33. BALLER PRACTICE

The suite smelled like sweat, champagne, and Amanda.

She was deep into her third trimester – just over six months along – her belly full and firm, clearly visible no matter how she dressed. Her jersey-style crop top, stretched tight and knotted just beneath her breasts, barely met the upper swell of her stomach. Instead of shorts, she’d worn a thin, oversized pair of cotton sleep boxers, rolled down low beneath her belly, the waistband digging slightly into her hips.

Her swollen curves, ripe and lush from pregnancy, transformed her into an invitation of unspoken, primal need. She wasn’t drinking, obviously, but that didn’t stop her from laughing, dancing, or sitting in laps when invited. The guys were celebrating a tough win on the road – rival team, hostile crowd, buzzer-beater finish. Everyone was buzzed on adrenaline and alcohol.

Including Amanda. Not from booze, but from attention.

She’d been passed from one couch to the next, her top damp with handprints, her shorts long since discarded. Someone had tossed them onto a lamp, and no one had moved to retrieve them. Her panties were gone, claimed by someone whose name didn’t matter. What mattered was that no one asked for them back. She only remembered the soft rip of fabric, and the murmured apology that made her laugh.

Now she knelt awkwardly on the suite’s ottoman, her knees braced wide to accommodate the steady fullness of her belly. The leather creaked beneath her weight, the swell of her pregnancy pressing low against the cushion as her back arched to compensate. Her thighs trembled slightly from the strain, hips tilted high and open, presenting her slick, gaping cunt to the room without shame. Her crop top clung damply to the curve of her breasts, now heavier than ever, nipples dragging against the thin fabric with every rock of her body.

Her lips – swollen, kiss-bruised, and parted – sucked in quick, shallow breaths as Leon eased back into her, groaning low. His thick cock slid into the heat of her cunt with wet, obscene pressure, each stroke made deeper by the way her pregnant body surrendered to the stretch. The slick squelch of his thrusts echoed sharp and rhythmic against the walls, and Amanda moaned softly, one hand gripping the cushion, the other resting protectively over the crest of her belly, where it trembled faintly with each impact.

Amanda moaned softly, biting her fist.

“Still tight,” Leon growled, fingers digging into her hips. “Even after taking Mason and J-Red.”

Someone laughed. Amanda felt a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles down her spine.

“Pregnancy pussy,” Mason said nearby, voice low and reverent. “It’s magic. Just wants to be filled.”

She moaned again at that, wetter now. Her body responded to those words more than she wanted to admit.

From the second trimester onward, something had shifted inside her – some mix of hormones and need that rewired her from the inside out. The pressure of her growing belly, the constant ache in her breasts, the strange weight of being filled – it all blended into a hunger that no soft caress could satisfy.

She needed to be taken.

Stretched.

Claimed.

The kind of fucking that left her sore for days and still reaching. Tonight was the first time she’d said yes to more than one. First time she’d whispered, almost giddy: “Just don’t pull out. It’s okay.”

And no one had.

She felt a hand stroke her belly. Gentle, warm.

“She’s gonna bounce back fast,” one of them murmured.

“Bet she’s thinking about the next one already.”

Amanda shivered, the thought electrifying her core. Even now, with her womb heavy with life, she yearned to feel the quickening heat of yet another seed taking root. She didn’t want to wait a moment. She didn’t want to pause. She wanted to be filled again before this one had even drawn its first breath.

Leon groaned as he pulled out, cock glistening with slick and cream. Another player stepped up immediately, his hands warm on her hips, his cock already hard as he lined up behind her.

“Gotta get mine in before it overflows,” he joked low, earning laughter from the others.

The next thrust wasn’t as careful. Amanda gasped as he buried himself to the hilt, the pressure inside her intensifying sharply. Her body jerked forward, belly swaying under the sudden impact, and she let out a guttural moan.

“F-fuck,” she whimpered. “You’re gonna make it spill out.”

He didn’t slow. He fucked her through it – each motion sending fresh leaks of cum from her stuffed pussy, the pressure mounting as more was added to the mess inside her. Another player reached down and spread her cheeks wider to watch, grinning.

His hips slammed into her, driving a fresh load deep inside. Her belly bounced, heavy and full. A sob tore from her throat, half pleasure, half something she couldn’t name. So much. Too much. The thought surfaced, then was drowned out by the next brutal thrust, the next wave of sensation. She focused on the heat, the fullness, the way her body responded despite herself. This is what he wants. This is openness. This is love. She clung to the lie, even as her body screamed a different truth.

“She’s milking it,” he said. “Can’t get enough.”

One after another, they took turns. Some were rough – like Malik, who grabbed Amanda’s hips with bruising strength and fucked her like he meant to leave a mark. Each thrust was a hammerblow, shoving her forward on the leather, her round belly wobbling with the violent rhythm. He grunted with effort, sweat dripping onto her spine as his cock slammed in and out, battering her cervix and making her cry out in jolted, ragged gasps.

Her hands clawed at the cushion, nails leaving scratches as her body convulsed, overwhelmed by the brutal pounding. Her eyes brimmed with tears – not from pain, but the rawness, the sheer demand of it. Her pussy, stretched and used, still gripped Malik like it had something left to give.

Then came Isaiah. Unlike Malik, his touch was reverent, almost worshipful. He knelt behind Amanda slowly, one hand brushing up her spine as he kissed the curve of her belly like it was holy. When he slid into her, it was slow – agonizingly so – every inch a whispered prayer. He rocked gently, his hands stroking her thighs and hips with reverence. “You’re so full,” he murmured. “So beautiful like this.”

Amanda moaned, her back arching, her fingers twisted in the sheets as her overstimulated walls fluttered helplessly around him. He held her belly with one hand and fucked her with devotion, drawing out trembling sighs where others had torn sobs. His orgasm came quietly, buried deep, his hips shuddering with tenderness as he emptied himself inside her with a soft groan and a kiss against the back of her neck.

Then there was Reggie, who made no sound at all. He knelt behind Amanda silently, one hand brushing reverently along the underside of her belly as though it were sacred. When he entered her, it was with steady patience – thick and deep, stretching her wide with each slow thrust. His hands were firm on her hips, anchoring her, and he rocked into her like a tide, unrelenting but never cruel. His breath was a whisper on the back of her neck as he came, grinding deep as his cum spilled inside her with aching, gentle finality.

Amanda’s cunt never closed, never got a chance to tighten between them. The gap between fillings shortened – two minutes, then one. Every man brought something different – a new pressure, a new angle, a new weight added to the flood inside her. Eventually, there were hands on her shoulders, guiding her down onto a pile of towels as someone held her thighs open and another knelt between them, cock already lined up and leaking against the edge of her ruin.

By the time the fifth player was finishing inside her, Amanda’s body was trembling violently, her limbs quaking with exertion and overstimulation. Her belly bounced and rolled with each punishing thrust, the taut curve of it visibly shifting under the pressure. Each time the baby kicked her ribs after a sharp thrust, she flinched, but the men just laughed as she begged them for more.

Amanda rubbed her stomach soothingly as each impact sent a ripple across her pregnant abdomen, the weight of the baby shifting visibly with every deep stroke. She could feel the subtle internal pressure pressing against her bladder, her womb jostling with the rhythm, as though the thrusts were rearranging her insides. A low ache began to bloom in her lower back, deeper and more visceral than usual, the unmistakable strain of her pregnant frame struggling to absorb each brutal motion.

Her swollen breasts leaked rhythmically, wetting the front of her shirt with heavy droplets that soaked the fabric and clung to her sensitive nipples. Her moans were unrecognizable now – fractured gasps, half-sobs, open-mouthed cries torn from her throat with every jolt. Her cunt, battered and overflowing, still pulsed desperately around each new cock, clinging like a second mouth begging to be filled again.

“Fuck – she’s sucking me in,” one of them groaned, gripping Amanda’s trembling thighs as her body clamped down around him. Her cunt spasmed greedily, milk-slick and gaping, stretching to take every pulsing inch as his cock erupted inside her. “Jesus – she’s still taking it all. Gonna knock her up again through this one.” He held her there, buried to the hilt, as thick ropes of cum spilled deep inside her, adding to the viscous tribute already pooling between her thighs.

She had stopped keeping count of how many had used her. Somewhere between the third and the sixth, her mind had slipped its tether. Her vision swam with stars, her thoughts fuzzy and warm, like champagne bubbles trapped behind her ribs. She wasn’t just holding their seed – it had become part of her. She was made of it. Saturated. Transformed.

Amanda laughed, wild and breathless.

“Fuck yes,” she gasped, voice ragged and hoarse. “God, yes- fill me, break me, make it overflow. I want to leak for days.”

She could still hear Sophie’s voice in her head. The way she’d said it before Amanda left for the trip – half-teasing, half-commanding.

“You know what real openness is, Amanda?” she’d purred that morning on the phone. “It’s knowing Paul will be the father, regardless who knocks you up next time. It’s not needing to know at all.”

Amanda whimpered, a wet, ragged sound that barely escaped her lips – half-begging, half-overcome. Her voice hitched with every thrust, body jerking as her belly wobbled beneath her. Her mouth hung open, drooling softly onto the towel beneath her chin as her brain fizzled under the relentless stimulation. Her belly, taut and high, jostled with each thrust, the internal weight pressing harder against her bladder and straining her already sensitive core.

The growing tension across her abdomen made the pressure even more dizzying – her body wasn’t just being fucked, it was being flooded, displaced, stretched around the fullness inside her in ways only pregnancy made possible. Her hips jerked, not in resistance, but in helpless rhythm, her whole frame twitching with each wet slap of cock against cunt. Her cries weren’t words anymore – just hoarse, gasping noises that vibrated in her chest as another thick shaft churned the swollen cum already inside her.

And she didn’t say no.

Her body trembled in the afterglow – stretched, gaping, glistening. Her belly swelled with life, her cunt with seed. And somewhere, between the twitch of her hips and the warmth still leaking from her ruined hole, Amanda smiled. In that swollen, dripping silence, she finally understood: she wasn’t just the team’s reward. She was their ritual.

34. PAUL’S ILLUSIONS

The loft was dark except for the glow of the widescreen monitor. Sophie had arranged the room carefully: two chairs pulled close together, a small table between them with a bottle of whiskey, two glasses, and a box of tissues. The air smelled faintly of leather and wine.

Paul sat stiffly in the chair Sophie had designated, hands clenching his knees. His heart hammered against his ribs. He didn’t know exactly what tonight was about. Sophie had only said Amanda had “asked her to help him understand everything.” That it would “bring them even closer.”

He wanted to believe it. He needed to believe it.

Sophie sat opposite him, lounging casually, a sleek tablet in her lap. She wore a soft black dress that clung to her curves, her bare legs crossed at the knee, one foot bobbing lazily. She offered a warm, reassuring smile as she pressed play.

“Just watch,” she said softly. “This is your love story. The real one.”

The screen lurched into motion.

In the blackness the monitor flickered, casting sickly light across the darkened loft. Paul hunched in the leather chair like it might shield him. The whiskey Sophie had poured sat untouched, the amber catching in the screen’s cruel glow. His fingers clenched the armrests unconsciously, knuckles whitening as the first video began to play.

Soft music floated through the speakers – upbeat, playful. The screen showed Amanda at a house party he barely remembered. She was laughing, drink in hand, her hair a loose, shining halo around her face. Innocent. Glowing. Beautiful.

Paul smiled faintly, a knot of relief loosening in his chest. Maybe he was worrying over nothing. Sophie was just showing him how far they’d come. How much Amanda loved him.

The footage cut to Amanda sitting on a couch, Marcus beside her. Paul tensed slightly. He remembered this – vaguely. Amanda giggling, leaning against Marcus for balance. His arm had been draped casually across her shoulders, his fingers brushing the bare skin of her upper arm as he laughed at something she said.

Paul’s smile faltered a little. What was this? he thought.

The music continued, but there was a strange, hollow quality to it now – like laughter echoing through an empty room.

Another cut. Amanda, blindfolded at another party, shrieking with laughter as she participated in a “daring game.” Paul remembered that night too – someone had blindfolded her and spun her around to kiss whoever was in front of her. Harmless. Silly. But on the screen, the kiss lingered.

Marcus leaned in. Amanda’s blindfolded mouth parted eagerly. His hand cradled the back of her head as he deepened it, his thumb stroking her throat possessively. Amanda moaned softly against his mouth. Her hand tracing his muscled abs, and brushing against his crotch, twitching with the desire to grab ahold of his stiffening cock.

The music warped – still lilting, but soured now, the brightness curdling at the edges. Paul’s throat tightened. He shifted in the chair, trying to rationalize it away. It was just a game. She didn’t know it was Marcus. She told me later – she laughed about it.

On the screen, Amanda pulled away, still blindfolded, but her face was flushed. Smiling. Glowing.

Paul forced a thin smile to match, but his hands gripped the armrests tighter. His breathing quickened, shallow and shaky.

Paul’s chest ached now.

It’s just flirting, right? She said it was just games.

The music dissolved into silence. And in that silence, Paul realized:

The innocence at the core of their vows, the pure trust he’d clung to, had fractured long before the first whisper of betrayal reached him.

The next clip began without warning.

The cheerful music was gone now, replaced by a low, throbbing bass hum that vibrated deep in Paul’s chest.

Onscreen, the lighting shifted – darker now. Dimly lit rooms, shifting shadows. Amanda again, her smile looser, her movements slower, more languid. The footage had the grainy quality of something captured on a phone, intimate and too raw.

The screen showed her at the bachelorette party. Blindfolded again. Surrounded by shadowed figures. Hands. Hands everywhere – caressing her thighs, sliding up beneath her dress, squeezing her hips.

Amanda giggled at first – high and breathy – but the laughter broke into soft gasps as the hands grew bolder. A hand cupped her breast. Another tugged at her dress strap, baring the pale curve of her shoulder. A third slipped between her legs, the fabric of her panties darkening visibly under the assault.

Paul leaned forward slightly, his mouth dry. This had to be edited, he thought wildly. This wasn’t what she told me. She said they blindfolded her for party games. She said it was just silly teasing.

But on the screen, Amanda wasn’t pulling away. She leaned into the touches, moaning quietly, her hips rocking subtly toward the hands that explored her so shamelessly.

The scene cut – sharp and jarring – to a darker room. The “dark room” Sophie had mentioned with a smirk.

Amanda, stripped down to just her bridal sash and lacy panties, knelt between the legs of a barely visible figure. A thick cock nudged insistently at her lips. Her hands blindly explored, finding the pair of legs to grab onto, and with a soft moan she wrapped her lips eagerly around the large cockhead, hand reaching up to stroke the shaft, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked hungrily.

Paul gasped, recoiling in the chair.

The echo of Amanda’s soft, wet slurps filled the room, layered with her muffled moans.

He remembered this night. He remembered her coming home late, flushed and giggly, climbing into bed beside him and whispering that she’d missed him. He remembered kissing her lips that night, thinking nothing of it.

Onscreen, Amanda swallowed thickly, her throat flexing around the cock driving deeper into her mouth.

Paul’s stomach twisted. A sour, acidic burn rose in the back of his throat.

The footage cut again. The bridal suite.

Amanda wore her wedding dress – hiked up with her lower body on full display, the bodice slipping off one shoulder. She was on her knees before a receiving line of men.

One by one, they approached and caressed her legs, her pussy, fingering her gently or teasing her before opening their pants and presenting another cock for her attention. One by one, Amanda took them eagerly – hands stroking shafts slick with spit, mouth opening wide to welcome each new offering.

Sophie’s mocking caption floated over the screen in elegant cursive:

“Such an open heart.”

Paul’s vision blurred.

The bass thickened, pressing into Paul’s chest like another hand. The next clip began.

Amanda on her knees, cum dribbling from her mouth, reaching out for another cock with trembling hands. Her thighs were coated in saliva mixing with cum, spread wide as she fingered herself.

She was no longer his bride-to-be, she was a vessel.

Paul’s face crumpled. The first tear slipped free, tracking slowly down his cheek. Then another. And another. Silent sobs wracked his chest. His hands gripped the chair so tightly his knuckles ached.

Onscreen, Amanda opened her mouth again, eyes closed in blissful surrender, welcoming the next offering without hesitation. In that moment, the meaning of every kiss Paul had ever shared with her twisted. Every time he told her she was beautiful, it echoed now as permission.

He could barely process the next moment.

Evan – his best man. His younger brother.

Evan grabbed Amanda by the hair, tilting her head back roughly. Amanda moaned, her mouth stretched wide as Evan’s cock disappeared between her lips, his hips snapping forward brutally, her throat bulging obscenely around him.

Paul gagged. The dry heave wracked his chest, and he doubled over slightly in the chair, one hand clamped over his mouth.

When he looked up again, eyes burning, Evan was still fucking Amanda’s face – using her like she was nothing but a wet, willing hole.

Amanda gurgled around him, tears spilling down her cheeks, but she clutched his hips tighter, pulling him deeper.

The footage didn’t flinch.

When Evan came, it was messy, violent. Thick streams of cum spilled from Amanda’s nose and mouth as she gasped for air, coughing wetly, swallowing instinctively. Strings of it clung to her chin and breasts as Evan stepped back, grinning.

Paul whimpered. Pathetic. Broken.

The screen faded briefly to black. A heartbeat of silence.

Then Amanda’s face filled the screen again – blurry, close-up, filmed from just above. She smiled up at the camera, dazed, her lips glazed with semen, her voice a hoarse whisper:

“Thank you…”

He remembered that moment too. He remembered the boring, interminable passage of time as he stood there while Amanda ‘prepared’ for the wedding. He remembered waiting at the altar, Evan missing for a while then arriving late and out of breath. He remembered Sophie’s reassurances that Amanda ‘needed the guests to be satisfied with her when she appeared’, and his confusion at her word choices.

The memory shattered like glass against the brutal images flooding the screen. Paul clutched the armrests tighter, his whole body trembling now. Paul squeezed his eyes shut, but the images burned behind his lids – seared into his mind, unerasable.

Sophie’s voice broke the silence at last, low and almost gentle:

“Still proud of how open she’s become?”

Paul folded inward, collapsing into himself, a silent, shuddering implosion of everything he once believed true.

And the video rolled on.

The screen flared to life again with a stark, brutal clarity. The rehearsal dinner.

Paul blinked at the image of Amanda sitting next to him at the head table, smiling radiantly, one hand clutching a glass of champagne.

His chest tightened with familiar fondness – until the camera angle shifted.

Below the white tablecloth, barely visible through a gap in the linen, Marcus’s hand crept along Amanda’s thigh. Higher… Higher…

Amanda’s shoulders stiffened slightly – but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she shifted in her seat, knees parting just a fraction wider.

The footage cut closer, zooming underneath the table where Marcus’s thick fingers slid along the damp slit of Amanda’s bare pussy.

Paul’s heart hammered painfully against his ribs.

Onscreen, Amanda’s hand reached down – not to push Marcus away, but to stroke the growing bulge in his pants, her fingers squeezing him slowly, rhythmically, as his hand gently teased her cunt lips and clit.

Paul remembered that moment. He had been giving a toast. He remembered Amanda’s bright smile. The way she looked up at him, beaming. She was proud of me, he had thought.

But under the table, Marcus had been fingering her open, pressing deep inside her trembling cunt while she worked his cock through his slacks.

Paul gagged again, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth, as the screen transitioned to show Amanda surreptitiously licking cum from her hand with Paul in the background.

The footage snapped violently to the wedding reception.

The reception curtain, drawn across the makeshift private area behind the bridal table, fluttered.

Paul’s father.

Paul’s blood ran cold.

There was no mistaking it – his father’s broad shoulders, his familiar stance.

He stood behind Amanda, pushing her forward over the table, lifting the trailing layers of her wedding dress.

Amanda’s face was blurry, but her soft moans were unmistakable.

Paul’s father lined himself up – and with one brutal thrust, sank deep inside her.

Amanda cried out, her body jolting forward, hands braced on the tablecloth as her father-in-law fucked her with steady, heavy strokes. Just off to the side, Paul sat in the ‘groom’s chair,’ the sheer curtain conveniently stacked from his viewing angle, preventing him from seeing what the crowd could see clearly. Murmured comments floated in the background: “Damn, that’s not just dancing,” someone chuckled, and another voice, lower and hungrier, added, “She’s putting on a show.” Amanda’s soft moans punctuated the heavy, rhythmic sounds of flesh on flesh, and still, Paul smiled blindly, oblivious to the carnal display happening just feet away.

Paul choked on a sob, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

Sophie’s voice hummed low, mockingly soothing across the loft:

“Every father hopes his son’s wife will be loyal. Yours was… exceptionally generous.”

The footage darkened briefly, then flared again.

The reception, later that night. Paul at the bar, slurring slightly. Laughing too loud. Sophie hovering nearby.

The camera caught it perfectly – the flash of silver in her hand, the deliberate swirl of his drink, her smile as she handed the shots over to the happy couple.

Paul’s breath caught in his throat.

The memory came rushing back – how fuzzy he’d felt. How heavy his limbs had grown. How the world had spun faster than it should have. He hadn’t noticed. Hadn’t thought. He had trusted her.

The footage didn’t linger. It cut to the wedding night suite.

Paul lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed, unconscious. Amanda knelt beside him, tears in her eyes, kissing his forehead. Then the frame widened.

Marcus stepped into view – shirtless, jeans unbuttoned, cock already thick and hard in his hand. Amanda turned toward him automatically, as if pulled by gravity. She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even glance back at Paul.

Marcus grabbed her, bending her over the foot of the bed beside the inert body of her new husband, hiked her wedding dress up above her waist, and shoved himself deep inside her with a brutal snap of his hips.

Amanda moaned – loud, desperate. Her hands clutched weakly at the bedspread, inches from Paul’s limp hand. Marcus fucked her savagely, driving her forward with every thrust, her face pressing into Paul’s discarded jacket, muffling her cries.

Paul stared at the screen in horror.

He had remembered nothing of that night. Nothing.

He thought they had fallen asleep together, exhausted and happy – especially after Amanda curled into him the next morning, whispering about how “wild” and “unforgettable” the night had been. He hadn’t remembered the details clearly, but he assumed she was describing the passion they had shared – not realizing she was confessing everything, right there, while he smiled and kissed her hair.

Onscreen, Amanda climaxed around Marcus’s cock with a raw, feral sound as he now fucked her savagely atop the dresser. Her body shuddered. Marcus grunted and slammed deep, holding her there as he emptied himself inside her. Amanda sagged forward, kissing Marcus’s shoulder, murmuring words too low to hear as Marcus’s cum oozed out of her and coated Paul’s jacket.

The footage faded slowly to black, but Amanda’s broken, blissed-out moans lingered – twisting into echoes.

Paul clutched his chest, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. His vision swam. Silent sobs ripped from his body, his mouth opening and closing helplessly. Memories – twisted now – flashed behind his eyes:

Amanda slipping into bed beside him. Amanda whispering she loved him. Amanda wearing his jacket the next morning, smiling shyly. None of it had been real. None of it.

The footage cut sharply to a final flashing caption, stark white against the darkness:

“You wanted her to be open.”

Paul bent double in the chair, wracked with shuddering sobs.

And the screen flickered once more – merciless, unrelenting – as Sophie led him deeper into the collapse he had unknowingly built with his own hands.

The screen didn’t give him even a moment to breathe. It burst into bright, garish color: the carnival.

Paul blinked against the sudden sunlight, the cheerful shouts and music, the banners flapping wildly in the breeze.

Amanda.

Amanda, standing by the “Kisses for Charity” booth, her hair tied back in a loose, playful ponytail, wearing that damp, clinging white t-shirt and cutoff shorts Sophie had picked out for her. Her smile – open, radiant, pure.

The video cut to Amanda leaning out of the booth, her lower half hidden behind the curtains while she smiled as she caught sight of Paul and lit up, beckoning him closer.

Paul remembered this. He remembered feeling shy but proud. His beautiful wife, raising money for a good cause, laughing with strangers.

The screen showed him stepping forward for his turn. Amanda grabbing him by the shirt front, pulling him into a kiss. But the footage didn’t stop where his memory did.

Behind the booth’s colorful curtain, just out of sight, a tall gangly man stood close – too close, and he stepped forward inside the booth.

As Amanda kissed Paul sweetly, her hips ground backward against the man’s hips, and his hands – casual, proprietary – gripped her waist.

The footage framed it cruelly: Amanda’s hands gentle on Paul’s cheeks, her mouth soft and tender against his… moving around the side of the booth to show the tall man’s thick cock thrusting slowly between her restrained thighs, parting her wet pussy with a groan.

Paul stiffened in the chair, his breath catching.

Onscreen, Amanda whimpered – tiny, almost inaudible – but the video caught it, layered it, amplified it.

The screen split: half showing Amanda’s sweet, chaste kiss to Paul; half showing the brutal, slow, grinding betrayal happening behind the curtain.

Paul’s hands twitched uselessly in his lap.

Sophie’s voice murmured from somewhere behind him:

“Such trust. Such openness.”

The screen stuttered.

The carnival faded, replaced by sterile clinical lighting. The ultrasound room.

Paul felt physically ill.

He saw himself on screen – smiling nervously, squeezing Amanda’s hand.

Amanda lay on the table, belly bared, privacy curtain around her midsection, and gown loose around her thighs. The ultrasound monitor flickered, grainy and indistinct at first.

But then – there.

The strange shape Paul couldn’t understand.

The camera cut to reveal Bryce, his massive cock sliding deep into Amanda’s sopping cunt while Paul watched the ultrasound monitor in confusion. Paul gasped and choked at the image, seeing his oblivious face on screen.

Then a side by side split screen matched the action between the ultrasound monitor and the view of Bryce driving his cock in and out of Amanda.

Suddenly the confusingly fuzzy ultrasound motion took on an unmistakable shape as Paul realized what he was seeing.

Not a wand. Not a glitch.

A thick, blunt, cylindrical shadow, plunging rhythmically up into Amanda’s womb, distorting the fluid, the amniotic sac, each brutal thrust captured in flickering black and white. Bryce’s hand guiding the wand to ensure that everyone could watch him fuck Paul’s wife right there – if you knew what you were looking at.

Paul’s own voice played over the footage, soft and earnest:

“Are you okay?”

Amanda’s voice answered, trembling, tearful and catching breathlessly, “I’m just… so full… of emotion.”

The ultrasound captured the swelling bloom of motion as Bryce emptied himself inside her – pulse after pulse of darkness flaring across the monitor.

Paul’s mouth opened in horror, but no sound came out.

The footage blurred and bled into another video – Amanda’s Facetime call.

Paul remembered this too. Sitting at home. Feeling proud. Feeling connected.

The screen framed Amanda’s flushed face – damp hair, bare shoulders as she smiled warmly at him through the lens.

But now the camera angle widened – revealing a thick cock plunging between Amanda’s thighs, disappearing deep inside her slick, dripping pussy with slow, punishing strokes. Amanda rocked on her knees, barely holding the phone steady, her free hand braced on a stranger’s hip.

Paul’s voice crackled through the Facetime, “I’m so proud of you, babe.”

Amanda gasped softly, biting her lip, eyes fluttering. “I’ve never had anything… oh god… nothing’s ever stretched me like this before,” she whispered, her words layered over the rhythmic, brutal slap of flesh on flesh.

The footage slowed.

Amanda’s eyes, glassy and glazed, stared into the camera as she was bred – silent confession hanging heavy in the pixelated freeze-frame.

Paul’s body shuddered. He doubled over in the chair, arms wrapped tight around his chest, rocking slowly.

The sound design shifted – heavy reverb distorting certain words:

“trust”…

“openness”…

“stretching.”

The echoes rattled through the loft like cruel, ghostly accusations.

Paul sobbed openly now – loud, wet, broken.

Sophie watched him from her chair, expression unreadable, the glass of whiskey untouched at her side.

Onscreen, Amanda’s face froze in a final frame. Her eyes half-lidded. Her lips parted desperately. Cum leaking slowly down the inside of her trembling thighs.

The screen bled to black again – but the echoes lingered.

Trust… openness… stretching…

Each word a nail driven deeper into the ruin of Paul’s heart.

The screen flickered again, and for a moment Paul prayed it would just stop. That the nightmare would be over.

Instead, the footage resumed – colder, crueler.

Sophie’s voice sharp in the background, instructing him.

Paul bent over a padded bench, gasping as Sophie worked a glistening, black dildo between his trembling cheeks. The camera angle shifted to show his face – flushed, humiliated, his lips quivering around whispered pleas inaudible through the panties gagging him.

The dildo buried inside him was unmistakably shaped – a perfect replica of Marcus’s thick cock.

Paul whimpered onscreen, his hands clutching at the bedding as Sophie’s soft, mocking voice coaxed him:

“You felt every veiny inch, didn’t you? You think Amanda could handle that cock? You think she’d cry and shake the way you did? Or would she stretch wide around it, panting and begging, smiling through the tears because she needed every inch? You pictured that just now, didn’t you? Her thighs trembling, her pussy swallowing him deep – deeper than you ever could. That’s okay. I did too. Or do you think she’d spread her legs and beg for it like a good, obedient slut?”

The screen cut again – sharper now, less artful, more brutal.

Amanda sprawled on the hotel bed naked and quivering, her pregnant belly rising and falling with each panting breath.

Bryce loomed over her, thick cock still glistening with her juices, his hands pressing Amanda’s knees sharply to her chest, folding her in half as he thrust slowly, cruelly into her over and over.

Amanda’s face twisted in helpless, shattered bliss.

Paul watched, numb, as Amanda sobbed the words he could never unhear:

“I love your cock… better than his… So much better than Paul’s…”

The footage slowed, zoomed – framing the trembling of her belly, the spasm of her stretched cunt as Bryce ground deep inside her, claiming her utterly. Amanda flailing and clutching the sheets, screaming “You! You own my pussy! It’s yours – I’m yours!”

Paul’s vision blurred.

He felt the chair shudder beneath him, or maybe it was just his body – rocking, trembling, desperate for some anchor against the collapse. Onscreen, the footage lingered cruelly: Amanda lying ruined on the bed, her thighs trembling, Bryce’s seed leaking steadily from her wrecked, gaping cunt.

“Thank you for setting me free,” she groaned to the camera, exhausted. The camera zoomed closer, framing every obscene detail – the flutter of her overstretched entrance, the slow, slick dribble marking her final surrender, the subtle twitch of her body desperate for more despite its ruin. Offscreen, Sophie’s whisper drifted over the silent footage, cruel and reverent: “Such a good wife.”

Then, finally, the screen faded into darkness.

The screen bled into black, swallowing Amanda’s final twitching, leaking form.

For the first time all evening, the loft was silent.

Not even the low, cruel hum of Sophie’s mocking voice filled the void.

Paul sat frozen, staring blindly at the dead screen. His chest rose and fell in shallow, panicked gasps. He clutched the sides of the chair as if it were the only solid thing left in the world. His fingers tingled with numbness, trembling with every strangled beat of his heart. The faint, sickly-sweet smell of sweat clung to him, saturating his shirt, pooling under his arms, prickling at the back of his neck.

Somewhere distant, his brain registered the wet sound of his own gasping breaths, but he couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel his own body anymore. Only the raw, gaping absence where trust had once lived.

The screen stayed black.

Held there – mercilessly – for a long, trembling heartbeat.

As if savoring the moment of his complete collapse.

The screen remained black.

Silent.

Paul sat motionless, a statue of ruin slumped in the chair. His tears had dried on his cheeks, leaving sticky trails against his flushed skin. His mind floated in a hollow numbness, barely tethered to the reality around him.

For a fleeting, desperate moment, he thought – Maybe it’s over. The tension wracking his body started to ease.

The screen stayed blank for an agonizing beat longer.

He wiped at his face with a shaking hand, dragging in a ragged breath, trying to piece himself back together from the shattered wreckage.

For the briefest moment, the silence almost felt merciful.

Just as Paul’s body started to fully sag and collapse, letting him catch his breath and slow his spinning, spiraling mind…

At first, Paul barely registered the faint swell of music – some dated and syrupy, sentimental thing trickling from the speakers. His mind clutched at the melody blindly, too broken to focus.

Then the words filtered through.

“Having my baby…”

Paul blinked, confusion flickering. His stomach twisted.

His heart lurched violently against his ribs, bile rising in his throat.

Slowly, painfully, the screen faded in:

Amanda. Sitting on Sophie’s couch.

Clutching the manila folder against her chest like a sacred relic.

Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes bright with unshed tears. A tremulous, radiant smile hovered at her lips.

Amanda’s voice, trembling, filled the loft:

“It’s real… It’s really his. Bryce’s baby. I’m carrying his child, not Paul’s.”

“I’m a woman in love and I love what’s goin’ through me…”

Amanda laughed – a soft, broken sound – and then she spoke, her voice trembling but full of fragile joy.

“I love Paul so much. I love him for giving me the freedom to discover who I really am. He encouraged me to open up. He celebrated every step. He told me how proud he was every time I said yes.”

Paul twitched and shuddered involuntarily. His hands trembled violently in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling against the worn fabric of his jeans. His breath came in shallow, broken hiccups, the sobs too ragged now to even sound properly. His eyes stayed locked on the screen – wide, red-rimmed, unseeing – drinking in every radiant, devastating word Amanda offered.

Amanda wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand, laughing again, breathless.

“He wanted this. He needed me to be brave enough to stretch… to grow… to let myself be taken. Every time I let someone touch me, every time I let them inside… I heard his voice in my head. Telling me he loved me. Telling me he was proud.”

The song played softly underneath, bright and devastating:

“Having my baby…”

Amanda rocked slightly where she sat, hugging the folder tighter against her chest.

“I couldn’t have done it without him. I never would’ve had the strength to surrender without knowing it was what he wanted. What he needed.”

Her voice broke slightly on the last word, the love shining through her devastation.

Paul gripped the arms of the chair hard enough to blanch his knuckles.

Amanda smiled, radiant through her tears.

“He’ll never understand the real gift he gave me. He gave me the courage to belong to someone stronger. To all of them. He taught me what love really means.”

She leaned closer to the camera, her eyes luminous and shimmering.

Whispering – like sharing a sacred secret:

“I owe him everything. And he gave me everything I ever needed.”

The screen faded to black again, the final notes of “Having My Baby” lingering in the empty darkness.

Paul sat in the silence, hollowed out, the twisted lullaby of his betrayal still ringing in his ruined mind.

A final text overlay appeared, stark and merciless:

“You taught her to be open. We just helped her bloom.”

Paul sat utterly still.

The loft was silent except for the soft, broken sound of his breathing – shallow, erratic. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking the collar of his shirt. His hands twitched uselessly in his lap. His eyes stared blankly at the darkened screen, seeing nothing, registering nothing.

A hollow shell where a man had once sat.

Sophie let the silence stretch interminably, then she rose slowly, the leather of her chair creaking softly. She crossed the room with deliberate grace, heels clicking against the hardwood. She paused briefly, then crouched before Paul, tilting her head to study him like a curator admiring a shattered masterpiece. Then – very gently – she reached out and brushed a tear from his cheek with her thumb.

“There we go,” she murmured. “That’s real understanding.”

Paul flinched at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. His world had already collapsed around him.

And Sophie – smiling warmly, triumphantly – was the only thing left standing in the wreckage.

35. COMPLIANCE

Paul sagged on Sophie’s chaise like the upholstery might absorb his ruin, the television screen now black but still casting faint, flickering reflections across the loft. His face was drained of color, lips parted in silent shock, hands limp between his knees. He hadn’t moved since the final video – the slow, mocking fadeout of Amanda’s tear-streaked gratitude and the sickly sweet overlay: “You taught her to be open. We just helped her bloom.”

Sophie moved around him with unhurried grace, pouring herself a fresh glass of wine, letting the silence vibrate in the charged air. She gave him space to suffocate on his own devastation.

Finally, Paul forced out a raw whisper. “I have to tell her.”

Sophie smiled – an almost maternal softness that didn’t reach her eyes. She crouched in front of him, fingertips brushing lightly over his trembling knees.

“No,” she said gently. “You won’t.”

Paul blinked at her, broken. “She- she deserves-“

“Deserve?” Sophie cut in, her tone sharpening. “Deserve what, Paul? To have everything you’ve given her ripped away? To carry the guilt of knowing how far she’s blossomed because you pushed her to?”

Paul’s throat bobbed in a convulsive swallow. His fingers clenched and unclenched uselessly.

His body twitched once – like some dying instinct was urging him to run – but his legs wouldn’t obey.

“Every time you told her to open up,” Sophie said, voice low and deliberate. “Every time you said you were proud when she stretched. Every time you kissed her and told her you loved her… you made this possible. You made her.”

He shook his head weakly, tears blurring his vision.

“You don’t get to unmake her now,” Sophie whispered.

Paul flinched like she’d struck him and made a choking sound – not quite a sob, not quite a scream. Something trapped. Something dying.

Sophie rose smoothly and retrieved her phone from the coffee table. A few taps, and she turned it toward him.

The gallery filled the screen – dozens of frozen frames, every thumbnail a brutal ruin of his dignity:

Paul gagging helplessly on Amanda’s soaked panties.

Paul, collared and trembling, begging and pleading to be filled, to be useful, to be stretched by the brutal replica of Marcus’s cock.

Paul kneeling in shame between Sophie’s legs, licking up the mess left by other men.

Paul moaning Amanda’s name around a vibrating gag, tears streaming down his face.

Paul’s tongue licking Marcus’s cock as it slid in and out of Sophie’s cum dripping snatch.

Paul stared, hollow-eyed, his soul recoiling.

“Any resistance,” Sophie said softly. “And you’re over.”

She let the threat linger before stepping closer, crouching down again until their faces were inches apart.

“And Amanda?” Sophie’s voice dropped to a velvet whisper. “She would blame herself. She would break. You would destroy her confidence, her joy, her entire reason for believing in what you built together.”

Paul tried to speak, but nothing came. His jaw worked uselessly.

Then – for one final moment – his breath hitched. “What if I just… asked her to slow down? Not stop. Just… not share so much. Just with me. Just for a while.”

Sophie’s eyes flashed, her smile vanishing like a blade unsheathed. “No.”

She leaned in closer, voice suddenly steel. “You don’t get half measures. You don’t get compromises. She’s not yours to hoard anymore. You gave her to the world – and now the world gets to decide how full she becomes.”

He recoiled, the tiny flicker of resistance snuffed out as quickly as it had surfaced.

“You love her,” Sophie said. “So you’ll protect her. You’ll protect what she’s become. You’ll protect what you made.”

A strangled noise clawed its way up his throat, half a sob, half a broken plea – but he swallowed it back down.

In the back of his mind, Amanda’s voice echoed – bright, guileless – “You always said you wanted me to be free.”

His ribs cracked around the memory. His breath broke trying to hold it in.

Paul sagged, shoulders caving in as the trap closed around him.

Sophie straightened, a small, satisfied smile curving her lips. She carefully snapped a photo of her victory, the moment Paul’s spirit snapped entirely in two then she tucked the phone back into her pocket and picked up her wineglass.

“So here’s what you’ll do,” she said breezily, as if explaining the weather. “You’ll be her safe place. Her anchor. Her sweet, supportive husband. You’ll smile when she flirts. You’ll praise her when she stretches. You’ll praise every new load she takes. Call it a gift. Smile like it’s yours.”

Paul whimpered faintly, the sound almost childlike.

“You’ll keep telling her she’s beautiful,” Sophie continued. “You’ll use your training to serve her in any way she asks. You’ll kiss the baby growing in her belly. And you’ll thank her. Every. Fucking. Day.”

Paul bowed his head, sobbing silently.

Sophie stepped closer and patted his cheek lightly, mock-affectionate.

“Good boy,” she whispered.

Paul sat immobilized in the dimness, the weight of his orchestrated downfall draped heavily over his heart, suffocating every lingering hope.

His chest heaved in shallow, broken breaths. His hands trembled against his thighs. His heart, the last fragile thing he had left, cracked wide open and bled out in silence.

He could scream. He could fight. He could try.

Instead, he lowered his head – and chose her.

And across the loft, Sophie raised her glass with a lazy, triumphant smile.

“To growth,” she toasted softly, savoring the ruin before her.

36. CONSENT

Sophie’s condo was quiet except for the soft clink of glass as she poured Paul another drink. He didn’t touch it. He hadn’t spoken in minutes.

Across the room, Amanda stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, the afternoon sun tracing a glow along her bare legs. She wore a peach-sheer slip with a nearly waist-high slit, one of Sophie’s signature looks. A neckline that whispered obscenities to anyone who knew where she’d been.

Her expression was soft, uncertain. “You’re really okay with this?”

Paul looked up slowly. The hollow in his eyes hadn’t faded, but he managed a nod. Sophie’s threat lingered like incense in the room – the footage of him on his knees, the sounds he’d made, the things he’d begged for. Sophie’s leverage was ironclad. He had no choice.

Amanda stepped closer, her smile delicate, like it might crack if she said the wrong thing. “I just… I didn’t think you’d ever want to be part of it, that it would always be too much for you. I thought you were proud of me from a distance.”

Paul’s throat was dry. “I am.”

Amanda’s eyes brightened. “Then… you’ll be there? With me?”

He nodded again.

Sophie’s voice purred from the kitchen. “He wants the truth now, Amanda. Let him in. Share how open you are.”

Amanda blinked. “W-what do you mean?”

Sophie crossed the room slowly, her voice syrupy and coaxing. “You always said he didn’t want to know. But now? Now he says he wants to be present. So let him in. Start with Bryce. What did it feel like when he came inside you during the ultrasound?”

Amanda gasped, blushing. “Sophie!”

Sophie smiled sweetly. “No more secrets, right? Paul wants the details. Doesn’t he?”

She looked at Paul. He nodded slowly. He had no choice.

Amanda swallowed. “Oh god, I don’t know if I can do this – it’s been so long since I could tell you anything like this… Um… It was… deep. Enormous. I… didn’t even know I could stretch like that. When he came, I felt it in my stomach. Like he was planting something in me.”

Paul trembled.

Sophie stepped behind Paul now, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Tell him who stretched your ass the most.”

Amanda let out a shaky breath. “Malik. I thought it wouldn’t fit. But he pushed through. And then… after he came, he plugged me while the others took turns in my pussy.”

Paul trembled. Sophie leaned in, the moment taut as a wire.

“And yet you didn’t break,” she whispered. “You became something more. And Paul? You helped her get there.”

Amanda’s eyes welled. “You did, baby! I knew I was doing it for you. Every time. I told myself your love was what let me open like that.”

Sophie’s smile twisted slightly. “Tell him what it felt like when three of them used you at once.”

Amanda blinked, lips parting. “I… I thought I would split open. My throat was raw. My pussy and ass were both full. I couldn’t even move without feeling one of them twitch inside me. And still… I came so hard I blacked out for a moment.”

Paul let out a low noise, equal parts pain and arousal.

Sophie cooed: “Tell him how many loads were inside you at the end of that locker room session.”

Amanda blushed fiercely. “I lost count. Ten? Twelve? It leaked out faster than I could hold it. My cunt just… stayed open. Sophie told me it was what you wanted. That you’d be proud to see me filled like that.”

She turned back to Paul, trembling. “I thought I was giving you something beautiful.”

Paul looked up at her, his voice hollow. “You were.”

Amanda rushed to him, kissing him, crying. “Then you don’t have to protect me anymore. Be with me. Even when they’re stretching me. Even when I can barely walk. Just be with me.”

He nodded. “I will.”

Sophie leaned against the island, her eyes sparkling. “She needs you to actually say it, Paul. Tell her you want to be there the next time she’s used.”

Amanda gasped, glancing between them.

Paul’s voice shook. “I want to be there. I want to see it. I want to support you through all of it.”

Amanda moaned softly, dropping into his lap. “You can’t imagine how deeply I need you. You’re my anchor, the safe harbor from which I can explore everything else.”

He understands. He knows he can’t give me what Bryce or the team can, but he wants to be part of it this way. He wants to hold space, to witness, to be my devoted husband while I explore. It’s… perfect. He truly wants me to be fulfilled, even if he’s not the one doing the filling.

From the kitchen, Sophie smiled.

Later that night, Amanda curled into Sophie’s arms, whispering, “He understands now. He said he wants to be there. He’s ready.”

Sophie stroked her hair, whispering sweet nothings. But in her eyes: victory.

And Paul, in the other room, stared at the ceiling, a soft smile on his lips, tears on his cheeks.

Because now he was complicit. Because now it was his idea. Because now it was his voice giving her permission to never stop.

---

But Sophie wasn’t finished.

The next morning, Amanda padded into the kitchen in one of Sophie’s robes. Her hair was tousled, her face glowing with afterglow and clarity. Paul sat at the counter, stirring coffee like he didn’t remember how.

Sophie placed a small velvet box on the counter in front of Amanda.

Amanda blinked. “What’s this?”

Sophie smiled. “A gift. For Paul. But I think it’s time you were part of this too.”

Amanda opened it. Inside: a sleek, chrome chastity cage.

Her eyes widened. “Sophie – “

Sophie held up a hand. “Hear me out.”

She turned to Paul, who looked frozen.

“You’ve always said you wanted Amanda to feel free. To be open. To stretch beyond your limits. And now? I think it’s time you admitted something too.”

Amanda looked back and forth between them. “Admitted what?”

Sophie smiled softly. “That Paul never wanted to be pleasured. Not really. That he’s been hiding who he is. That he’s been ashamed.”

Paul swallowed. Sophie stepped behind him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders.

“He doesn’t need your mouth. Or your pussy. Not anymore. He’s been holding back. Fantasizing about being locked. Being denied. Being… helpless.”

Amanda stared. “Is that true?”

Paul’s mouth opened. Closed. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

Sophie leaned in and whispered. “Tell her how deeply you craved release when she was being filled. Tell her how badly you needed to be part of it, even if only from the sidelines.”

Paul trembled, but Sophie stared at him with fire in her eyes. He swallowed heavily.

Amanda’s lips parted.

Paul whispered, ‘I’ve dreamed about it. Being locked. Denied. Owned.”

Sophie kissed his temple. “And he came harder than he ever had. Twice. Without a single touch.”

Amanda flushed. Her thighs pressed together.

Sophie looked at her. “It’s okay to be the one in charge now. He wants to hold space for you. Not distract you. Not interrupt your pleasure.”

Amanda reached for the cage, running a finger over the cool metal. Sophie grinned, not missing a beat.

Sophie interjected, teasingly: “It’s not like he needs it for anything serious. I mean, Amanda – when was the last time you actually felt it?”

Amanda reddened as her eyes flicked to Paul’s face, scanning it for signs of pain. “I- I-” Amanda stuttered, wincing slightly.

“Amanda, Paul wants you to be honest here. Don’t hide the truth now,” Sophie admonished with a pointed look in Paul’s direction.

Paul’s face sank almost imperceptibly before he nodded in silence.

Amanda glanced down, gathering herself before continuing. “Honestly, I think I only notice it now when I’m trying not to compare.”

Sophie’s smile widened. “And that’s not your fault. You’ve been wrecked by some truly spectacular cock. After Bryce, it’s no wonder Paul feels… ornamental.”

Amanda laughed, a little too quickly, then caught herself. “That’s not fair,” she said – though her tone was playful.

Sophie leaned in conspiratorially. “Fair or not, it barely registers after Bryce, right? Or Marcus. Or any of the others. Honestly, it’s kind of adorable now.”

Amanda bit her lip, cheeks flushing. “Okay, but… yeah. It’s true. I barely even notice it now. It’s more a polite tap than a thrust. Sweet, but… small.”

Paul forced a small smile, his voice soft and resigned. “If it makes you happy, I can’t say no.”

Amanda smiled, heart racing. “I think… I think you being locked makes me feel more in control. And knowing you want this for me – it’s intimate. Vulnerable.”

Sophie placed a key in Amanda’s palm, her eyes dancing.

“Then he’s yours.”

37. EXTENDED FAMILY

The months that followed Paul’s caging blurred into a kind of waking dream. Amanda’s belly grew round and proud, her beauty deepening with each passing week, until it became almost painful to look at her. She carried Bryce’s child like a queen might carry a coronation mantle – radiant, adored, untouchable.

She kept working well into her third trimester, traveling with the team until airline restrictions and her swollen curves made it impossible. Even then, she remained the heartbeat of the organization back home, fielding interviews and promotional shoots with effortless grace.

Paul cheered like a ghost, mouthing a life he no longer inhabited.

He became expert at hiding it – at laughing when reporters praised his “support’ and nodding along when Amanda spoke about “their” dreams for the future. She told anyone who would listen that their growing family was the fulfillment of everything they had ever hoped for. And Paul, caught between love, guilt, and the blackmail Sophie dangled over his head, clung to the fragile shell of the life he had once imagined.

At night, he knelt between Amanda’s thighs, his mouth serving her growing, insatiable needs, his body locked away at her request. Amanda praised him sweetly, whispered how proud she was, how needed he was – never noticing the way he flinched when her fingers, swollen with new life, combed idly through his hair.

As Amanda recounted her experiences, Paul would nod, his smile fixed, but inside, his chest felt tight, his breath shallow. The cage around his cock aching with a humiliating throb that mirrored the hollowness spreading through him. Focusing on the pattern of the rug, trying to ground himself, trying not to hear the specific words, the names… the details.

As her due date approached, Amanda moved with a kind of serene inevitability. She spoke often of the future – of a big family, of more children, of making sure Paul never felt left out. It was never cruel, never said with anything but love. But each word drove the knife deeper, reminding him that whatever future he lived in now, it was no longer one he had built. It was one he had been given.

When the first contractions started, it was Bryce, not Paul, who Amanda called first. Paul followed a few minutes later, scrambling to keep pace. At the hospital, he filled out the paperwork, carried her bags, hovered uselessly while nurses prepared the room. But when the time came – when Amanda was panting on the bed, spread and trembling and sacred – it was Bryce who stood at the center of it all.

It was Bryce whose hand anchored her, whose voice steered her through every contraction, like a captain guiding cargo he’d already claimed.

And Paul, hand crushed in Amanda’s grasp, knew he would wear that smile she needed, each forced curl of his lips cutting him deeper than the last. Paul knew he would cry on cue when the baby was placed in her arms. Knew he would raise this child, love this child, protect this child – because Amanda needed him to. Because love meant surrender. Because there was no path left but forward.

And so, trembling, hollow, broken open like a wound, Paul stood quietly at Amanda’s side; bearing silent witness to a life he had no claim on, but would forever protect. A future that no longer needed him to be anything more than present.

The hospital room pulsed with fluorescent light and the sharp, sterile bite of antiseptic. Amanda lay sprawled across the delivery bed, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat, her gown hiked up around her hips, her legs spread wide and trembling. Her swollen belly heaved with every breath. Paul hovered at her side, pale and twitching, his hand clutched tightly in hers. But the real weight – the real presence in the room – was Bryce.

Bryce stood just behind the midwife, looming casually over the bed, one broad hand gripping Amanda’s bare thigh, thumb stroking the tender skin just inches from her swollen, leaking pussy. His touch was not comforting; it was possessive. Proprietary. As if guiding his prize through the final stages of a transaction he had long ago claimed.

Amanda whimpered, her hips arching off the bed, her hand crushing Paul’s fingers as she bore down with everything she had. She sobbed with the effort, her body shuddering violently. Bryce kept his hand firm on her thigh, steadying her, anchoring her, as if to remind her who she was pushing for.

Paul could only stand there, holding her hand, helpless. The love of his life spread open, exposed, and claimed, while the real father of her child stood watch like a proud owner.

The baby crowned. There was a flurry of motion – gloved hands catching, cries filling the air – and then suddenly, there she was. A tiny, writhing thing, wet and furious, wailing her first angry protest to the world.

Amanda sagged back against the bed, tears streaming down her cheeks, radiant and wrecked. Bryce released her thigh at last and a momentary soft look crossed his face as he wiped sweat from her brow.

Bryce straightened up, towering over Amanda’s spent body. He leaned in, his hand still fondling her shamelessly, and whispered something against her ear. Amanda whimpered softly, nodding, her body tilting toward him instinctively.

Sophie chuckled under her breath, low and satisfied.

As another nurse bustled in with paperwork, Bryce stepped back, casually retying the belt on his scrubs. Amanda shifted weakly, baring her leaking breasts as the nurse adjusted the baby for nursing. Paul looked away instinctively – but Bryce didn’t.

The room was quiet, save for the slow, rhythmic beeping of monitors and the soft murmurs of hospital staff. Amanda lay in the hospital bed, flushed with exertion, her hair damp against her temples. She was radiant – glowing, beautiful, her belly now soft and empty, her breasts heavy and flushed as she cradled the small, squirming bundle against her chest.

Paul sat rigidly in the chair beside her bed, hands locked between his knees, the smile frozen on his face as he watched.

Bryce stood at Amanda’s other side, casually resting a hand on her hip under the sheets, thumb tracing lazy circles against her bare skin. His white coat hung forgotten on the chair behind him. He was dressed now only in loose scrubs, as if he belonged here – no, as if he owned here. Amanda leaned instinctively toward him, her body almost curving into his as she adjusted the newborn against her breast.

The infant rooted blindly and latched onto Amanda’s swollen nipple. She gasped softly, her body shivering at the sensation, then smiled down with a love so pure it almost masked the ruin beneath.

Bryce leaned in close, murmuring low in Amanda’s ear as his hand slid beneath the sheet to brush between her thighs. His fingers grazing her still-oozing slit beneath the sheets, his touch possessive, proprietary, indifferent to Paul’s presence. She whimpered faintly at his touch, the muscles of her thighs twitching as he casually inspected her gaping, leaking cunt – still loose and dripping from the labor Bryce had put her through.

Paul saw it. He had to pretend not to.

Amanda sighed blissfully, leaning her head back against the pillow, and then – without even looking at Paul – she murmured, “Come see her.”

Paul stood shakily. His legs barely carried him to the bedside. Amanda smiled warmly, beaming up at him like he had done something extraordinary. As if he hadn’t been a silent bystander to all of it.

Bryce stepped aside briefly to let Paul nearer, but his hand never left Amanda’s thigh. Never surrendered his claim.

Amanda carefully shifted the baby, offering her to Paul. He took the infant with trembling hands, the tiny body unbelievably light – and yet unbearably heavy – in his arms.

He rocked instinctively, automatically soothing her as he had seen others do, feeling her warmth seep through the hospital blanket. His chest constricted so tightly he could barely breathe.

The infant stirred, rooting blindly. Not for Paul. For something else. Someone else.

From over his shoulder, Bryce smirked.

Amanda watched Paul with glistening eyes. She reached out and laid a gentle hand against his chest, her palm warm and trembling.

“You made this possible,” she said, voice breaking with emotion. “You made me brave enough to open up. You gave me the strength to belong to someone stronger.”

Paul’s throat convulsed, but he forced a smile.

Amanda’s hand drifted lower, stroking the tiny head cradled in Paul’s arms.

“You made it safe for me to be theirs,” she whispered, her voice cracking with love and gratitude.

Bryce leaned into the pillow’s edge, brushing damp strands from Amanda’s brow with a tenderness that felt like ownership, not care. He didn’t look at Paul. He didn’t need to.

Paul clutched the baby tighter, tears spilling down his cheeks unchecked.

Sophie leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching it unfold with quiet satisfaction. After a long moment, she spoke – soft, almost tender.

“You’re going to be such a good daddy,” she purred. “Amanda’s going to need you more than ever now. With Amanda’s new travel schedule… sounds like you’re going to have your hands full at home.”

Paul blinked at her, confused.

Sophie smiled sweetly. “The team, remember? The basketball schedule’s brutal this year. Amanda’s going to be on the road a lot.”

Amanda laughed weakly from the bed, still breathless. “It’s true,” she said gently, cupping his face. “You’ll be incredible, keeping our home steady and making sure my career… and I… can grow through every connection this season as I work through the depth chart.” Her eyes glittered with meaning.

Paul nodded numbly, the baby heavy in his arms.

Paul sat back down numbly, the chair creaking beneath him as he rocked gently with the baby wriggling in his arms, trying desperately not to cry.

Amanda leaned into Bryce’s chest with a tired sigh, letting herself relax against his strength. Bryce pressed a kiss to her temple, the gesture proprietary, possessive – and Amanda smiled as she said “Thank you Paul. I’ve never been happier, and I owe it all to you.”

Sophie’s eyes gleamed.

Her words twisted the knife further. She believed it. She truly, heartbreakingly believed she was honoring him.

Paul nodded, his vision blurring. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered hoarsely.

The room was silent for a beat before Sophie’s widely grinning quip cut through, “So when are you getting started on the next one?”

Bryce chuckled low. “With the team she’s got now, that’s gonna happen fast.”

Amanda laughed too, a breathless, joyful sound.

Paul’s fingers tightened reflexively around the baby blanket.

Sophie’s phone clicked once more.

Later, she would review the pictures: Paul rocking the baby like a dutiful ghost, Bryce’s hand possessive on Amanda’s thigh, Amanda smiling up at Bryce with pure, exhausted devotion.

Proof that Paul had not just surrendered his wife’s body.

He had surrendered everything.

Sophie leaned closer to Paul and whispered, so low only he could hear:

“First one’s always special. Next time, we won’t even bother with a delivery room.”

Paul closed his eyes.

He cradled the child – the child that was not his – as Amanda laughed softly in Bryce’s arms.

Because he had opened her to being theirs.