Chapter 16: Ultrasound Fucking
The elevator to Julian’s penthouse was a silent, glass ascent that left the city sprawled beneath me, a grid of meaningless lights. My palms were damp. Priya’s voice, a shrill alarm in my head, kept repeating HR nuclear bomb. I silenced it by pressing the doorbell. He opened it immediately, as if he’d been waiting right there.
“You came,” he said. Not a question. An acknowledgment of the inevitable. He was in dark trousers and a thin cashmere sweater, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He stepped back to let me in.
The space was all cool lines and breathtaking views. But my eyes were drawn past the living area, down a short hallway, to an open door. A bedroom. A king-sized bed, low and wide, made up with stark white linens.
“You said we needed to talk,” I began, my voice smaller than I wanted.
“We do. In here.” He led me to the bedroom. It was then I saw the items laid out with deliberate care on a bedside table: four long straps of deep crimson silk, each with a soft buckle. And beside them, the sleek, grey console of a portable ultrasound machine, its probe coiled like a waiting serpent.
My heart slammed against my ribs. “Julian, what is this?”
“An examination. A celebration. A claiming.” He turned to me, his eyes burning with a possession that stole my breath. “Take off your clothes. Everything.”
A refusal bubbled up, born of pride and Priya’s fierce protectiveness. But my body, traitorous and already humming in his presence, moved on its own. The sweater, the jeans, the bra, the cotton panties. I stood naked before him in the cool room, my skin pebbling, my hands instinctively moving to cover the subtle new curve of my belly.
“No,” he said softly. “Let me see.”
He approached, not like a lover, but like a collector assessing a precious acquisition. His fingertips traced the blue veins visible just beneath the skin of my breasts. He palmed their heaviness, weighing them, his thumbs rubbing my nipples until they were tight, aching buds.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. He knelt then, his hands sliding down my flanks to my hips. He pressed his lips to my lower abdomen. “And in here,” he whispered, his breath hot on my skin, “my legacy grows. I want to see it. I want to watch it while I remind its mother who she belongs to.”
A cold thrill shot through me. “The ultrasound… here?”
“The best seat in the house.” He stood, taking my hand, leading me to the bed. “Lie down. On your back. In the center.”
I complied, the sheets cool and smooth beneath me. He took my right wrist, looping a silk restraint around it, buckling it securely to a discreet post at the corner of the bed frame. He did the same with my left. The silk was lush, unforgiving. He moved to my ankles, spreading my legs wide, each one tied open, leaving me utterly exposed. Vulnerable. A specimen pinned for inspection.
He turned on the ultrasound machine. The screen lit up, casting a ghostly blue light on his focused face. He squeezed a clear, cold gel onto my lower abdomen. I flinched.
“Hold still.” His voice was all doctor now, focused, calm. He pressed the transducer probe against my skin, moving it in slow circles. The screen filled with grainy, shifting monochrome shapes. He stared, utterly absorbed.
Then he found it. A small, pulsing, bean-like shadow. A swift, fluttering light within it—a heartbeat, rapid as a bird’s. The sound, a rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, filled the quiet room.
His breath caught. For a moment, the mask of total control slipped. Raw, unfiltered awe flashed across his features. His knuckles were white where he gripped the probe.
“There,” he said, his voice thick. He angled the screen so I could see. “Look. That’s my son. That’s our future.”
The sight was alien and profound. A life. His life. Inside me. The reality of it, visible and audible, was a yoke settling on my shoulders, heavy and final.
He locked the probe in place with a gentle, adhesive holder, so the image remained steady on the screen. The whooshing heartbeat continued its relentless soundtrack.
Then he unzipped his trousers, freeing his cock, already fully erect, thick and flushed. He stroked himself once, his eyes fixed on the ultrasound screen, then on my splayed body.
“I want to watch my baby move,” he growled, his voice dropping into a register of pure need, “while I fuck its mother’s dripping cunt.”
He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between my bound, open legs. He didn’t tease. He guided the broad head of his cock to my entrance, which was already slick, my body betraying me with anticipation. With one powerful, impaling thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
I cried out, the sensation of being filled so completely, so suddenly, mingling with the surreal sight of that flickering heartbeat on the screen beside us.
“Watch,” he commanded, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in. “Watch him while I take you.”
My eyes flicked between his fierce, possessive face and the screen. The rhythmic pounding of his hips matched the frantic whoosh-whoosh from the speaker. It felt deranged. Sacrilegious. It was the most potent arousal I’d ever known.
He fucked me with a primal, claiming rhythm, each drive aimed deep, as if trying to reach the very source of the image he worshipped. The bed rocked. The silk restraints cut into my wrists and ankles. Sweat gleamed on his temples.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his pace becoming ruthless, brutal. “My cock in your womb, kissing my child. This punt is mine. This body is mine. That heartbeat is mine.”
He leaned forward, bracing one hand by my head, his other hand grabbing my breast, squeezing hard. “Come for me. Come around my cock while you listen to our son’s heart.”
The command, the overwhelming sensory overload—the visual, the auditory, the physical violation so complete it felt like devotion—shattered me. An orgasm tore through me, violent and silent, my back arching off the bed as far as the restraints would allow. My cunt clenched around him in frantic, milking pulses.
The feeling of my internal convulsions triggered his own end. With a raw shout that held both triumph and surrender, he plunged deep one final time and came. I felt the hot, urgent rush of his release flooding me, marking the territory the screen so clearly displayed.
He collapsed atop me, his weight a crushing comfort, his face buried in my neck. We were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, broken sync with the heartbeat that still filled the room. Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.
After long minutes, he pushed himself up. He gently removed the probe, wiped the gel from my skin with a tenderness that belied the ferocity of the act, and then, one by one, unbuckled the silk restraints. He rubbed the marks on my wrists.
He disposed of the condom—I hadn’t even noticed him putting it on—and pulled up his trousers. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking from me to the now-dark screen.
“You’ll move in here,” he said, his voice calm, decisive, as if discussing a shift schedule. “Next week. The east wing nursery gets converted first. I’ve already drawn up plans.”
The statement was so absolute, so devoid of the possibility of refusal, that it chilled the last lingering heat from my bones. This wasn’t a proposal. It was a decree. The examination was over. The verdict was in. I was no longer a surgeon who was pregnant. I was the vessel, secured, claimed, and now being permanently installed.
He looked down at me, his expression one of serene, terrifying satisfaction. “Sleep now. You’re home.”