Bred

Disclaimer: All individuals in this story are eighteen or older. This is intended as a work of fiction. The author does not condone sexual acts with non-consenting participants. Please enjoy. Constructive feedback is appreciated.

*

The door to my apartment was unlocked. I knew what it meant. I knew he was there. I stepped inside anyway. No sense delaying the inevitable.

I hoped that he'd come later. It had been a long day. My first day back at work. I didn't wait as long this time. It's not as if I had a baby to bond with. I'd given her away, same as the others. I've given birth too many times to be a mother. I don't have that much to give. I wouldn't know where to start.

My breasts ached, engorged with copious quantities of milk. I wish my body knew that it was futile, that my breasts were working overtime for nothing, but there's no beating biology. I was hoping to pump when I got home. I'm starting to leak. Shame to let it go to waste.

I'm ready for him, but only barely. Labor is never hard for me. No tearing, no stitches. He didn't wait long this time. Maybe he's only here for fun. I doubt it though. He's been batting a thousand so far. Nine visits, nine pregnancies. He's got it down to a science. Probably had plenty of practice. I doubt I'm the only one.

Visits. Interesting euphemism I've chosen. Tidier than the other word. More dignified, or so I tell myself. The truth is uglier, and saying it doesn't change it.

Sometimes I wonder if he'd leave me alone if I refused to bear his children. I wasn't obligated to become pregnant. I wasn't obligated to stay pregnant. I don't know why I did. Maybe I wanted him to come back.

I've never seen his face. Wouldn't matter if I did. I've never reported it. Never will. He doesn't hurt me, doesn't threaten me. Doesn't have to. He's never said a word to me. The only thing he does is take me.

The lights are off. Only the faint glow of the television lights the room. His hand is over my mouth. He doesn't press hard, just enough to know I won't scream. He yanks my jeans to the floor. I can feel the sticky moisture in the cotton as my panties slide down my leg. I wonder what kind of person I am as the musk of my sex permeates the air.

He penetrates within seconds. No time for foreplay. I cry out as he thrusts deep inside me. He's long and thick. The pressure, the fullness of him is incomprehensive. My breath is fast and shallow. Little shrieks and moans as he moves in and out and in and out.
My lovers are different. They kiss me gently, tell me I'm beautiful. Some worship at the altar of my cunt, teasing me with tongue and fingers. The bolder ones drink from my swollen breasts, latching on and suckling away. They are the best. It's the closest thing to intimacy I know.

They don't stay. When my belly starts to swell, they have questions and I don't know how to answer. Because even the best of them don't know how to fuck me.

He fucks me. He mounts me like an animal, pounding away with a demonic fervor. Patterns form on my skin, red streaks and purple splotches mark his conquest. Walking straight will be difficult tomorrow. Sitting down, impossible.

Milk leaks from my beleaguered breasts. It soaks through my shirt, the sticky mixture of dairy and sweat binds the fabric to my skin. I wonder if he can smell it.

He's getting close now, we both are. His pace quickens, his thrusts grow wild and frantic. He is a gentleman of sorts. I always climax first. It's always been like this, even since the first time. The only difference is blood.

My orgasm is a strangled cry, hoarse and raw. The sound of my own screams of pleasure deafen me. My muscles twitch and convulse in betrayal. I feel him spasm inside me, and I imagine myself filling up with him, swelling with his seed until I burst. He keeps me rooted, my cunt drawing every drop of his bastard spunk.

Tears fill my eyes as he withdraws. Shame, regret, and worst of all longing. His child will taunt me. Every wave of nausea, every tiny kick, every bead of sweat and lance of pain will remind me of him.

I wonder how many there are. How many bastard children of my...rapist there are in this world. I'm going on a dozen. There could be hundreds. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only one crazy enough to be his brood mare.

I was raped shortly after my eighteenth birthday. I was raped again shortly before my nineteenth, and my twentieth, and again and again. I've been raped ten times now.

Here's the ugly truth. I liked it.

-

I wait for weeks, and then for minutes, watching the white stick sitting in a urine filled cup. It's something of a ritual. Sometimes I wonder why he chose me, if he'll choose me again, if he'll breed me till my eggs run dry.

What if he doesn't show up again? What do I do? Do I just go back to being a normal girl? What would that look like? Is it even possible?

It doesn't matter. Two lines equal perfection. Nine months and another bastard will enter the world. Something stirs inside me. Bile in my throat. A spreading warmth in my loins.

I smile.