Chapter 18: Plugged Up and Praised
“Breed me… knock me up… that’s it, give me your baby… make me yours forever… so full of you…”
Those words make something primal in me stir.
My balls, which had been drawn up and spent, felt renewed, a deep ache tightening back into potential. My hands on her body reacted first, the one cupping her breast biting into the softest flesh even harder, making her moan sharply into my neck. The other hand, splayed across her torso, pressed in stronger, feeling the subtle distension of her lower belly where I’d already filled her.
I came again.
It wasn’t possible, but it happened. A fresh, hot spurt erupted from me, a shocking jet that hit the deepest walls of her already flooded womb. She let out a choked, garbled shriek, her body arching backwards against my chest. “Fuck! Another one!”
“Take it,” I grunted, my voice raw and guttural. My hips gave a weak, involuntary thrust, pumping the seed deeper. “Just take it.”
A second spurt followed, another thick, viscous rope joining the pool inside her. Her stomach, pressed against my hand, bulged visibly, a soft, rounded swell against my palm. She gasped, her hand flying down to cover mine, her fingers pressing my hand harder into the new fullness. “Oh my god, I can see it,” she whimpered.
“Gonna have my baby,” I rasped, my own mind dissolving into the base, claiming act of it. A third jet, a fourth, each one a pulsing, distinct release that made her body jump in my lap. Each one added to the liquid pressure, swelling her slightly more. “I’ll fill you up so good. So deep.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she mumbled instantly, her head lolling, her words slurred and reverent. Her body shuddered backwards against my chest with each internal splash, her own exhausted muscles fluttering in a weak, rhythmic welcome. “Gimme it all. Put it all in me. Make it take.”
The fifth spurt was weaker, a hot, seeping trickle. The sixth was just a warm pulse, a final, possessive sigh from my body into hers.
My legs, which had been trembling, gave out completely.
The solid strength in my thighs liquefied into a boneless ache. My balance vanished. We were a single, sweat-slicked entity, and we tipped forward. Her back was against my chest, a pale curve against my heaving front. The world tilted.
She shrieked—a short, sharp sound of pure surprise—as gravity took us.
Instinct flared. I twisted mid-air so that I… so that I would take the impact. My shoulder and side slammed into the mattress first with a heavy whump, the breath punching from my lungs. She landed half on top of me, a softer weight, cushioned by my body. A pained grunt escaped me. My cock, still semi-hard and buried inside her, was jolted by the fall, and a fresh, wet squelch echoed between us.
“Oof! Hardik!” she gasped. Her curls were a wild, tickling cloud against my chin.
“S’okay,” I managed, my voice a ragged scrape. “I’ve got you.”
We lay there, a tangled, breathing heap. The amber light from her floor lamp painted the ceiling in warm, shifting patterns as my vision swam. Every muscle in my body hummed with a profound, saturated fatigue.
Her back muscles heaved against my chest, her breathing was a fast, light puffs in the air.
“You twisted,” she mumbled into the air above us, her voice muffled and wondering.
“Of course I twisted,” I grunted, my arm tightening around her middle. The smell of her hair, sweat, and sex filled my lungs. “You think I’d crush you?”
She wriggled slightly, a delicate shift that sent a fresh, liquid sound echoing from where we were joined. Schlrp. It was a vulgar, intimate noise. I was still inside her, softening now, but effectively plugging her up. Every tiny movement produced a wet, shifting murmur from deep within her body.
“Feel that?” she whispered, her hand sliding down to press over my own, which was still splayed across the slight, warm swell of her lower belly. “It’s sloshing. I’m sloshing.” A giggle escaped her, breathy and unhinged. “You came so much it’s sloshing.”
I turned my head, nosing into the sweaty curls at her temple. “Told you I’d fill you up.” My voice was shot, ragged at the edges. “You asked for it. You chanted for it.”
“I did,” she agreed, her tone shifting into something quieter, more sober. She rolled her hips, a minuscule, conscious rotation. Another soft, internal squelch answered the movement. “And you gave it to me. Every drop.” Her fingers interlaced with mine over her stomach. “It’s so warm. I feel… packed.”
We lay in silence for a long moment, just breathing. The frantic tempo of our hearts slowed, syncing into a languid, post-storm rhythm. The amber glow from the floor lamp caught the dust motes drifting above her cluttered desk, illuminating the half-built model Porsche.
I became aware of the sting on my hand again, the crescent-moon tooth marks she’d left. The blood had dried, tacky and tight. I flexed my fingers against her skin.
“I bit you,” she said, as if reading the twitch. Her head tilted back, trying to see my face from her position pinned against my chest.
“Yeah,” I said. “You did.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I brought my wounded hand up, studying the dark imprint of her teeth in the dim light. “I liked it.”
She craned her neck further, her glasses-less eyes blinking slowly. “You’re weird.”
“You begged me to impregnate you while I was coming inside you,” I pointed out, my voice flat. “We’re both weird.”
Another giggle, this one sweeter, cuter. She relaxed fully against me, her body a boneless, trusting weight. “Fair point.” She paused. “Does it hurt?”
“The bite? A little. It’s a good hurt.”
“Good.” She sounded satisfied. Her hand left mine and trailed up my arm, her fingers tracing the lines of my bicep, then my shoulder. “You’re all sweaty.”
“You’re one to talk. You’re dripping.”
She pinched my arm, not hard. “Shut up. That’s your fault.” Her fingers continued their exploration, skating over my collarbone, up my neck, to my jaw. She turned my face toward hers. Her expression was soft, dilated pupils making her eyes look black and endless. “My big, strong, twisted protector. Taking the fall for me.”
“It was a foot to the floor, Pritz. Not a cliff.”
“Still.” Her thumb brushed my lower lip. “It was cute. You’re cute when you’re all protective and spent.”
I groaned, letting my head fall back into the pillow. “I am not ‘cute’. I am wrecked. There’s a difference.”
“Nope. Cute.” She pushed herself up suddenly, bracing her hands on my chest. She was careful with it, making sure my semi-hard dick didnt slip out of her. She looked down at me, her curly hair forming a chaotic halo around her face. “My cute, wrecked boyfriend who just came about a gallon inside me.”
She looked heavenly on top of me. Her hair was a wild, curly mess, strands stuck to her damp forehead and temples. My eyes traced the constellations of marks I’d left—the darkening fingerprints on her hips, the scarlet crescents from my grip on her breasts, the lingering blush of the slap on her ass. She wore them without shame, as if they were decorations. Streaks of my dried blood painted her pale skin in rusty brown tributaries over her boobs, across the gentle slope of her belly, and down her trembling thighs. Our lower bodies were a soaked, tangled map of her squirt, cooled now and sticky. My cock, still buried in her pussy, was the only plug holding everything inside. Her womb, visibly bulging with my fresh cum, formed a soft, distinct mound below her navel.
“A gallon might be an exaggeration,” I breathed, my hands coming up to rest on her marked hips. “Maybe a pint.”
She grinned, that devilish, knowing grin, and ground down slowly. A wet, sloshing sound echoed from within her, low and unmistakable. My eyes widened. Her grin turned triumphant. “Hear that?” she whispered, her voice husky. “That’s your pint, sloshing around. Knocking me up.” She pressed a hand against the slight bulge, her fingers splaying. “It’s right there. I can feel the weight of it. It’s so… fucking… hot, Hardik.”
I was mesmerized, watching her hand press, imagining the warm pool of my spend shifting inside her. A fresh trickle of combined fluids seeped out around where we were joined, tracing a warm path down my balls. “God,” I mumbled, unable to form anything more coherent.
“Look at me,” she said, her tone shifting from lustful to something more tender, more curious. She took my hand—the one she’d bitten—and guided it to her belly, placing it over hers. Together, we pressed. The bulge yielded slightly under our combined pressure, a soft, liquid resistance.
“You’re so full,” I murmured, awe stripping my voice bare.
“I am,” she agreed, her eyes locked on mine. “And it’s all you. Every stupid, thick drop.” She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against my chest, and kissed me. It was a slow, deep, searching kiss, tasting of salt and shared exhaustion. When she pulled back, her expression was mischievous again. “Wanna see something?”
Before I could answer, she began to lift herself. Her thighs shook with the effort, quivering from the brutal workout. She rose slowly, an exquisite, controlled ascent. The sensation was unbearable—the slow, slick, clinging slide of her inner walls milking every last inch of me as I slipped out.
Pop.
A soft, wet sound of separation.
Then, a hot, sudden flood erupted from her.
It wasn’t a trickle. It was a gush, a warm river of my own cum, pearlescent in the lamplight, pouring out of her well-used pussy and splashing directly onto my stomach and pelvis. Splsssh. It was so much. It painted my skin in thick, clinging ropes, pooling in the hollow of my hips.
We both stared, transfixed. Her mouth was slightly open, her breathing halted. More of it came, a steady, warm stream following the initial torrent, dripping down onto me with a soft pat-pat-pat. The visible bulge in her belly diminished slightly as she emptied some of it out onto me.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, her voice full of genuine shock and reverence. She looked from the mess on my torso back to my face. “God. That’s so fucking hot, Hardik.” She brought her fingers to her own entrance, collecting a thick strand of the mixture. She held it up, watching it glisten. “Look at it all.”
Then, with a playful, possessive glint, she pressed her fingers back against her lower belly. She pushed, like she was testing a water balloon. Another gush, weaker but still significant, flowed out of her and joined the expanding puddle on my skin. Splurt.
“A river,” I said, stunned. My cock, lying spent against my thigh, gave a pathetic, interested twitch.
“Your river,” she corrected, her eyes blazing. She was playing with it, with the evidence, with the sheer physical reality of what we’d done. She smeared some from my stomach onto her own thigh, marking herself further. “Marking you. Marking me.”
Just when I thought the spectacle was over, when the flow had ceased to a few last drops, she moved. With a slow, deliberate grace, she positioned herself over me again. Not to take me inside, but to lower herself. She sat back down, right into the warm, slippery puddle of our combined release fresh from her own body.
Squelch.
The sound was obscenely intimate. She settled her weight onto my pelvis, the cool heat of the mess spreading between us. She let out a long, satisfied sigh, as if sitting in a bath. Her hands braced on my chest, she looked down at me, her expression one of absolute, wicked contentment.
The warmth was immediate, a shocking contrast to the cool air of the room. It seeped into my skin, a thick, slimy layer of proof. She wiggled her hips, grinding the mess between us with a soft, sucking squelch. “Comfy?” she asked, her voice a low purr.
“You’re sitting in your own… in our…” I couldn’t finish. The reality was too bizarre, too intensely intimate.
“I’m sitting in you,” she corrected, leaning forward. Her curls brushed my cheeks. “This is you. All this wet, sticky heat? That’s you, Hardik. It came out of me, but it’s you.” She lifted a hand, her fingers slick and shining. She traced a wet line from my sternum to my throat. The smell—musky, salty, profoundly us—filled the space between our faces. “My big, strong boyfriend. Reduced to a puddle I can sit in.”
Her words, a mix of reverence and teasing, sent a jolt through my exhausted system. I grabbed her wrist, stopping her tracing finger. I brought her hand to my mouth. I didn’t hesitate. I sucked her index and middle fingers into my mouth, my tongue swiping the bitter-salty flavor of our combined release from her skin.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes went wide behind the invisible frames of her missing glasses.
I released her fingers with a soft pop. “Tastes like you,” I said, my voice rough. “Mostly you.”
A slow, delighted smile spread across her face. “You’re so fucking gross. I love it.” She pulled her hand back and looked at her glistening fingers, then dipped them back into the pool on my stomach. She gathered a thick, viscous dollop on her fingertips. “My turn.”
She brought her fingers to her own lips, her eyes locked on mine. Her tongue, pink and deliberate, emerged and licked the mixture slowly, thoroughly, from her skin. She made a show of it, a humming sound in her throat. “Mm. You’re right. Mostly me.” Her grin was devilish. “But I can taste you in there. The… undertone.”
My cock, utterly spent, gave a feeble twitch against her thigh. It was a physiological protest, a white flag waved by an exhausted army. She glanced down and laughed, a bright, genuine sound. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re done. You’re soup.” She patted my cheek with her cleanish hand. “But this…” She swept her hand over the landscape of my torso, through the warm puddle. “…this is still in play.”
Her touch became purposeful, exploring. She painted abstract lines across my chest with the pad of her finger. She smeared broad, possessive strokes over my abs. She collected more and let it drip from her fingers onto my skin, watching the thick drops land with soft plips. She was an artist, and I was her ruined, grateful canvas.
“Look at you,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. Her voice had lost its teasing edge, softening into something awed. “All marked up. Inside and out.” Her fingers found the dried, tacky streaks of her squirt on my thighs. She found the rusty-brown flakes of my own blood, flaking now where it had mixed with sweat. “My bite,” she whispered, tracing the crescent marks.
She lowered herself until her chest was pressed against mine, the cool mess squelching between us. Her lips found my ear. “I want to taste it from the source,” she breathed, her voice a hot, scandalous whisper.
Before I could process it, she was moving. She slid down my body, her skin a slippery glide against mine. The puddle trailed between us, a connecting thread. She stopped when her face was level with my hips. Her curls spilled over my thighs. The amber light caught the mess shining on my skin.
She didn’t go for my soft cock. Instead, she buried her face against the inside of my thigh, where the evidence was thickest. She nuzzled into it, inhaling deeply. A low, hungry sound vibrated from her chest. Then her tongue swiped a broad, wet stripe through the cooling fluids on my skin.
I jerked. “Pritha—fuck.”
She ignored me, lost in her exploration. She lapped at me, kittenish and then greedy, cleaning the salty, musky mixture from my hip bone, my lower stomach. Her hands held my thighs down, her nails pressing half-moons just beside the old ones. Her tongue was relentless, curious, worshipping.
“You’re insane,” I gasped, my hands fisting in the sheets. The sensation was too much—overstimulating, tender, wildly erotic. “You’re actually insane.”
She lifted her head, her chin glistening. “It’s us,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. Her eyes were dark pools of pure want. “And you made so much of it.” Her gaze dropped to my limp cock, resting against my thigh. It was smeared and glistening. She leaned in and pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the tip, a chaste gesture on the most vulgar canvas. Then her tongue flicked out, collecting a bead of mixed fluid from the slit.
A full-body shudder racked me. “Jesus Christ.”
"Just Pritha," she mumbled, then went back to her work.
Her mouth was torture for my extremely oversimulated cock.
She didn’t take me in, not fully. That would have been merciful. Instead, she pressed her lips to the hypersensitive head and held them there, a soft, maddening seal. Her tongue, slick and agile, began to move in tiny, impossible circles right over the slit. Every nerve there was a raw, exposed wire. A sharp, electric jolt shot up my spine.
“Fuck—Pritz, no, stop,” I gasped, my hips twitching uncontrollably. My hands flew to her hair, not to push or pull, just to anchor myself to something solid. “It’s too much. I can’t.”
She giggled, the vibration traveling straight into my dick. The sound was muffled, dark, and full of delight. She ignored me, her tongue flattening to lick a broad, wet stripe up the shaft where our flavors mingled. Then her lips pursed around the crown again, sucking gently, just the swollen tip.
It wasn’t pleasure. It was a sharp, bright agony of sensation, a overloaded circuit screaming. My back arched off the bed. A broken sound, half-groan, half-sob, ripped out of me. “Please. God, please.”
She giggled again, pulling off with a soft pop. Her eyes gleamed up at me. “You’re so sensitive. It’s adorable.” She blew a soft, cool stream of air over the wetness. My entire body convulsed.
I lost my mind.
The careful control, the possessive strength, all of it shattered under that relentless, gentle mouth. My head fell back against the pillow with a dull thud. My vision, already blurry at the edges, swam with muted colors from the lamp. Whimpers I didn’t recognize as my own leaked out with every exhale. Every atom of my being was focused on that one small, ravaged piece of flesh and her devilish, worshipping attention.
She took the tip back into the heat of her mouth, humming this time. The vibration nearly made me black out.
My protests became a slurred, continuous mantra. “Nono nononono… too good… stops’too much… Prita, baby, please…”
She finally released me, her chin glistening. She crawled back up my body, her skin sliding through the mess we’d made. She settled her weight on me again, her face hovering over mine. Her expression was one of deep, satisfied fascination. “You just completely unraveled,” she whispered, tracing my eyebrow with a sticky finger. “You broke. I felt it.”
I could only blink, my breath coming in shallow hitches. My cock lay against my thigh, throbbing with a dull, spent ache.
“I love that,” she said, and kissed me. I could taste everything—salt, sweat, bitterness, her. It was a deep, slow, claiming kiss. When she pulled away, she nuzzled into the crook of my neck with a sigh that seemed to come from her bones. “My crazy, possessive, broken boy.”
Her breath was warm against my neck, her weight a familiar anchor. The stickiness between us was cooling, a tacky testament to the violence of our intimacy. I ran a hand down her back, feeling the delicate bumps of her spine.
“Hey,” she murmured, her voice drowsy but curious. “Can I ask you something kinda… weird?”
“Weirder than you currently sitting in a puddle of my cum?” My voice was shot, barely a rasp.
She snorted, a damp puff against my skin. “Yeah, maybe.” Her fingers traced idle, sticky circles on my chest. “You really came inside me. You knocked me up. No hesitation.” She said it like she was noticing the weather. It wasn’t a question. It was an observation, soft and weighted.
I turned my head, my cheek rubbing against her curls. I could see the dried blood on my hand from where she’d bitten me, the evidence of her own claiming. “Yes,” I said, the word simple and final. “You asked for it. Chanted for it.” I swallowed, my throat dry. “And I love you, Pritha. I didn’t even think about it.”
She went very still on top of me. The only sound was our breathing and the distant hum of the apartment. Then, she pushed herself up on her elbows. Her face hovered above mine, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, a slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. Her eyes crinkled.
“You didn’t even think about it,” she repeated, her voice dripping with cute, mocking delight. She poked my chest. “Mr. ‘I-have-to-know-the-fire-escape-plan-for-every-building’ Hardik. Mr. ‘Let-me-check-the-expiration-date-on-the-milk’. You just… shot a full load into your girlfriend without a single thought.” Her laughter bubbled up, light and airy. “Because you love me. That’s so stupid. And so sweet. And so, so fucking hot.”
She collapsed back onto my chest, her shoulders shaking with giggles. The movement made the drying mess between us crackle faintly.
I felt my own face heat. “Shut up.”
“I won’t,” she singsonged, nuzzling into me. She was silent for a moment, then her voice shifted, adopting a tone of exaggerated, practical planning. “So. Tomorrow morning. First thing I do? Get Plan B. And then make an appointment for some real contraceptives.” She said it brightly, like she was listing errands: eggs, bread, birth control.
A cold, sharp knot formed in my gut. It wasn’t regret. It was something else—a jarring collision of the primal claiming we’d just enacted and the sterile, responsible reality she was now stating. The visceral memory of her begging me to impregnate her slammed against the casual mention of a morning-after pill.
My arms tightened around her. “Oh.”
She felt the tension in my body. She lifted her head again, her playful grin softening into something more understanding. Her sticky fingers came up to brush my jaw. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just what has to happen.” She searched my eyes. “You know that, right? Later in life babe. Neither of us is going anywhere.”
“I know,” I said, the words coming out faster than I meant. “I know. It’s just…” I struggled, the conflict a tangible thing in my throat. “What you were saying. What I was feeling. It felt real. For a minute.”
Her expression melted into pure tenderness. “It was real,” she whispered. She kissed me, a slow, reassuring press of her lips. “The feeling was real. The want was real. My crazy, breeding-obsessed brain was completely real. And you gave me that. You gave me the fantasy, fully. You didn’t hold back.” She thumbed away a smudge of drying fluid from my cheekbone. “That’s the gift. Now, the real-world part is my job. Let me take care of it. Let me take care of us.”
The knot in my gut loosened, replaced by a wave of something else—gratitude, reliance, a deep, aching love for this practical, insane woman covered in our mess. She was already shifting from primal nymph to caregiver, managing the fallout.
“You’re sure?” I mumbled, feeling oddly vulnerable.
“Hardik.” She said my name like a fact. “I sat in your cum. I licked it off you. I’m not letting some stupid accident derail our lives.” A glint returned to her eye. “Besides, this way, we get to do it again. And again. Without the… existential panic.”
A weak laugh escaped me. “You’ve got it all figured out.”
“Someone has to.” She sighed, a contented, exhausted sound, and settled her head back on my shoulder. “Right now, though, I can’t move. I’m a glued-to-you puddle person. And you’re my mattress. A very sticky, gross mattress.”
We lay there. The cool air began to raise goosebumps on our damp skin. The amber light seemed to deepen, casting longer shadows from the model car on her desk. The smell in the room was settling, less sharp, more organic and permanent.
“We need a shower,” I said eventually, my voice still rough.
“Mhm,” she agreed, not moving. “A very long, very hot one. Where I will probably molest your sensitive dick again.”
“Pritha.”
“What? It’s cute when you’re oversensitive.” Her hand drifted down, her fingers lightly skimming my hip, avoiding my spent cock but tracing the trails of dried fluid. “We should get up before we fossilize.”
Neither of us moved.
Her breathing deepened, slowing against my neck. I stared at the ceiling, at a small crack in the plaster I’d never noticed before. My mind replayed it—the slap, the arch, the bulge, the flood. Her words tomorrow morning, first thing I do. The two realities existed together, not canceling each other out, but layering.
“Hey, Hardik?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with impending sleep. “For not holding back.”
I kissed the top of her head, my lips finding a cleanish patch of curls. “Any time.”
She pinched my side, a feeble gesture. “Don’t get cocky. You’re still a mess.” A pause. “My mess.”
Our little sanctuary held the echo of our chaos, and the quiet promise of the pragmatic morning to come. Her weight was a perfect anchor. I closed my eyes, listening to her breathe, feeling the slow, steady beat of her heart against my ribs. We were a sticky, complicated, perfect ruin. And for now, that was enough.