He always waits until I’m swollen, aching, flushed from carrying the weight of what he’s put inside me. It’s never in the morning, when I feel remotely human. No—he wants me at my most desperate. When my body is too tender, when I leak through my bra without meaning to, when my belly feels too tight to bear. That’s when he gets the look in his eyes. The one that means I’m not walking out of this room untouched.
Tonight, that look found me the moment I walked in wearing his shirt—one of the only things that still fits. It clings to me now, damp at the chest where I’ve started leaking again, and I cross my arms instinctively to hide it. But he’s already noticed. His nostrils flare.
One word. I hesitate—just for a second—and that’s enough. His smile sharpens like a blade.
I peel the shirt over my head, arms shaking a little—not from fear, but from the way he’s looking at me. Hunger, cruelty, possession. My breasts spill out first, heavy and flushed, dark patches dampening the fabric of my bra. My belly follows, full and high, a living reminder of what he’s done to me. His creation, growing inside me like a crown I never asked for.
I do, shame prickling hot across my skin as I reveal the leaking tips of my breasts, already swollen and aching from the day. I see his jaw clench. I know that look too.
“You’re dripping like you want to be fed from,” he says, stepping close. “Is that it? You want to be used? Milked like the good little thing you are?”
I nod, heat flooding between my thighs. But he doesn’t want obedience.
“Yes, sir,” I breathe. “I want to be used. Milk me. Please.”
He groans softly, hand coming up to squeeze my breast—not gently. A slow, firm grip that makes me gasp. Milk beads at the tip and spills against his knuckles. He doesn’t wipe it away.
“You don’t even try to hide it anymore, do you? You walk around leaking, aching, desperate. Full of my child. So proud of it.”
He pinches, just enough to make me moan, and more milk drips down my skin. My thighs press together instinctively.
“I’m yours,” I whisper. “Your—your pregnant whore.”
He grins. “Say it louder.”
I swallow my shame. “I’m your pregnant whore.”
“That’s right.” His voice is low, deadly soft. “Look at you. Nipples dripping. Belly heavy. You can barely move without whining. What would people think if they saw you like this?”
I try to look down, try to hide—but he grips my chin.
“No. You look at me. You show me how fucking pathetic you feel.”
His hand trails down between my thighs. One slow stroke. I jerk at the contact—too much, too fast. I’m too sensitive. And he knows it.
“You get wetter every time I remind you what you are. You like being this ruined. You like being mine.”
“I do,” I gasp. “I love it. I love being yours.”
He circles my clit again, just barely, and I whimper. The need is unbearable. My breasts ache. I feel milk running down my belly. He’s not even inside me and I’m already coming undone.
“You put a baby in me,” I choke out, hips twitching helplessly under his hand. “You bred me, and now I’m full and leaking and—fuck, sir, I’m—”
He grabs the back of my neck and bends me forward over the table. My belly presses against the cool surface, my breasts hang heavy beneath me, sensitive and exposed.
“You’re not allowed to come,” he snarls in my ear, one hand returning to my clit, the other cupping my breast and squeezing until milk spills freely.
“You’ll take it. Just like you took my cock. Just like you took my seed.”
I sob, not from pain—but from the delicious humiliation, the sheer weight of his dominance, the unbearable edge of pleasure I’m not allowed to cross. My body is his playground, my shame his pleasure. And I love it. Every second of it.
I’m his. Marked. Leaking. Owned.
And I wouldn’t trade this surrender for anything.
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