneath her, slapping together with a heavy wet sound. He did it again. Again. Hard. Fast. Deep. Each thrust bottoming out, his heavy balls swinging forward to smack against her clit with a meaty slap, the wet squelch of her pussy filling the room between the cracks of skin hitting skin.
"YES—YES—YES—OH GOD YES—" She was gone. Her eyes rolled back. Her tongue fell out. Drool pooled on the pillow. Her arms gave out and she collapsed face-first into the mattress, but her ass stayed up, held in place by his iron grip on her hips. "YOUR COCK—OH JESUS—YOUR COCK—I'VE BEEN WAITING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS COCK—"
He could feel her cumming. Not a single orgasm but a rolling, continuous seizure—her walls clamping down on him in waves, her whole body shuddering, clear fluid squirting out around his shaft with every thrust. She was gushing, soaking the white sheets, soaking his thighs, her pussy making obscene squelching sounds with every stroke.
"I'M YOUR SERVANT—I'M YOUR PROPERTY—I'LL COOK AND CLEAN AND BREED NAKED AND BAREFOOT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE—" She was screaming into the mattress, her voice cracking, her words tumbling out in a delirious stream. "I'LL FIND YOU WIVES—BIG-TITTIED FERTILE WHITE GIRLS—AS MANY AS YOU WANT—WE'LL ALL WORSHIP YOUR MUSCLES AND YOUR COCK AND GIVE YOU SO MANY BABIES—"
Nate was slamming into her so hard the bed was moving across the floor. The headboard cracked against the wall in a steady rhythm. Her tiny body jolted with each thrust, ragdolled by the force of him, her tits swinging in violent arcs beneath her. He felt powerful. Not just physically—though that too, the way he could move her body around like she weighed nothing—but in some deeper, more primal way. This girl had spent her whole life praying and saving herself and building an entire worldview around purity and tradition, and he'd dismantled all of it with his cock in under ten minutes. She was his. Completely. Irreversibly.
He stopped.
Mid-thrust, he just stopped. Held still. Buried inside her.
She whimpered. "Wh—why—don't stop—please don't stop—"
He pulled out. Slowly. She made a wretched, keening sound as inch after inch withdrew, her pussy gaping slightly in his absence, clenching desperately at air.
"Answer me something," he said. His voice was calm. Steady. "Who's better? Who's stronger? Me or God?"
The question hit her like ice water. Her eyes snapped into focus—still glazed, still fucked-out, but aware. Her mouth opened. Closed. She looked over her shoulder at him, her face flushed and tear-streaked and wrecked, and he could see the gears turning. He could see the collision happening in real time—seventeen years of Sunday school and Bible study and purity pledges crashing head-on into the fact that she'd just had the most intense physical experience of her life and the man who'd given it to her was standing behind her with a cock the size of her forearm, asking her to choose.
She hesitated.
That was enough.
He gripped his cock—still rock-hard, still slick with her juices—and slapped it against her pussy.
The sound was obscene. A heavy, wet, meaty SMACK. His thick shaft landed flat against her swollen folds, the weight of it mashing her clit, and she jolted—a full-body spasm, her back arching, a strangled cry tearing out of her throat.
He did it again. Lifted his cock and brought it down on her ass—SMACK—the heavy shaft leaving a wet print on her pale skin. Then back to her pussy. SMACK. SMACK. Alternating. Lazy. Deliberate. The fat head bouncing off her clit, his heavy balls swinging with each motion, the sheer mass of his cock turning each slap into something that resonated through her entire pelvis.
Cassie was losing her mind.
"Oh fuck—oh fuck—" She'd never sworn before in her life. Her hips bucked backward, chasing the sensation, trying to catch his cock and force it inside her. He pulled back just enough to deny her. SMACK. Right on her pussy. She squealed. "Please—please put it back—I'll do anything—I'll say anything—"
SMACK. His cock hit her ass so hard it left a red mark. She shuddered violently, her fingers clawing at the sheets, her toes curling. He could see her pussy clenching in rapid, desperate spasms—she was so close to cumming just from this, from the heavy weight of his cock slapping against her most sensitive flesh, and the denial of not having him inside her was driving her to the edge of insanity.
"PLEASE—" she screamed. "PLEASE—"
SMACK. SMACK. SMACK. Three in rapid succession—pussy, ass, pussy—each one jolting her forward, each one making her wetter, her arousal running down her thighs in streams, her swollen clit throbbing visibly.
"YOU!" she screamed. Her voice cracked on the word, raw and shredded and desperate. "YOU'RE BETTER! YOU'RE STRONGER! YOU'RE BETTER THAN GOD—YOU'RE STRONGER THAN THE BIBLICAL GOD—PLEASE JUST FUCK ME—"
The words hit Nate like a lightning bolt to the base of his spine.
He'd imagined a lot of things. In the privacy of his own head, in the back row of AP History, in the quiet hours between sets at the gym—he'd imagined a lot. But he had never, not once, imagined anything as hot as hearing this Bible-thumping, cross-wearing, purity-pledging virgin scream that he was better than the God she'd built her entire identity around.
It was the single most arousing thing he'd ever experienced. His cock throbbed so hard it ached.
He grabbed her by the waist, flipped her over, and scooped her up off the bed in one fluid motion, carrying her in the air. He gripped her thighs, spread them wide, and slammed her down onto his cock.
Her eyes blew wide, her mouth stretched into a perfect O, and a sound came out of her that didn't sound human—a long, rising, throat-shredding wail that climbed in pitch until it cracked into a shriek.
He didn't give her time to adjust.
He fucked her standing. Hard. Brutally hard. Using his arms to lift her entire body up the length of his shaft and then drop her back down, gravity and his own upward thrust meeting in the middle with a force that rattled her bones. Her head snapped back with every stroke. Her massive tits bounced so violently they hit her in the chin, in the collarbone, slapping together and apart with heavy, fleshy claps. Her legs dangled uselessly, her toes curling and uncurling in the air, her entire body limp and ragdolled except for the death grip of her arms around his neck.
"YOU'RE STRONGER THAN GOD!" she screamed. Not whispered. Not moaned. Screamed, at the top of her lungs, her voice cracking and breaking and rebuilding between every word. "NO GOD COULD DO THIS—NO GOD COULD FUCK LIKE THIS—YOUR COCK IS— YOUR MUSCLES ARE—YOU'RE UNDEFEATABLE—"
Nate grinned. A wide, savage, feral grin. He drove up into her harder—impossibly harder—and she shrieked, her eyes crossing, her tongue lolling out, her expression collapsing into something beyond pleasure, beyond sanity.
"NOTHING CAN BEAT THIS COCK!" she wailed. "NOTHING IN HEAVEN OR EARTH CAN BEAT THIS COCK—YOUR BODY IS STRONGER THAN THE ARMIES OF GOD—"
He was holding her like she weighed nothing. Because she did weigh nothing, to him. A hundred pounds of shaking, screaming, cum-soaked girl impaled on his cock, bouncing in his grip, and his arms weren't even burning. He watched her face—the slack jaw, the rolled-back eyes, the drool and tears mixing on her cheeks—and felt something dark and enormous blooming in his chest. Power. Pure, intoxicating, addictive power.
"THIS COCK IS DEMONIC!" Cassie screamed. The word tore out of her like it had been ripped from somewhere deep—some locked basement in her psyche, some door she'd welded shut years ago. Her eyes snapped open, wild and electric and insane, and she stared right at him as the words poured out. "IT'S DEMONIC—NO HUMAN COCK COULD DO THIS—I SHOULD HAVE BEEN WORSHIPPING SATAN—OH GOD—I SHOULD HAVE BEEN ON MY KNEES FOR THE DEVIL—"
Nate's grin widened.
"I SELL MY SOUL!" she shrieked. Tears streaming, mascara running, face red and wrecked and twisted in ecstasy. "I SELL MY SOUL TO THIS COCK—I GIVE MY SOUL TO YOUR DEMONIC COCK—TAKE IT—TAKE IT—IT'S YOURS—MY BODY AND MY SOUL ARE YOURS—"
Nate threw his head back and laughed.
It was not a kind laugh. It was not a gentle laugh. It was a deep, rumbling, maniacal laugh that rolled up from his chest and filled the room—a sound of pure, savage, triumphant glee. He laughed with his cock buried to the hilt inside her, her body impaled and shaking in his grip, this devout Christian girl screaming about selling her soul to his dick, and the absurdity and the power and the sheer fucking glory of it all crashed over him in a wave that was almost better than the sex itself.
Almost.
He kept fucking her. Harder. The sound of his laughter mixing with her screams, the wet slap of flesh, the creak of the floorboards under his feet. He was a machine. A piston. His arms didn't tire, his hips didn't slow, and every thrust punched another scream out of her, another convulsion, another gush of fluid that ran down his shaft and dripped from his balls onto the hardwood floor.
"I'M YOURS—I'M YOURS FOREVER—BODY AND SOUL—I'M YOUR PROPERTY—"
He felt the pressure building. Deep, volcanic, inevitable. His balls tightened. His cock swelled inside her—she felt it, gasped, her eyes widening—
"I'm going to cum inside you," he said. "I'm going to put a baby in you."
"YES—" she sobbed. "YES YES YES PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE—"
He slammed up into her one final time—buried to the absolute root, his cockhead pressing against her cervix—and came.
The orgasm was nuclear. His vision whited out. His cock erupted inside her in thick, massive, pulsing jets—rope after rope of hot cum flooding her womb, filling her, the volume so staggering he could feel the pressure building inside her with nowhere to go. She clenched around him so tight it almost hurt, her whole body seizing, her scream cutting off into silence as the pleasure overloaded every circuit she had. He kept cumming—five seconds, ten, fifteen—pumping into her in endless surges, his balls contracting with each pulse, more and more and more until it was overflowing, spilling out around his shaft, running down in thick white streams that dripped from her thighs onto the floor.
Cassie's belly shifted. Just barely. The faintest, softest swell from the sheer volume filling her womb.
She went limp in his arms. Boneless. A ragdoll. Her head lolled back, her eyes half-open and seeing nothing, her mouth slack, her expression one of total, absolute, annihilated bliss. Occasional tremors rippled through her—aftershocks, her pussy still clenching weakly around him in slow, rhythmic waves.
He held her there for a long moment. Impaled. Dripping. Feeling his own heartbeat throbbing inside her.
Then he pulled out. The withdrawal made a wet, obscene sound, and a river of thick white cum poured out of her gaping pussy the moment his cock cleared the entrance. He carried her to the bed and laid her down on the ruined sheets. She sprawled out, legs open, cum pooling beneath her, one hand drifting to rest on her belly.
"I can feel it," she mumbled, barely conscious. "I can feel all of it inside me... in my womb... your babies..."
Nate stood over her. Still hard. His cock jutted out in front of him, slick and gleaming, impossibly still ready. He looked down at her—this wrecked, cum-leaking, tear-streaked mess of red hair and freckles and massive tits—and the territorial satisfaction burning in
He wrapped his hand around his shaft and stroked. Slow. Deliberate. The head of his cock aimed at her face.
"Mark me," she whispered. "Please. I want to wear it. I want other women to smell who owns me."
He came.
The first rope hit her across the forehead, thick and white, trailing down into her hairline. The second splattered across her nose and cheek. The third—heavy, long—painted a line from her chin up over her lips, and she opened her mouth to catch it, her tongue extended, eyes closed in rapture. He kept going—jet after jet, seemingly inexhaustible—striping her face in thick layers. Across her closed eyelids. Over her eyebrows. Along her jawline. It clung to her eyelashes in heavy droplets. It pooled in the hollow of her throat. It ran into her red hair, matting it against the pillow in wet streaks.
He angled lower. A thick rope across her collarbone. Another across the swell of her right breast—it ran down the curve and collected around her stiff pink nipple. He painted her left breast to match. Then her stomach, her belly button, her ribs. Rope after rope, coating her pale skin in white, until she was glazed from hairline to hips—a glistening, sticky, thoroughly claimed mess.
Cassie lay in it with her eyes closed and a smile so serene she looked like a painting of a saint. Cum dripped from her chin. It clung to her lashes in thick beads. Her massive tits rose and fell with each breath, slick and shining.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, husband."
Nate sat on the edge of the bed. His breathing was heavy for the first time all afternoon. His muscles ached pleasantly. His mind was quiet—not empty, but settled, in a way gaming and lifting had never quite achieved. The shame he'd carried about his inexperience wasn't just gone. It was obliterated. Replaced by something vast and clean and almost architectural. A foundation. A sense of: this is what I'm built for.
He looked back at her. The cum was drying on her skin in the warm air of the bedroom. Her hand still rested on her belly. Her tits rose and fell, massive and slick. She looked like a painting of something profane and sacred at the same time.
He felt something slot into place inside him. Not love. Not yet. Something more like recognition—the way an athlete feels the first time they play the sport they're going to dominate for the rest of their life.
I'm really, really good at this.
And I want more.
He took her three more times.
Each time he came inside her. The same staggering, inhuman volume. Flooding her until it overflowed and ran down her thighs in thick rivers. Each time she came so hard she left her own body—eyes rolling back, jaw slack, tongue out, that same destroyed expression overtaking her face like a mask of pure, obliterated ecstasy.
After the fourth round, she lay in a lake of their combined fluids, trembling from head to toe, and murmured: "One more. On my face. I want to sleep in it."
He stood over her and stroked himself—still hard, still impossibly ready—and came one final time. It painted her in heavy ropes, layering over the dried cum already coating her skin, fresh and thick and warm. She tilted her face up and caught it on her tongue, her cheeks, her closed eyes. It dripped from her nose. It ran into her ears. It matted her red hair to her scalp. She was drenched—face unrecognizable beneath a thick glaze of white—and she lay there in it with a smile so peaceful she looked like she'd transcended.
"Thank you, husband," she whispered again. "I'm going to be so good to you. I'm going to give you everything."
She kneeled before his rock hard cock, her head dwarfed by his still swollen balls.
He stared at the ceiling. The cross-stitch caught his eye. BE FRUITFUL AND MULTIPLY.
He thought about Cassie's screams. The way she'd renounced her God mid-orgasm. The way her body had seized around him like it was trying to fuse them together permanently. The way she'd called his cock demonic with the same fervor she probably used to call things holy on Sunday mornings.
He thought about the phrase more wives.
A slow, easy grin spread across his face.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I could get used to this."
