Dragon's Sacrificial Bride 🔞 (Extra)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Extra
What happens when your cuntboy wife is pregnant with your child and you still impregnating him although he's born many offspring for you?
Requested, top!male dragon reader, cuntboy wife, SMUT, nsfw, breeding, male pregnancy
The butler's words hang in the air like a spell, confirming what your body already sensed: Oliver carries your baby, a hybrid life sparked from your seed deep in his womb. Surprise hits you first, a jolt through your ancient frame—pregnant? You've claimed countless brides over centuries, rutted them raw during heats past, but none ever swelled with your offspring. Humans were fleeting distractions, their bellies never quickening under your touch. Now, this soft boy, your devoted wife, bears the impossible. Nervousness coils in your gut, unfamiliar and sharp. How do you care for a pregnant mate? You've hoarded gold and razed kingdoms, but tending to swollen curves and impending cries? The thought unravels you—awkward fumblings, sleepless nights pierced by wails, your massive hands too clumsy for fragile new life.
You pace the chamber, mind lost in the haze: Oliver's belly rounding, his tits leaking milk, the child's first squall echoing off stone walls. Annoying cries, demanding feeds, endless needs—gods, what if you fail them? Your claws scrape the floor as doubts swarm, the weight of eternity pressing heavier.
A soft giggle breaks the spiral. Oliver bounds in, his steps light despite the subtle curve already blooming at his midsection. His face lights up with a wide, radiant smile, eyes sparkling as he hops onto you without warning, legs wrapping around your waist. You catch him instinctively, his warmth pressing close. "My lord—husband," he breathes, nuzzling your neck, "I'm so happy. Your child grows inside me. Our baby… it's a miracle." His hands splay over his stomach, voice bubbling with joy, body molding to yours in unshakeable trust.
That cute smile of his—innocent, adoring—melts the tension from your shoulders. You can't help but grin back, pulling him tighter, lips brushing his forehead. "We'll face it together, my wife," you murmur, resolve hardening. No more doubts; with him at your side, even this uncharted path feels conquerable. You kiss him deeply, tongue claiming his mouth as your hands cup his ass, already imagining the changes to come.
Decades unfold like chapters in an endless tome, your lair transforming from solitary hoard to bustling nest. Oliver's immortality blooms alongside his fertility, a gift woven into his veins from the first pup he bore—your ancient essence binding him to you eternally, his body forever young and yielding, womb eager for more. He fathers heirs across a hundred years and beyond, each pregnancy swelling him fuller, his devotion only deepening with every kick and cry.
The eggs come first, laid in silken clutches after heated nights where you fuck him senseless, your cock buried to the hilt in his slick pussy until he clenches and floods around you, essence spilling to quicken life. You tend them together—your massive form coiled protectively around the glowing orbs, Oliver nestled against your side, hand stroking the shells as they warm under your shared heat. When they hatch, hybrid whelps emerge: scaled tails flicking, tiny wings unfurling, eyes gleaming with draconic fire but softened by their mother's gentle features. Oliver coos over them, nursing the hatchlings at his leaking breasts, milk dribbling as their small mouths latch on.
Caring for the brood becomes your rhythm. You hunt vast game to feed their ravenous appetites, teaching them to shift forms—humanoid for subtlety, draconic for flight—while Oliver handles the tender moments, bathing wriggling bodies and soothing fevers with his touch. As they grow into spirited youths, scampering through caverns or soaring on fledgling wings, the lair echoes with laughter and roars, a far cry from your old solitude.
Your favorite ritual emerges amid the chaos: those quiet nursing sessions, when a pup latches to one of Oliver's heavy tits, suckling greedily. You slide in close, mouth descending on the other nipple, tongue swirling around the pebbled peak before you suck hard, drawing forth warm milk that floods your throat, sweet and rich. Oliver moans low, body arching into the dual pull—his free hand threading through your hair, hips grinding against your thigh as arousal builds. "Ah!—husband… they drink from me, and you…Ngh! it feels so good," he whimpers, pussy clenching emptily, juices soaking his thighs. You pull the baby aside as you knead his other breast, milk spraying in arcs, watching his face contort in pleasure, lips parted on gasps. The pup mewls contentedly, oblivious, while you drink deeper, cock hardening against him until you can't resist flipping him over, rutting into his dripping cunt from behind, careful not to disturb the nursing.
Nights when the children finally slumber—rare gems amid their endless energy—you claim him fully. The brood tucked into alcoves or flown out for hunts, leaving your chamber hushed. Oliver spreads for you eagerly, thighs parting to reveal his plump pussy, always ready, lips glistening. "Fuck me, my lord—fill me again," he begs, fingers parting his folds invitingly. You thrust in deep, his walls hugging your thick length, milking you with practiced squeezes born of centuries. You pound him relentlessly—missionary with his legs over your shoulders, driving to his cervix; doggy style, ass rippling with each slap; him riding you reverse, breasts bouncing as he grinds down, pussy swallowing every inch. He cums repeatedly, sobbing your name, body quaking as you flood him with seed, ensuring the next clutch or pup.
Over a hundred years, his belly rounds time and again—triplets one cycle, a dozen eggs the next—each birth strengthening your bond. Your servents had to babysit all your kiddos and always glare at your butler who gave the advice, and then, he acted like he wasn't the one. Oliver bears sons with your fire, daughters with his softness, all immortal like you, a lineage to rival gods. Oliver, your eternal wife, glows with purpose, body marked by stretch marks you trace with your tongue, scars you kiss during fucks. You suckle from him post-birth, sharing the milk meant for whelps, his moans echoing as you finger his recovering pussy back to readiness.
Through it all, your nervousness fades to fierce protectiveness. You face the cries, the messes, the joys—with Oliver hopping into your arms at every milestone, his smile your anchor. Your family sprawls across eras, a chaotic empire of your making, nights sealed with his pussy clenching around your cock, whispers of "More… give me more of you."
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Extra
