Before the H-Virus, people would sometimes ask what I thought an artist’s most valuable attribute was. Often, my answer surprised them. No doubt they expected me to insist on creativity as our highest virtue, or pontificate about the importance of proper technique. But in my honest opinion, of all the tools of the craft, there is only one without which no artist can survive.

And that is discipline.

There is a reason why we call the output of our labors “works of art.” They are born not from ethereal whims, but material processes. They are products not just of vision and intuition, but friction, fury, and force. There are a handful of exceptions, of course, but by and large, the life of an artist is a commitment to constant toil, developing, refining, and plying your craft. Every poem stands upon a heap of its discarded siblings; every song echoes verses that no voice will ever share; every drawing hides the ghosts of a thousand excised lines. It is pleasant to think only of the survivors, to pretend they arrive to us on divine wings of inspiration, as a stork delivers a newborn to its happy parents.

But that’s bullshit.

It is discipline that ensures an artist’s continued existence. It was discipline that secured my place at SAIC; discipline that kept me developing my skills while the rest of my class partied and drank; discipline that saw me through the lean early years of freelancing; discipline that enabled my career to flourish while so many others withered; discipline with which I have carved my name upon my industry; and discipline that has kept me safe in my home, while the rest of the world’s women transform into breeding stock.

Admittedly, the life of an artist is not exactly as I expected it to be.

I’m reminded of this as a breaking news update flashes on my second monitor. The name in the headline catches my eye, my shock visible in my webcam feed as I hurriedly set down my pen and drag the offending window into my stream, reading aloud to my viewers:

“Darla Chaste to Retire: at a surprise press conference this morning, the globally revered pop sensation dropped two bombshells on her unsuspecting fans, announcing both her engagement to her former head of security, and an indefinite hiatus from music. ‘It’s the bestest thing to ever happen to me,’ the visibly pregnant ex-singer proclaimed.”

Shit. It’s happened again. Another idol tarnished. Another pillar crumbles.

Reactions come through my stream chat in waves: first blank shock and disbelief, followed by anger, then despair. Some get banned by the auto-mod for extreme language. I quickly commute their sentences. Darla Chaste’s loss is a tragedy beyond description; I can’t blame them for resorting to profanity to fill the gap.

None of us expected this to happen. Of all the infected, we thought, surely, she would be the one to make it through.

Although, I’m quick to remind myself, ‘infected’ isn’t exactly the right term. A useful shorthand, maybe, but one that belies the true, terrifying nature of the H-virus: namely, that it might not be a virus at all. Investigations into its source and spread have proven useless, our so-called “experts” citing everything from pollution to mass-psychosis to goddamn astrology as possible causes. Attempts to rectify or even contain the damage have similarly amounted to little, save for a few testing kits of dubious reliability and promises of a vaccine that will likely never come. It’s pathetic, really: the world’s brightest minds have all been working on the same problem for almost a year, and we still know practically nothing about its origin or solution.

Its effects though…every woman knows those all too well.

The first and foremost is right there in the name: the Heat Virus, so-called because any woman infected exhibits symptoms similar to that of an animal “going into heat.” She will find herself inexplicably fixated on breeding, her reproductive system hijacking the rest of her body, lowering her inhibitions and sending her libido and fertility skyrocketing, overriding whatever ideals or birth control she previously subscribed to.

But that isn’t the worst part of it. No, the real kicker is what happens when an infected host is impregnated. In that event, the woman in question will immediately “imprint” on whomever knocked her up, falling so deeply in love with them that she’ll happily obey their every command, without hesitation or complaint. It’s this inconceivable aspect of the H-virus that has caused the most panic, that has kept us all locked in our homes and glued to our screens, scrolling through stories of social decay via X-rated exploits, of impromptu office orgies and boisterous bus stop gang-bangs, of feminists, lesbians, and avowed celibates suddenly spreading their legs at any man within reach, begging to be bred like livestock.

“Of course she says she loves him,” I snap, responding to a chatter’s weak attempt at optimism. “She’ll say anything he wants. Hell, she probably believes it too. That’s what makes this so fucked.” My hand slaps the desk in emphasis.

The chatter in question is repentant. I apologize, soften my tone. Rub the sting from my throbbing palm. I don’t mean to blow up—it just frustrates me, seeing people still in denial. There is no silver lining in this dark and dismal cloud. Our only way through is along the same path I’ve walked my whole life.

And that is discipline.

I chew my lower lip, watching ALL-CAPS messages speed by at record pace. My cozy work stream is going off the rails, crashing and sinking into a bog of despair. There is no saving this wreck, and frankly I’m not in the mood to try. Instead, I offer some boilerplate encouragement, remind everyone to stay hydrated, rested, and isolated, and then sign off early. It’s disappointing, having to cut short one of my few sources of socialization. But clearly, my viewers need time to sit with their feelings; just as I need a break from pretending to share them.

It's not that I’m happy about the Darla Chaste news—far from it. No woman deserves to be enslaved via insemination, to become the property of the man who fucked her free will away. Yet while I feel a familiar anger at the thought of her downfall, that rage is barely a flicker, smothered as it is between two larger, more visceral emotions.

The first is vindication. The second is lust.

A trembling sigh escapes me as I uncross my legs, the panties under my oversized T-shirt already damp and sticky with arousal. I’ll have to find a fresh towel for my chair soon—such is life with a breeding virus flowing through your veins. I don’t mince words about my own infection; I know I am not immune to its influence. Even as I reported Darla Chaste’s claiming with appropriate revulsion, her subordination also stirred something insidious inside me, a tingling warmth I cannot suppress, drawing my eyes to the photos of her wrapped around her new owner’s arm, her glossy lips locked in a spacey grin, her tiny dress straining against the swelling curves of burgeoning motherhood. When I close my eyes now, I still see her, so happy and full, radiant and gorgeous and owned, just as the H-virus tells me I long to be.

It’s right, in its own cruel, twisted way. There is a part of me that yearns to give in, to surrender to my traitorous biology, to submit to any man who will knead my tits and bite my neck and plant a new purpose deep inside me, one that is glorious and righteous and pure, a future that extends no further than the tip of his cock.

But I have learned to adapt. I have learned to resist. I set a schedule and I stick to it. I do my exercises, maintain my grooming, and meet my deadlines without fail. The H-virus cannot control me, so long as I control myself. That’s why I’ve been able to stick it out this long, why I’ve remained strong while so many have crumbled.

It’s why, despite my sympathy and anger, I feel a sense of validation, of smug superiority over the fallen popstar. Of all artists, of all women, it was she who had the best odds of enduring the ovulation apocalypse. Her isolated compound was impenetrable, her fortune vast enough to sustain her for decades, her popularity only rising as her competition continued to fall. She had it all: money, power, fame, looks, brains, and talent to boot.

But she did not have discipline. When it came time to remove all males from her orbit, she could not bring herself to replace her longtime head of security, even as his sex posed the biggest threat to her freedom. I don’t know what it was that caused this lapse in judgement. Misplaced loyalty? Unrequited affection? Overwhelming loneliness? It didn’t matter—ultimately, her resolve cracked, and that is why she will spend the rest of her days barefoot and pregnant, too blissfully cum-brained to realize how pitiful she really is.

It's a shame. But I feel little sympathy. Those who cannot exercise self-control are destined to lose it. That might seem cruel, but it’s impossible to think otherwise after watching so many self-described rebels fall, their confident claims melting into simpering surrender as the realities of their situation set it. Ultimately, it wasn’t the H-virus that assured their defeat—it was their own damn weakness. If only they had discipline. If only they were like me.

I am not so easily conquered.

A thump against my wall startles me out of my thoughts. The sound is followed by a muffled moan, low and familiar, drawing a wry smirk to my lips.

Ah, apartment 616 is starting up again. This will make, what, their fourth time this morning? It’s a wonder their bed hasn’t collapsed yet, especially given the apparent violence of their mating. Not that I’m complaining—their timing is perfect. The heat sparked by Darla Chaste’s enslavement still needs an outlet, and my neighbors’ enthusiastic fucking will serve as the perfect soundtrack.

I lift the hem of my T-shirt, exposing my pale belly and sopping undergarments. The ruined fabric sticks to my sex as I peel it off, sending a warm shiver down my spine, my insides vibrating like a tuning fork to the feminine whimpers and masculine grunts next door. I recline with a sigh, tentatively smooth my fingers over my dripping slit. Instantly, my pussy clenches tight, my breath catching and forcing an undignified squeak from my lips. It still scares me, how sensitive the H-virus has made me, how my flushed skin quivers at the slightest touch, how my back arches and eyelids flutter as I slowly, gingerly stroke my swollen, soaking folds.

I have to be careful—controlled burns like this are important, but I can’t let myself indulge past the point of no return. The goal is to work off just enough steam to continue functioning while not letting sexual frustration spiral into risky behavior. That’s why I’ve installed porn-blockers on every device I own and carefully stripped my apartment of anything even remotely erotic, including anatomy references I’ve relied upon for years. Until a cure is found, 616’s trysts are the only amorous inspiration I’m allowed.

Fortunately, they are far more than enough.

“Yes, Daddy,” a breathy, female voice coos. “Fuck your stupid little slut. Show me I’m yours. Mark me with your cum, Daddy. I want it sooo baaad…”

Her words are a siren song to my burning ears. She’s imprinted on him—I’m sure of it. I don’t know how she and 616 met, but she belongs to him now, body and soul. I can hear it in her mewling pleas, her passionate sighs, her ecstatic moans. We’ve never met, but I can picture her so clearly, naked and pregnant on all fours, happily panting and yelping as her owner fucks her like a rutting beast, her heavy belly swaying and swollen tits bouncing, not single complex or independent thought in her head, just simple-minded devotion and bliss.

Fuck. I’m writhing against my hand now, saliva dripping from my lips onto my shirt as I let loose a needy moan. Dangerous desires flood my imagination, as unstoppable as the warm juices spilling between my fingers.

What if I go over there right now and knock on 616’s door? What if I strip in the doorway, throw myself on the floor, and beg him to take me, to own me, to break and reshape me with his almighty cock? He’s a good-looking guy, as far as I remember—tall, fit, golden retriever-vibes, with sandy blonde hair and a charming, bashful smile. There are far worse men to be claimed by. And I’m a pretty hot commodity right now, if I do say so myself. That isn’t conceit talking—just an artist’s critical appraisal. My petite body, porcelain skin, and enormous, slightly deep-set eyes have earned me plenty of male attention, especially from those who favor the “haunted doll look,” as one of my short-lived boyfriends once put it. Back then, I was occasionally insecure about my lack of curves and unruly hair, but those concerns no longer apply. Lockdown has pretty much leveled the hairstyle playing field, and the H-virus has amply softened my once-bony body, rounding my hips and plumping my ass, inflating my flat chest into a pair of proud, puffy B-cups, their pert points tingling as I tease and pull them taut, picturing my neighbor ravishing them with his hot, wet mouth.

Oh shit. It’s coming. The big one. The Heat orgasm. Building like a tidal wave inside me. I rub my swollen clit, riding the pleasure as it rises from below, until I’m whimpering along with my neighbors, echoing the dumb, knocked-up broodmare I long to be.

“Yes Daddy! Yes Daddy! Yes…!”

“Daddy!” I exclaim, the humiliating cry finally enough to break me, to collapse my resistance and flood my insides with roiling joy, spasming and squirting from my cunt. My lips continue mouthing the ugly honorific, each repetition another thrill, another transgression, another shudder of dark, twisted delight.

Then comes the aftershock.

From the heights of highest euphoria, I plunge into aching want. It isn’t enough. I desire more. I need more. I can’t be satisfied by these pathetic pantomimes, these flimsy mockeries of my natural purpose. My body feels hollow. My pussy convulses around nothing, each contraction a desperate plea, a cry to be filled, to be marked, to be blessed by the thick, overpowering seed of a worthy, masculine Master.

I grit my teeth. My hands white-knuckle the arms of my chair. My hips rise and fall. I have to resist. To ride it out. I will not give into these devious desires. I will not let my condition take control.

I will. Remain. Disciplined.

At last, the awful wrenching subsides. I collapse into my chair, dazed and exhausted. It’s getting longer each time, this full-body backlash, as though the virus were punishing me for defying its whims, for wasting these orgasms on meaningless pleasure instead of fulfilling my biological destiny.

Well fuck that.

I blink, groaning a little as I sit back up and collect myself. There’s a notification on my phone from almost twenty minutes ago—apparently I was too distracted to notice. Flicking the screen, a message from my delivery app slides into view, its contents causing my jaw to drop.

My grocery order for the week is waiting for me. At 616’s door.

My jaw clenches as I stare at the attached photo. How could the delivery person have screwed this up? There are numbers clearly marked beside our doors! Chasing a desperate hope, I dash out of my office to the entrance of my apartment, carefully checking the peephole before poking my head out into the hall.

I look left. I look right. Plush patterned carpet and anodyne abstract paintings. Rows of numbered doors and warm ceiling lights. No sign of my delivery in sight.

I duck back inside before anyone can see me, holding the door closed as I silently fume. So the bastard took my grocery order, did he? Why? Did he mistake it for his own? Wouldn’t its contents be a dead giveaway? Why hadn’t he just walked three feet to the right, plopped the bags in front of the appropriate apartment, and knocked?

An embarrassing thought occurs to me: maybe he did. Maybe he tried to correct the mix-up, but I was too lost in my post-orgasm stupor to notice. It wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. My face grows hot as I imagine him standing there, knocking and calling to no avail, pressing his ear against the door to try and figure out if anyone’s home, only to frown as my undignified grunts and growls reach his ear.

Maybe it’s a mercy that he quietly took the delivery into his own home. There’s dairy and produce in the order—maybe he figured it’d be best to keep them in his own refrigerator for now, safe from spoiling until I come knocking.

The question is: would doing so be worth the risk?

I release the door handle, pacing back and forth as I consider my options. On one hand, it’s only one week’s worth of groceries—not something one would typically risk becoming a braindead baby-momma for. But on the other hand, it’s one week’s worth of groceries. That shit is expensive. As successful as my business is, neither my income nor the broader economy are in an especially stable place right now. I can still count on a few regular clients for business, but most larger projects are quietly moving to all-male teams, lest months of work to go to waste when a creative lead transforms into a ditzy, doting housewife.

A flare of anger ignites in my gut, my aggravated breath fanning the flames ever higher. This sucks. This fucking sucks! Even as I do everything perfectly, even as I take every precaution and follow every rule, I’m still living completely at the mercy of men, huddling scared in my corner as they take and take and take. Well, no more. Fuck the world, and fuck the fear. Fuck the frightened little animal it’s turned me into. I’m gonna walk next door and demand my groceries back like a goddamn human adult. And no stupid, nonsensical virus is gonna stop me.

I throw open my door again, adrenaline and resolve propelling me from the safety of my apartment into the wide open world. I refuse to hesitate as I march next door, arms swinging in an exaggerated show of confidence, my fist rapping loudly against 616’s door.

“Hey!” I bark. “It’s your neighbor, 615. You have my grocery order. Can you please bring it outside?”

I wait. Look to either side of the hall. Still no response.

“Hello?” I knock again, weaker this time. “Anyone there? Hello?”

Silence is the only answer I receive. I swallow, my heartrate rising, beating against the frail façade of my courage. I glance back at my door, consider retreating. It’d be a humiliating defeat, but the risk of remaining exposed is starting to get to me.

What would happen, an intrusive thought posits, if a different neighbor were to open their door right now? A man, big and brutish, with designs on claiming one of the last free females for himself? Would I be able to escape? Would I be able to resist? I’ve seen the effects male presence has on those in Heat, heard stories of women hypnotized and lured away by the mere sight of a stiff, swaying cock. Could such a fate await me? I like to think not, but how can I be sure? I haven’t seen another living person, much less a man, in almost three months. Who knows how my virus-addled, contact-starved brain might react?

Now I’m beginning to panic. I knock again, pounding to the beat of my own racing pulse, pointlessly jiggling the handle and…

Oh. The door’s unlocked.

I hesitate, then crack it open, drawing a deep breath to shout into 616’s home.

Big mistake.

The scent seizes me in an instant, flooding my nostrils and invading my throat, filling my head and lungs with a dense, humid fog. My voice falters, the words I formed melting into an unintelligible utterance as I take a staggering step forward. The fragrant cloud envelopes me, welcomes me, carries me further into its lair, my mind buzzing and mouth salivating as my body moves unbidden across the threshold.

Into the apartment.

God. The scent is even stronger here. An impenetrable haze of sweat and sex. It feels like its reaching inside me, wriggling through my brain and curling beneath my belly. It’s pungent. It’s heavenly. It’s the best thing I’ve ever smelled. So powerful and…thick and…inviting…

No! I stagger back, accidentally falling against the open door and slamming it closed. I clench my jaw, shake my head. Long strands of ashen hair whip across my face.

I need to regain control. I need to maintain discipline.

Gradually, my breathing settles. My senses grow accustomed to the stench. Still, I can tell it’s affecting me. Though my thoughts are beginning to cohere, it’s difficult to string more than a handful together, every musky inhale stretching a sticky gap in the connection.

Again, I consider fleeing. Again, I discard the notion. I’ve come too far, burned too many brain cells to turn back now. Especially when victory is so close. The kitchen is just to my right. All I gotta do is find the delivery bags and…

“Huh?” A masculine voice. My ears perk up, my gaze swiveling instinctively towards the source.

There is a man.

A tall man.

A stunningly attractive man.

Wearing nothing but a towel.

Standing in the hall.

Staring right at me.

It’s too much. I short-circuit. My legs wobble and give out. I slump to my knees.

“Oh shit!” 616 recoils, darts around the corner he just emerged from. “Uh, I think you’ve got the wrong apartment, lady.”

“Uh…buh…” I gape dumbly. Struggle to form words. No piece of art has ever left me so awestruck; no poem so speechless; no song so moved. I try to think, but my brain is stuck, replaying my three second glimpse of the Divine over and over again. Traces of him linger after every blink.

“What’d you say?” He hazards a peek at me, and I lose my breath in the blue of his eyes. “Are you okay? What are you doing in my apartment?”

Questions. A man is asking me questions. My pulverized thoughts force themselves into shape. “G-Groceries,” I sputter.

“Groceries?”

Fuck. I’m acting like a schoolgirl meeting her celebrity crush. I feel like it too. “M-My groceries. They were delivered here. By a-accident. Sir.”

A slight furrow notches his brow. “You live next door, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“Violet, Sir.” I don’t know why I keep calling him that. Feels right, somehow.

He nods. “Violet. Okay. I’m Chris. It’s, uh, nice to finally meet you.”

It is? I beam, thrilled to have pleased him. A tiny giggle bubbles out of me.

“Does your, uh…” He squints at the ceiling, searching. “Does your…man, know you’re here?”

I shake my head. “Don’t have one.” Yet, the H-virus whispers. My pussy throbs in agreement.

His eyes widen. There’s a shift in his gaze, surprise and confusion morphing into…something else. Appraisal? No…could it be…interest?

Warmth blooms in my chest. I feel his stare like a lover’s caress, moving along the splayed lines of my legs, up my thickened thighs and hips, my back straightening, arching into his phantom touch as I sense it slide up my torso, trace the cloaked swell of my breasts, the slope of my neck, the subtle curve of my parted lips. I suddenly feel ashamed, showing up in such shapeless, unflattering garb. Maybe I should lift the hem of my shirt and give him a nice…

A sudden bolt of awareness crashes through me.

Holy shit. I forgot to change before coming over. No wonder he assumed I was taken. My T-shirt is wrinkled and stained with drool. My legs are bare save for a pair of knee-high socks.

I’m not wearing any panties.

Horrified, I leap to my feet. My sudden motion seems to snap Chris back to the present as well. He ducks out of sight.

“H-Hang on,” he says. “I’m gonna go put some clothes on. Then we can…figure this out.”

Merciful God. I stagger to my left, lean against the back of a leather sofa for support. My lungs heave with every breath, my head hot and spinning.

How could this have happened? How did it take me this long to notice? Are atrophied social skills to blame? Or is the virus altering my thoughts more than I assumed? The possibility makes me shudder, my earlier risk-assessment now nothing more than wishful thinking. What good are determination and righteous fury when all it takes is the mere sight of a man to reduce me to a babbling bimbo? If not for the shock of my near nudity, I would probably be bent over this couch right now, calling a stranger “Daddy” while he pounds me into his personal cock-sleeve.

My thighs clench. A warm dribble of arousal trickles between them.

I should leave. I should walk out of this door and back to my room right now. Chris has gotten the message—he can figure out the rest. He’s a smart man. A capable man. A gorgeous man. A man any girl would be lucky to call…

No. Stop. Escape. Right now. While I’m still myself.

But then…I won’t get to see him return…

My gaze drifts to the door.

I don’t move.

The sound of footsteps reaches me from down the hall. My attention snaps towards them, my body straightening like a dog responding to Master’s clicker.

“Sorry about that,” Chris apologizes, abashed, a loose tank-top and shorts now hanging from his lean, fit frame. “I was in the shower. Didn’t hear you knock.”

“That’s okay,” I assure him, fighting back a shy smile. Of course it’s okay. It’s better than okay. He came back for me—what more could I ever want?

Stop this, Violet. Get control of yourself. This man knows you’re vulnerable, knows you’re open for the taking. All he has to do is whip out his cock to have you crawling and begging to be his baby-making bitch. Miraculously, he’s permitting you to maintain your independence. Don’t waste his gift.

I hate that I have to think this way, that his wishes are already drifting towards the center of my world. But it’s having the desired effect. My heart rate settles a bit. I reclaim some control of my body, manage to hold myself back as Chris approaches. My skin buzzes when his broad shoulders stray within touching distance, my heart sinking as he breaks right and enters the kitchen. A moan of longing threatens to escape me. I bite my lip so hard it might bleed.

“So, we got your grocery order my mistake?” he asks, scratching the blonde stubble on his jaw.

I swallow. “Um, yes. I think so.”

“Hm.” He opens a few cupboards, frowns. “I think my girlfriend already mixed it in with our stuff. She’s the one who grabbed the delivery and unpacked it. Not that I’m blaming her—it’s my fault for not telling her to make sure it was ours. She’s um, well, ever since she got pregnant she’s not always…” He gestures vaguely to his head. “Totally there, y’know?”

I nod, well-versed in the particulars of post-H pregnancies. They hit hard and fast, yet are eerily, impossibly safe. There’s no morning sickness. No mood swings. No pain. Just an overwhelming blitzkrieg of bodily changes and happy brain chemicals, locking the mother-to-be in a state of compliant, horny stupidity. In terms of prenatal care, her super-charged sex-drive and ravenous appetite the only real responsibilities for her Daddy to attend to.

No, not Daddy. Husband. Boyfriend. Man. Whatever. Not Daddy. Never Daddy.

Daddy…

Chris turns to address me, realigning my scattered thoughts. “Do you have, like, a list or something?” he asks. “It’s hard for me to tell what’s yours and what’s mine.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.” I unlock my phone, grateful I at least had the presence of mind to bring it with me. “Um, here.” With the delivery receipt on screen, I set the device down on the floor, sliding it towards him before quickly backing away.

His eyebrows arch, but he doesn’t question my need for distance. He approaches only as much as necessary, keeping a careful eye on me as he bends down and scoops up the phone before retreating.

“Okay.” He takes a look, flicks the screen. “This doesn’t seem too bad. Gimme a sec to get everything together, and we should be—”

“Daddy?” a familiar, high-pitched voice wafts down the hall. “Where are you?”

Oh God. Memories of a hundred different masturbation sessions reverberate through me. My nails dig into the sofa.

“In the kitchen, baby,” Chris calls. “You took our neighbor’s groceries by mistake. I’m just getting it all sorted out.”

“I did?” I can hear the pout in her voice. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Promise to punish me later?”

Punish? The word sends lightning through my veins. My wide eyes meet Chris’s, dark heat flaring inside me. He misinterprets my expression, quickly waves his hand.

“I-It’s nothing like that,” he quickly protests. “I’m not abusing her or anything. It’s just. Y’know. Spanking. And, uh, orgasm denial. Sometimes. She insists on it.” An embarrassed laugh. “Like I said, this whole Heat thing has made her kinda…”

“Who are you talking to?” The sound of bare feet pad to a stop nearby. I turn, following Chris’s gaze, and get my first ever eyeful of the woman I only know as “Baby.”

She is a goddess.

Her naked body stands in the hallway, glorious and unashamed, tan skin glowing in the dim, warm light. She stares at me with an expression of dreamy bemusement, long lashes blinking slowly, pillowy lips pursed and shining. Thick waves of black hair frame her adorable features, the tousled tresses trailing down past her enormous tits, large brown nipples engorged and aroused, resting heavily above a round belly swollen with maternal destiny.

I can’t take my eyes off her. My stomach churns with envy and yearning. She’s so gorgeous. So magnificent. So beautiful it makes me sick. No words can describe how inspired and inadequate I feel. No art could ever capture her splendor. Not even mine.

Time seems suspended as our eyes meet. Then she smiles.

“Ohmigod, Daddy!” She bounds towards me, jiggling with every step—unsteady, ungraceful, yet no less perfect for it. “You made another mommy! Is she gonna live with us now?”

“What?” Chris freezes in front of the open fridge. “No! She…she’s our neighbor, baby. Her apartment’s next door.”

“Wha…? Neighbor…?” Baby leans close, almost pushing me over the couch. I can feel the motherly warmth radiating from her skin, filling me with the sudden, violent urge to embrace her, to squeeze and suck and suffocate myself in her softness. I’ve never kissed a girl before, but suddenly it’s all I can think about.

Baby blinks. “But, um, she like, has to move in, right, Daddy? She can’t make you happy if she lives, like, somewhere else.”

Chris makes an uncomfortable sound. He’s watching us now, face tense with emotions I can’t discern. “It’s not up to me where Violet lives, baby,” he sighs. “She doesn’t belong to us. To anyone. She’s, um. Free.”

Baby’s jaw goes slack, as though she can’t believe her ears. “Reaaally? But she’s so pretty…”

Pretty. This immaculate angel just called me pretty. The compliment almost shakes a sob from my chest. I’m not worthy. I’m not ready. I want to flee. I want to crumble. I want to bury my face in her tits and cry.

“Mmm…” My benevolent idol strokes my hair, giggles when I moan. I can’t help it—I haven’t been touched like this in ages. Maybe ever. “I like her, Daddy,” my goddess decrees. “Can she join us, please? You want her too, Daddy, I can tell.”

Does he? Again, my eyes dart to the man at the other end of the room. He seems petrified by what he sees, jaw working through some internal conflict I can only guess at.

“Violet only came here to get groceries,” he finally utters. “And that’s all she’s going to get.”

“Aww…” Baby’s finger traces down my face, lifts my chin. “Pleeeaase Daddy?” Her cheek brushes mine. She sniffs. “Mmm…smells like she wants it. Like, really, really bad.” She giggles.

“What did I just say?” Impatience sharpens Chris’s voice, lending it a dangerous edge. “Stop bothering her and go put some clothes on. Now.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Baby’s touch withdraws in an instant, and I almost topple. My hands seize the couch for balance, my legs like jelly as I watch my tender seductress traipse back down the hall. Her absence is like the sudden dissolution of an erotic dream. I am awake—dazed, shivering, alone.

And excruciatingly horny.

Chris cringes. “I’m really sorry about all this,” he says, continuing to load bags full of groceries. “They say she’s supposed to do anything I want, but sometimes it’s more like…she does what she thinks I want? Or what she wants to believe I want? I dunno. It’s weird.” An embarrassed chuckle. “Can’t complain though, right? Especially given, y’know, how hard things must be for you.”

Hard. Yes. I catch myself trying to sneak a peek at his shorts, searching for a tell-tale bulge of desire. I don’t know what I will do if I find it. Fortunately, the kitchen island blocks my view, and I have enough willpower not to chase the notion any further. Instead, I drop my eyes to the floor. The dark wood is dappled by glistening droplets of my arousal.

My host lets out a soft grunt, bags rustling as I imagine him taking two in either arm. It requires every ounce of discipline I have to keep my gaze lowered, to resist the urge to watch his biceps bulge and forearms flex. With a body like that, he could ruin me. Effortlessly. In some ways, he already has.

I sense him hesitate, perhaps detecting my inner turmoil. “Um, y’know, these are heavier than I thought. Maybe instead of having you take them, I’ll wait till you’re back at your place, and then just leave ‘em by your door. That okay?”

It is. It isn’t. The sweet concern in his voice is almost too much to bear. I can’t trust myself to speak, so I force a nod.

He exhales, seeming relieved. “Great. So, why don’t we—hey!”

A girlish giggle. Sudden motion in the corner of my eye. The sound of clothes shifting.

I can’t help it. I look up.

Oh.

My.

God.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

So long. So thick. So powerful. The enormity of it fills my vision. Everything about it is perfect. The noble curve of its shaft, proud and erect like an emperor before his subjects; the virile bulge of its veins, every pulse sending a sympathetic thrum through my core; the intimidating swell of its head, blazing red and crowned by a jewel of precum, beckoning me to touch, to serve, to worship

A hand curls around the tip, drawing my attention to another presence. Baby is kneeling on the floor beside her Daddy, clad in nothing but a purple thong and an ill-fitting crop top, the white fabric barely reaching the tips of her nipples. She must’ve somehow snuck up behind him and removed his shorts, freeing his erection and trapping him in an awkward position. His eyes dart back and forth, searching for a place to set down the groceries, only for his pupils to roll back as Baby begins stroking his rigid flesh. She coos happily, massaging and squeezing, coaxing a guttural growl from her Daddy and coating his member in sticky smear.

I gawk, open-mouthed and transfixed. I am mesmerized. I am helpless.

I am ready.

I take a shaking step forward. The room blurs and shifts around me. I don’t care. All that matters now is Daddy’s cock. It is my truth. My guide. My lighthouse in the storm.

“See?” a distant voice giggles. “Here she comes. Told ya she wanted it.”

I want it. I need it.

“Baby, wait…ah…”

“Please, Daddy. Let her make you happy. You’ll be glad you did. Just like with me!”

Just like her. I wanna be just like her.

Kneeling.

Drooling.

Soft.

Full.

“Baby…we can’t…”

Yes. It’s so close. Swaying before my half-lidded eyes. I open my mouth in humble supplication.

“Stop! Violet, RUN! Now!”

Run. The command pierces me like a gunshot. I throw myself back and scramble to my feet, panic blaring in my head like a fire alarm. I sprint towards the exit, slip on a streak of my own wetness, recover my balance and throw myself at the door.

I burst into the hallway, gasping for air. In the next instant, my hands fumble at my door, taking a full two seconds to find purchase and twist. The entrance swings open. I stagger across the threshold, slam the door closed behind me, and throw the lock.

Silence envelopes me. I slowly sink to the ground. Despite only running a few meters, I’m still panting and struggling for air. My thighs shake. My pussy throbs with frustration.

So close. I was so close.

How could this have happened to me?

I was supposed to be different. Indomitable. Disciplined. But I was just as helpless as the rest. For all my pride, for all my precautions, I showed up to my neighbor’s apartment wearing almost nothing, fell to my knees at the sight of him, and nearly crawled my way into bearing his offspring forever. If not for his intervention, I would be nothing but a stupid, slutty slave right now. I owe him my freedom. I owe him everything. I…I…

Ah…Ahhhhh!

Burning. My body is burning. My insides writhe with want. An all-consuming itch grows within me, pulsing in the depths of my sex. I try to reach it, to ease it, but nothing works. My shaking, soaking fingers slide, stroke, pump uselessly between my folds. All it does is make me hotter, wetter, needier. I moan, so horny it hurts.

I need something longer. Harder. It’s the only escape. Staggering to my feet, I begin a frenzied search of my apartment, desperate to sate the dark hunger devouring my sanity. Kitchen drawers spill open, piles of laundry scatter into the air, closet doors nearly slide off their hinges. But there is nothing for me. My earlier self, my arrogant self, my stupid, hopelessly naïve self removed anything remotely fuckable from my home months ago.

Except for that.

I’m standing in the doorway to my office, shoulders heaving with flustered, half-crazed breath. My eyes lock onto the one implement that might answer my prayers. The one thing that could possibly bring me relief. It rests on my desk, sleek and dark and innocent, exactly where I left it.

My tablet pen.

I approach it with halting, hesitant steps. Surely not. Surely, I won’t sink this low. To take the very representation of my craft, the conduit of all of my efforts, my artistry, my discipline…to take that and reduce it to a crude tool of self-pleasure, it’s…it’s…

It’s impossible to stop myself. My traitorous fingers remove my shirt, my nipples tightening into taut, quivering nubs. I tease and circle the sensitive flesh, moaning as I sink into my chair, one hand continuing to knead as the other grips the silicone pen, weighty and familiar in my grasp. It’s too small to fully satisfy me—I know this, and I don’t care. It’s the only thing that will keep me from breaking, the only thing stopping me from running back to Daddy and begging to be his.

No, not Daddy, I mean…

I mean…

Whatever…

I raise my legs, propping them up on my desk, spreading the lips of my flushed, throbbing cunt. I can feel its heat waft against my hand as I guide the pen towards my sticky, dripping hole, a sharp gasp of desire breaking from my lips, the rounded end reaching its destination and…

Knock knock knock.

My pounding heart skips. I tense.

Could it be? Is it…?

“Heeeey Vivi!” Baby’s sweet, sing-song greeting rings through the apartment. “Got your stuff out here. Can you, like, come get it? Please?”

Conflicting impulses rage. The itch inside me throbs, seethes. Hot arousal trickles down the pen onto my fingers. I don’t want to stop, but the call of the fertility goddess echoes in my skull, conjuring images of her waiting in the hall, so round and radiant and beautiful, a ring of dark hair twirling around her finger as her thick hips sway from side to side. It would be a crime to keep such feminine perfection waiting. Especially if he’s with her too.

That does it. With a groan, I wriggle out of my chair, feet dragging as I follow Baby’s voice towards the door.

“C’mooon,” she pouts. “I know you’re in there. I’m not that stupid. Please come out? Pretty please? Daddy says I can’t come home till I say I’m sorry. Oh, and give your phone back or whatever.”

Shit. That’s right. For the umpteenth time today, I curse my stupidity. How could I have forgotten my phone? Maybe I really do deserve to be pounded into brainless breeding stock.

The ache in me twists. I shiver, wipe a strand of drool from my lips, and peer through the peephole.

There she is. Just as I imagined her. Teasing her hair. Shifting impatiently from foot to foot. The hem of her crop top swishes, exposing tantalizing glimpses of dark areolae, her gaze wide and repentant as she stares through the glass and into me.

It would be a bad idea to let her in. Some extant part of me knows this. But my head is too hazy to think of any other option.

“Pleeaaasse?” Baby whimpers, lifting my phone into view. “I’ll make it all up to you. I prooomiiiissee…”

While my mind is deadlocked, my hand reaches up and grasps the lock. I can’t stop it from twisting. Nor the door from opening.

Baby beams when she sees me, her large, round eyes sparkling. “There she is!” she exclaims, throwing her arms wide. I’m too stunned to struggle as she embraces me, squishing my face between her tits, nearly suffocating me with their soft, supple warmth.

Oh God. She smells amazing. Without meaning too, I press my tongue through my lips, taste the sweet tang of her sweat.

“Oooh,” she shivers, rippling against me. “I knew it. You’re like, super horned up, aren’t you?”

“Nyuh…” I manage to grunt, unsure of what exactly I meant to say.

“Hm? What’s…?” Her free hand finds mine, extracts the pen from my sticky fingers. She draws back, easing her grasp and allowing my head to rise from its pillowy prison. I inhale a great lungful of air, blinking stars from my vision as my captor gives the tool of my craft a curious sniff.

“Ahhaaaaa…” Her knowing smile closes around it, sucking the silicone clean before extracting it from her lips with a wet pop. “So that’s what you taste like,” she purrs.

The humiliating sight triggers something within me. The waning sparks of my resistance burst into new life. I break from her hold, stumble back into the apartment.

“G-Get out,” I command, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “You g-got what you came for, n-now go!”

“Huh? Go?” Baby smiles coyly, waves my pen and phone. “But I still got your things.”

“P-Put them on the shoe rack.”

The impregnated intruder obeys. Stares at me expectantly.

I take another hesitant step back. “Now g-go.”

She doesn’t. Instead, she draws closer with a grin, like a cat cornering its prey. “But I haven’t said ‘sorry,’ yet,” she murmurs. “Dontcha wanna let me apa…apoli…um, like, make it up to you?”

“I…uh…” It’s becoming hard to speak. To think. Her scent continues to fill the apartment. Her body sways sensually, hypnotically, pulling me in. I tear my eyes away, force myself to continue retreating. She advances after me, unhurried and unconcerned.

“Why are you running?” she giggles. “You scared? Of li’l ol’ me?”

My teeth chatter. I am scared. Terrified. But also delirious. Desirous. Desperate to feel her. To be her. That’s why I fail to close the door as I stagger back into my office; why I can’t bring myself to stop her from entering, from corrupting it with her presence, her power, my holy sanctuary transformed into the temple of a heretical goddess.

Her wide hips fill the doorway. To my left, my workstation buzzes, the screen filled with a new piece I’ll probably never finish; to my right rests my crash-couch, weathered and worn from many an all-nighter. There’s nowhere for me to run now. I’m trapped.

“W-Why?” I whisper as Baby closes in.

“Why?” She titters, backing me against a wall, the hefty swell of her belly pinning me in place. She presses a leg between mine, and my thighs instinctively clench around it. My lips open in a silent moan. She cups my face, traces my trembling collar. “Silly Vivi,” she coos. “You saw how Daddy looked at you. He wants you. And Daddy always gets what he wants.”

I screw my eyes shut, but it’s no use. I can’t get her face out of my head. Her voice out of my ears. Her hooks out of my throbbing, fluttering heart. “B-but…he said…you can’t…”

“Hm?” She bats her eyelashes innocently. “Daddy just said he wasn’t gonna fuck you then. He didn’t say anything about later.”

“Th-That’s…” Fuck. I’m starting to lose myself. My hips roll of their own accord, humping my nemesis like a bitch in heat, my wet cunt grinding against her smooth, thick thigh. “That’s…ungh…”

“Shhh.” She places a finger against my lips. “I know I’m being bad. I hafta be, sometimes. Like when Daddy said he didn’t wanna make me his knocked-up li’l cumslut, even though he totally did. He thinks too much. Gets all worried an’ confused an’ stuff. That’s why he needs a dummy like me to help. I always know what he really wants. It’s the only thing that matters, y’know?”

“B-But…muuu…” The itch inside me burns. Baby kisses my neck, tweaks my nipple.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “Daddy’ll be here soon. And then—”

“Ruby!” Chris’s angry voice causes us both to jump. “Ruby Díaz, where are you? Answer me!”

The woman holding me (Ruby? Baby?) takes a deep breath, apprehensive yet accepting, a martyr resigned to her fate. “In here, Daddy!” she calls. “Just playin’ with Vivi.”

Angry footfalls thunder through my apartment, shaking the floor. My sluggish brain struggles to keep up as the man of my forbidden fantasies bursts into the office, his azure eyes flashing.

“There you are.” He storms towards us, grabs a fistful of Baby’s hair and yanks her away from me. I crumple to the ground, too weak to move, to do anything but watch. “What do you think you’re doing?” he snarls at his captive.

Baby whimpers, not resisting. “I was just saying ‘sorry,’ Daddy. Like you told me t—eep!”

She squeaks with surprise as he drags her to the couch, forcing her knees onto the sagging cushions, her hands gripping the backrest as he takes hold of her luscious hips and sharply tugs her backside towards him.

“You stupid slut.” His mighty hands rip her panties apart, tearing the fabric like wet paper. “I told you what would happen if you kept bothering Violet.”

“I-I’m sorry Daddy!” The goddess quivers, her radiance fading to that of a guttering candle, flagging in the face of her Daddy’s fury. “P-Please punish me. Make me a good girl again. I—aaahh!”

Without warning or hesitation, he inserts two fingers into her swollen snatch, arousal gushing as he roughly penetrates her from behind. “Oh, I plan to,” he hisses in her ear. “I’ll make sure you never disobey me again.”

From my spot on the floor, I watch with breathless awe, barely noticing as my own slender digits begin rubbing and stroking between my legs. It’s simply astounding, watching the pregnant predator melt into a meek, pitiful plaything, completely pliant in the hands of her owner.

And he…he is a wonder to behold. Gone is the gentle, caring man I once knew as ‘Chris.’ In his place is a monument of masculine dominance, a true Patriarch, a being of absolute authority and power. His will is law. His word is to be obeyed. And his justice…is without mercy.

“Apologize.” He commands. “Say you’re sorry for being such a brat.”

“I-I…” His victim can barely speak, her body bucking and writhing against his ravishing touch. “I…s-ssooowwwyyyy…!” She bows her head, squealing into the couch. I can tell she’s reached the edge of ecstasy, so close to release I can smell it. Then suddenly, her Daddy stops, fingers withdrawing as she shudders and whines, hips wriggling and humping the air, pathetically pleading for his touch. As her ass rises towards him, he delivers a searing smack across the soft, rippling flesh, staining it with the red mark of his righteousness, the perfect target for him to hit again, and again, and…

“Sorry for what?” He demands, ceasing his strikes and resuming the barbaric torment of her sex. “Be specific, you dumb whore.”

“I’mmm s-shorrrryy f’beinn a…braaaaa-yiiiii!” Another orgasm denied, another high-pitched wail.

My body shudders with awful delight, soaking in her pain, her pleasure, her pitiful moans. But my eyes remain fixed on her Daddy. It’s not just his technique that has me enthralled. It’s the fact that even as he clearly enjoys himself—even as his eyes glow and lips curl with wolfish delight—he does not lose focus. He does not waver. He knows exactly how to control his woman, how to reduce her putty in his hands, her broken cries extolling his mastery over her body and mind. He is a being of pure dedication. Determination.

And…discipline.

Something inside me snaps. My final, fragile ounce of resistance crumbles under the weight of an undeniable truth. I am not disciplined. I have no self-control. If I did, I wouldn’t be in this situation. I wouldn’t crawl to the center of the room. I wouldn’t turn, placing my back towards the door and my naked torso towards the writhing couple. I wouldn’t kneel before them, straighten my back, take a deep breath and cry:

“Daddy! Please, stop!”

The wet sounds and violent motions cease. Chris glances over his shoulder, eyes widening as he notices me. I shiver under his gaze, bow my head low to the ground.

“Please, Daddy,” I moan. “Don’t punish her. Punish me instead. Please m-make…” I swallow, the words catching in my throat. Pathetic. I can’t even say it. And here I thought that I was strong. That I was in control. What a joke. I’m not worthy of such pretensions.

But he is.

He can tame me. Train me. Teach me what true happiness means. Around his arm. Under his heel. Serving his cock. Bearing his children. Only then will I truly know what it means…

…To be disciplined.

“P-Please!” I cry, forcing it out. “Please, Daddy, take me! Fuck me! Knock me up! I beg you…” I sob, body raked by that horrific, horny itch. “I can’t take it anymore…please, Daddy, please…”

I hear his breath tighten. A wet squelching sound, and then Baby lets out a long, trembling moan. I keep my eyes demurely lowered, see Daddy’s feet shift as he turns to face me. I resist the urge to crawl forward and kiss them. But only because I’m not sure if it would please him.

“Are you…sure?” he asks, each word grinding against barely restrained lust. “You don’t have to do this. Once you do…there’s no going back.”

“I know,” I pant. “I don’t care.” I lift my face from the floor, leaning back and spreading my legs, my fingers parting the flushed pink folds of my cunt, showing how wet, how needy, how empty I am without him. “Please, Daddy,” I beg. “I’m sorry for not offering myself sooner. Show me how to be a good girl. Mark my slutty pussy with your cum. Make me yours, forever.”

Silence stretches between us, barely scratched by Baby’s muffled whimpers. I swallow, risk meeting her Daddy’s eyes. Wicked desire burns in their depths, but it does not melt the icy composure of his gaze. He takes a deep breath, shuddering slightly on the exhale.

“Move.” He nudges Baby, and she obediently shifts over, freeing up a cushion for him. In one smooth motion, he throws the tank-top from his torso. The flex of his back squeezes the air from my lungs. “I won’t take anything from you,” he says, turning and hooking his fingers into his waistband. “But if you really want to offer yourself to me, then…”

His shorts come free in a flourish, revealing the answer to my prayers. It’s even more beautiful than before. Prouder. More potent. The Patriarch’s mighty rod. The scepter with which he will anoint me. I crawl towards it humbly, tracking every bob and sway as my new Master sits. Every shift and sigh he makes is like a secret sign to me, beckoning me towards the object of my devotion, my gaze rising as it looms above me, dominating my vision. I hesitate, breath steaming from my lips. It twitches, graciously acknowledging my surrender. My eyelids flutter. I’m so happy I might faint.

A giggle reaches my ears, as though from a great distance. “Silly Vivi,” my sister in submission sings. “Daddy can’t make you a mommy you if you stay down there. Here.”

Baby’s hands grasp my arms, help me onto the couch. My shaking legs straddle my Master’s thighs, my pink cunt mere inches from the red head of his cock. Against its greatness, I’m sharply aware of how small I truly am. How could such a tiny, pitiful thing like me hope to hold something so enormous? So magnificent? And yet, even as a whisper of fear trembles through me, I feel myself opening for him, my insides warming and shifting, making way for their new king. My unworthy juices dribble down his shaft.

“This the last free decision you’re gonna make.” His words somehow reach me through the burning fog. “You understand that, right?”

My lips no longer have the capacity for words.

So I answer with my hips instead.

“Oh,” I breathe. A simple exclamation. Barely a whisper. Such a small movement. Such a soft sound. But the revelation is earth-shattering. All-encompassing. I understand now. Why so many have fallen before me. Why I have joined them. Why it’s the greatest decision any woman can ever make.

My new purpose fills me. Pulses deep in the darkest depths of my being. It touches parts of me that I never even knew existed, awakening them to its power. Its love. It’s almost too much. My body moves of its own accord, possessed by primal instincts I cannot deny, grinding against the base of my merciless ruler, letting him stretch and reshape me in ripples of roiling, mounting pleasure.

Daddy’s strong hands grasp my breasts, mauling the soft flesh. My sensitive nipples roll between his rough fingers, and it’s enough to push me over the edge. I cum, loudly and lewdly, shaking and convulsing, my pussy joyously embracing its conqueror.

Baby laughs. “Wow, Daddy, you made her cum already.” She preens my hair, pulls it back, prevents it from blocking his access to my tits, my neck, my face. “She might get even dumber than me,” she remarks.

He grunts in reply, the only sound that matters to me now. It spurns me on, reminds me of my duty. I lift my hips, another plaintive “oh” escaping me before the gravity of him pulls me back down, plunging him into my warm, wet depths once again. I can feel him twitch, every tremor a euphoric earthquake inside me.

“Mmm, that’s a good girl.” Baby’s words are hot honey dripping into my ear. “Keep going. Show Daddy how bad you want his cum.”

I want it. I want it so bad. I bounce with increasing determination. Desperation. My ass smacks against his legs. I cum again, writhe in his lap, squeezing and squirming and squealing. I can’t think. Can’t speak. Can’t stop. I rise, resume my worship. Again, again, again.

Another orgasm. I lose time. Lose control. Fall forward against him. My muscles spasm and slacken. My thighs can no longer lift me. My hips try and fail to move even an inch off his cock.

“Uh-oh, Daddy,” Baby says. “Think she’s startin’ to go.”

Daddy growls in my ear, ragged and ravenous. I want to apologize, but can’t form the words. Instead, I whimper, drool sliding from my open mouth down his muscular shoulder. Suddenly, his hands seize me. I gasp sharply as he stands, lifting me as though I weigh nothing, his cock still embedded deep in my insatiable, leaking cunt.

“Find the bed.” He tells Baby. “Take me there.”

Blearily, I wonder if I should give them directions. But then we start moving, and I feel him shift and strain inside me with every step, stirring my molten guts and obliterating whatever awareness had just started to reform. I’m like a well-loved doll in his arms, limp and lifeless save for the tiny squeaks his cock pushes out of me, my heart soaring with helpless ecstasy as he manhandles me through a doorway and pins me onto my bed.

No, not mine—his. Everything is his. Everything I own. My mind. My body. My womb.

His powerful form looms over me, his gaze burning with animalistic desire. He grasps my legs, lifting and pushing them up towards my head, forcing me into the ideal position for breeding. I long to help, but I can no longer control my body, my muscles too hot and liquid to obey.

“Hold her,” he orders Baby. Moments later, my sister-in-submission is kneeling at my head, her beautiful belly almost close enough to kiss as she leans forward and takes my ankles, keeping me in place as Daddy adjusts his angle.

When he thrusts into me, my whole world goes white.

Ah. This is it. This is what I need. What I deserve. What I was made for. My pitiful performance earlier was nothing but an invitation. An offer. A demonstration of my worth as a tight, obedient cock-sleeve. This is the real thing. To be pinned and pounded, my womb beaten into utter submission, unable to escape, to do anything but accept his dominance, his control. Every inch of me exults in his victory, every wet smack sends cascades of pleasure from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes.

I can’t tell when my orgasms start and stop. It wouldn’t matter if I could. They are nothing but a means to an end, an involuntary reflex to ensure even a brainless bitch like me can properly serve Daddy’s cock, milking it with every tight, submissive squeeze.

Something wet dapples my cheek, briefly breaking me from my haze. My eyes rise, and I see Baby staring agape at her Daddy’s mating, saliva dripping from her open lips. A sticky strand drops into my open mouth. Sweet. I savor it. My pupils roll back. I strain for more, a pleading whine leaking from my throat. Baby blinks, smiles, bends down and presses her lips against mine. Happy tears stream down my face as our tongues intertwine, licking and lavishing each other with love.

Our affectionate display seems to excite Daddy. His thrusts become faster, harder, a low, beastly roar raking his throat. Baby loses her grasp on my legs, and I quickly wrap them around my new owner, holding him close, intent on becoming his with the last surge of my strength.

I feel him stiffen, his hard body enveloping mine, inside and out. Then he spasms, spurts, unleashes himself into me. I am crying. I am breaking. Still the ecstatic tremors don’t cease. His seed spills from my overflowing cunt.

At last, he releases me. I fall back against the bed. I feel full. Happy. Dizzy. Warm bliss oozes between my legs, wriggles pleasantly inside my womb.

“Th-Thaank…y…” My jaw goes slack. I’m too wonderfully, achingly spent to speak. Whatever energy I have left is pooling deep within me, fuel for the changes already taking hold.

Things start to come apart. My brain is melting into slurry. My body dissolves into a puddle of pleasure. The only solidity in my world is the strong, commanding hand stroking my cheek.

Feels good.

Feels…mmm…

Hee hee.

Head fuzzy.

Body happy.

Daddy smiling.

I smile too.

Good girl.

Good girl.

Good girl.