Chapter 7: Porsche's pregnant belly jiggles with each hard thrust as Kinn fucks him doggystyle against the leather seats, his swollen abdomen pressed against the chilled window leaving streaks of sweat on the tinted glass while the driver maintains stoic silence.
The SUV’s engine was a low, steady purr, weaving through the chaotic symphony of Bangkok. The air inside was chilled, sterile, smelling of lemon polish and new leather. It did nothing to cut through the heat of the situation in the back seat.
Porsche sat as far from Kinn as the plush bench seat would allow, pressed against the door, staring out at the blur of neon signs and food stalls. His hands were never still, always moving to cradle the impossible weight in his lap, his fingers tracing the tight curve of his stomach through his borrowed shirt—one of Kinn’s, simple black cotton that now strained over the pronounced swell. Every pothole, every sudden stop, made him wince, his body tensing around the new, central fact of his existence.
Kinn watched him, a chess master observing a uniquely troublesome piece. The raw, weeping need from the hut had cooled into something harder, more strategic. Porsche was a vulnerable point, a secret that could be exploited. He needed to be controlled, bound tighter than any lock or contract could manage.
“The driver,” Porsche said suddenly, his voice hoarse from disuse. He nodded almost imperceptibly toward the partition separating them from the front. “Does he know?”
“Big knows only what I tell him to know,” Kinn said, his eyes never leaving Porsche’s profile. “And I told him you’re a valuable asset, recovering from an illness. That you are to be seen but not discussed.”
“‘Asset’,” Porsche repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. He finally turned to look at Kinn, his eyes dark with fatigue and fury. “Is that what I am? A fucking incubator you found in the mountains?”
“You’re the solution to a problem,” Kinn corrected, his tone clinical. “A very expensive, very delicate solution. Your comfort is a priority only insofar as it ensures the successful resolution of that problem.”
“My comfort?” A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped Porsche. He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t send a dull ache through his back. “I’m carrying something that shouldn’t exist, my body is doing things that defy…” He trailed off, shaking his head, a fresh wave of helpless terror rising in his throat. He looked down at his stomach. “It moved again. Just now. A big one.”
Kinn’s gaze dropped to Porsche’s midsection. A possessive thrill, sharp and cold, shot through him. His heir. His proof. The living answer to every veiled question from his father, every skeptical glance from the family board. He needed to touch it. To reaffirm the claim.
“Come here,” he said, not a request.
“No.”
“Porsche.” The name was a warning, low and flat. “Do not make this difficult in a confined space. Come. Here.”
The car took a sharp turn, throwing Porsche sideways. He gasped, his hand flying to his side. The vulnerability in the sound, the pure physical distress, snapped something in Kinn’s control. Patience was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
In one fluid, violent motion, he closed the distance between them. His hands were on Porsche, rough and exacting, dragging him across the smooth leather until Porsche was straddling his lap, facing him. The position forced Porsche’s swollen belly to press flush against Kinn’s chest and abdomen. The solid, warm curve of it was immediately overwhelming, a shocking intimacy.
“Get off!” Porsche gritted out, struggling, but his movements were weakened, uncoordinated by the alien weight he carried. Kinn’s arms were bands of steel around his back, holding him fast.
“Stop fighting. You’ll hurt yourself.” Kinn’s voice was a growl against Porsche’s ear. He could feel Porsche’s rapid heartbeat through the layers of their clothes, through the taught skin of his stomach. He slid one hand down, palming the full, heavy curve, squeezing. A fierce jolt of movement answered him from within—a kick, a turn. Porsche cried out, his head falling forward onto Kinn’s shoulder.
“Fuck… please.”
“Please what?” Kinn murmured, his other hand sliding between them, fumbling with his own belt and zipper. He was already hard, the visceral reality of Porsche’s condition, his heat, his helplessness, igniting a familiar, devouring fire.
“Don’t,” Porsche sobbed, but his body was betraying him again, a traitorous flush of heat spreading through him. His cock, crushed between their bodies, stirred to life. The biology of his condition, the magic of it, sought connection, completion. It craved the very thing that had created it.
Kinn shoved his own pants down, freeing his erection. He didn’t bother with Porsche’s. He simply yanked the loose cotton trousers and underwear down to mid-thigh, exposing him. The cooler air of the car hit Porsche’s wetness—he was already slick, that same fertile, coppery dampness seeping from him. The brutal use from the hut, the persistent leakage, the pregnancy itself, had left him perpetually ready.
“See?” Kinn hissed, pushing the head of his cock through the slick folds, not entering yet, just coating himself. “Your body knows what it’s for. It’s always ready for me.”
He didn’t guide Porsche down. He lifted him, using his strength to maneuver Porsche’s dead weight, and slammed him down onto his length in one vicious, impaling drop.
Porsche’s scream was muffled against Kinn’s shoulder, his body bowing backwards from the shock of the invasion. It was too much, too fast, the stretch a bright, white-hot pain that instantly blurred into a deep, shameful throb of pleasure. His belly, sandwiched between them, lurched with the movement.
Kinn held him there, fully speared, letting Porsche’s trembling inner muscles adjust to the sudden, brutal fullness. “Now,” Kinn commanded, his voice rough with a reined-in frenzy. “Move.”
He began to buck his hips upwards, pounding into the tight, wet clutch of Porsche’s body. Porsche was a ragdoll on top of him, his sobs rhythmic with each thrust. The SUV’s movement added a nightmarish dimension; as the vehicle accelerated, Kinn’s upward drives slammed Porsche harder onto his cock. When they braked, Porsche’s weight drove him deeper.
The sounds were filthy, obscene. The wet slap of skin, the creak of leather, Kinn’s ragged grunts, Porsche’s broken, hiccupping moans. Porsche’s swollen stomach bounced with the violent rhythm, slapping against Kinn’s torso, sometimes thumping dully against the dashboard behind Kinn’s back.
“Quiet,” Kinn ordered, though he made no effort to soften his own noises. “You think Big doesn’t know? He knows. He hears every pathetic sound you make. He knows his boss is fucking his pregnant whore in the back seat.”
The humiliation dragged a fresh sob from Porsche’s throat. He turned his head, his cheek against the cold tinted window, watching the oblivious city flash by. A family on a moped. A street vendor. Normal lives. He was in a glass and steel cage, being ruthlessly fucked, bulging with a mafia heir’s child.
Kinn’s hand clamped on Porsche’s jaw, forcing his face back. “Look at me.”
Porsche’s eyes were glazed, tears stuck in his lashes. Kinn captured his mouth in a biting, possessive kiss, swallowing his cries. He pistoned harder, deeper, his own orgasm coiling tight in his gut. The pressure, the heat, the impossible reality of the life sandwiched between them, was too much.
He broke the kiss, his forehead pressing against Porsche’s as he drove up one last, devastating time. “Take it,” he snarled, and came, his release pulsing hot and deep inside the already fertile chamber.
The shock of it, the sheer animal finality, tipped Porsche over his own edge. He came untouched, his spend streaking Kinn’s shirt, his inner walls fluttering and gripping in frantic, milking spasms around Kinn’s still-spurting cock. A profound internal shift, a heavy, settling drop, made him groan into Kinn’s mouth.
For a long moment, they stayed locked together, breathing in ragged unison. Kinn softened inside him, but didn’t let go. His hand stroked Porsche’s trembling back, then slid around to rest once more on the domed stomach. It felt different. Lower. Settled.
The SUV slowed, then made a series of smooth turns. The sound of the city faded, replaced by the silent, guarded hum of a private compound.
Pleverly, barely letting Kinn slip out of him, Porsche slumped against him, utterly spent. He was hollowed out, filled up, and irrevocably changed.
The partition slid down an inch. Big’s voice, carefully neutral, filtered through. “Sir. We are at the main house. Your father is waiting in the study.”
Kinn’s body went rigid. The outside world, with all its dangers and demands, came crashing back in. He adjusted his clothes with efficient, rapid movements, then pushed Porsche’s trousers back up his legs, his touch now brusque, practical.
“Fix yourself,” he murmured, his eyes already distant, calculating the coming confrontation. He pulled a compact black pistol from a hidden compartment, checking the magazine before slipping it into his waistband.
Porsche listlessly pulled his shirt down over the mess between his legs, over the undeniable proof of his condition. He stared at the opulent gates now visible through the window, at the armed men standing sentry. This wasn't a village hut. This was a fortress. His cage had just become infinitely more secure, and infinitely more dangerous.
Kinn glanced at him, a final, assessing look. "Remember. You are an asset. You are unwell. You speak to no one." He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray tear from Porsche's cheek, the gesture almost tender if not for the ice in his eyes. "My father cannot know what you truly are. Not yet."
The car stopped. The doors were opened from the outside by uniformed guards. The humid, polluted Bangkok air rushed in, carrying the scent of frangipani and diesel. It was the smell of a new battlefield.