Becoming a cock slut

I packed some clothes of mine into a duffel bag, casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Two shirts, some jeans, a toothbrush. Not a lot. Just enough to make it clear this wasn't a one-night detour.

Laura watched me from the bed, still naked, still glistening with sweat, my dried seed crusted pale between her thighs. Her face was a mess of ruined makeup and open confusion, and she pulled the sheet up to her collarbone like a shy girl who hadn't just had her brains fucked out twice.

"I'm bringing you home," I told her.

The relief that washed over her was almost cute. She actually believed it. She thought she could escape back to her own little flat, take a hot shower, scrub me off her skin, think clearly, and file this whole strange afternoon away under things that never happened. She gave me her address without a single fight. She pulled her dress back over her head, and I noticed she didn't bother with the panties — they were somewhere on my bedroom floor, forgotten, soaked.

She slipped into the passenger's seat of my car and pressed her knees modestly together like a good girl. Or was she trying to prevent leaking and keep my seed inside her?

Her nipples, hard and obvious through the thin fabric, kept betraying her.

Every bump in the road, every turn of the wheel, made her shift in that seat, and the two stiff points stayed shameless the whole ride. She caught me glancing and folded her arms over her chest, which only pushed them up higher. Her body had already made its decision. Her brain was still filing appeals.

And underneath all of it, the thing she kept circling back to, the thing that made her bite her lip the whole drive:

She wasn't on the pill.

Not a single pill in her flat. Not a patch, not a ring, nothing. She'd been off everything for months, and I had just come inside her — many times — without a single barrier. Every drop of my seed was sitting in her fertile body with nothing to stop it. Was she ovulating?

I could see her doing the math in her head the whole way home.

We arrived at her building. I parked, got out, walked around, and opened her door like a gentleman. She stepped out, dug for her keys, and walked me to the front door as if we were a couple returning from a pleasant first date.

She turned at the threshold to say goodbye.

She never got the chance.

…

I scooped her slender body up off the ground, kicked the door shut behind us with my heel, and carried her straight into her own living room. She squeaked and grabbed at my neck. Before she could assemble a full sentence, I set her down bent over the armrest of her own sofa.

"Wait, we don't have to—" she started.

My hand pressed flat between her shoulder blades and pinned her down into the cushion. My other hand shoved her dress up over her hips in one rough motion, baring everything. No panties. Of course not.

"Please, not again. I'm still sore from—" she tried.

I kicked her feet apart with my foot. Her small hands scrambled for purchase on the cushions. I was already behind her, already hard again, and I dragged the blunt head of my cock up and down through the wet, swollen folds she'd left behind for me, coating myself in her slick and the leftover seed still weeping out of her.

And then I pushed home.

Laura gasped, fingers clawing the armrest. Her back arched, then flattened. The sofa creaked under us as I started fucking her hard and deep — no warm-up, no patience, just long brutal strokes that reached all the way in and dragged all the way back out. Her cunt was still slick from before, and despite every word out of her mouth, it swallowed me greedily, squelching around my shaft, sucking me back in on every return.

Bent over like that, angled down over the armrest, every stroke found something new inside her. Her belly pressed into the cushion. Her feet lifted off the floor at the tops of the thrusts. She tried to talk through it.

"No—no more—I can't—" slap "—oh god—" slap "—that's so deep, that's so deep—"

And then, between strokes, the real panic surfaced.

"You're going to get me pregnant; you know that?" she gasped. "I'm not on anything. Nothing. Not the pill, not—"slap"—oh god, you're going to knock me up—"

Each hard stroke knocked the words out and scattered them. Her resistance thinned with every single one. The first orgasm came fast and mean — barely a minute in — a tight, surprised little thing that shuddered up through her thighs and snapped. Her toes curled against the floorboards. She pressed her face into the cushion and let out a strangled cry as she clenched around me in quick, hot pulses. She hated that it happened. I could tell by the way she whimpered after and by the way she turned her face away.

I didn't slow down.

The second one built slower and lower, rolling up from somewhere deep, and this time she stopped pretending. Somewhere in the middle of it her hips started moving with me — small, shy pushes back against my thrusts, like she was testing whether I'd notice. I noticed. I gripped her hips harder and fucked her faster, and when the second orgasm hit, she moaned my name out loud, and honestly, her whole body bowing, her knees nearly buckling against the sofa frame. Her cunt rippled and flooded around me. Soaking. Still, I hammered on.

"I can feel it—" she sobbed, half into the cushion. " You're so deep—it's going to take—oh god—"

By the third, she was a wreck. Sweat along her spine. Hair stuck to her cheek. Makeup is long gone. The third one tore through her with a broken sob, her body convulsing over the armrest, and this time she didn't hide it or deny it — she just took it, shaking, milking me, pulling me deeper with every wave.

That's when I let go. I slammed all the way deep and emptied my balls into her with a low growl, pumping load after hot load straight into her fertile womb — into a body with no pill, no barrier, nothing to catch it. Laura stiffened, cried out, and came a fourth time right as I flooded her, her pussy clamping down hard to keep every single drop inside. She sagged over the sofa, boneless, and for once there was no argument left in her.

Just the quiet, shattered acceptance of a girl who had been thoroughly, repeatedly bred — and who knew it.

---

I didn't leave that night. And I didn't leave the next night either.

I moved in. Two, three months, whatever it took. I was going to make sure she was knocked up.

Laura tried to stop me at first. She tried to set rules. She tried to carve out some normal little life where a man who wasn't her boyfriend didn't just live in her flat and fuck her every few hours.

Her small frame had no chance against mine.

I made her call in sick at work. She did, embarrassed, mumbling something about a fever. Then I made her call in sick again. Then again. Then she stopped bothering with excuses and just told them she needed a few weeks. She stayed permanently at home now — and I made sure there was nowhere for her to run. Her keys lay on the hook. Her car gathered dust. And honestly, why would she run? Her body kept telling her not to.

With each meal I fucked her. And each time I planted my seed deep. No condom. Ever. I never even bought a box. She noticed. She'd lie there afterwards with her legs still open and stare at the ceiling like a woman doing sums.

"Every time," she said once. "You come inside me every single time."

"Every time," I confirmed.

She bit her lip. "And I'm not on anything."

"No."

She didn't say anything else. She just let her knees fall a little wider the next time.

…

Breakfast in her kitchen became my favourite.

She'd be at the counter in one of those little sleep shirts, barefoot on the cold tiles, coffee steaming, hair still messy from the night before. She'd hear me come up behind her, and her shoulders would rise, already knowing what was coming. She'd try to preempt it, turning her head, one small hand pressed to my chest.

"Not now, the coffee—" she'd start.

I'd just bend her over the counter and slide in.

The first time she tried harder to stop me. She braced both hands on the countertop and pushed back against my chest like she meant it, twisting, squirming, trying to wriggle free.

So I grabbed her hips, pulled her back onto me, and slammed my cock home — hard, bottoming out in one stroke — and made her groan out loud, the sound torn right out of her throat.

Her body folded. Her hands slipped on the marble. She gave up and let me fuck her right there against the counter, coffee going cold besides her elbow, her cheek mashed into the cold stone, groaning with every slow, grinding stroke. I reached around and found her clit with two fingers, and her legs started to shake almost immediately.

"You're going to do it again, aren't you?" she panted. "You're going to come in me again."

"Yes."

"Oh god—"

She came into my hand with a whimper, and only then did I speed up and spend myself inside her — deep, deliberate, holding it in with my hips flush against her ass.

I filled her with my seed, and her womb took it beautifully, storing all of it, not a drop lost. When I pulled out, she stayed bent over for a few seconds, catching her breath before standing up on unsteady legs and pouring her cold coffee like nothing had happened.

She stopped pushing back against the counter after that first week.

By the second week, when I came up behind her at breakfast, she didn't even try to stop me. She'd just lean forward onto the counter on her own and wait.

…

By noon I fucked her again.

By then she could barely walk straight, and her pussy had already been used twice that day. Three times a day became the baseline. Morning, noon, night. Sometimes a bonus in the afternoon when the mood took me — which it usually did, watching her shuffle around the flat with that soft, swollen, well-used look on her face.

And slowly, without noticing, she started looking forward to the next fuck.

The complaining stopped being real. She'd still say no sometimes, still push at me a little, but it became a ritual instead of a resistance — a soft little "not again" that both of us knew was a lie. She stopped glancing at the door like she might bolt. She stopped texting her friends about "this weird guy" and started just calling it home.

The pregnancy fear never fully left her, though. It sat under everything. Every time I finished inside her, she'd go quiet for a minute, hand resting low on her belly, like she could feel the swimmers swimming. She'd look at me with this tight, wary little expression — what are you doing to me — and then she'd let it go and hand me a plate.

She started dressing sexier for me. Little shorts. Tight tops. Skirts with nothing underneath. When she bent over to reach something, she'd linger a beat longer than she needed to, giving me a clean, deliberate view of her bare, unprotected slit.

She stopped wearing panties completely.

When I asked her about it, she shrugged like it was obvious. "It just makes no sense," she said, "when I'm getting fucked this many times a day. Why bother?"

"And the pregnancy?" I asked.

She went quiet. "I try not to think about it."

"You think about it all the time."

"...Yeah."

…

Two weeks later, for the first time, she flirted with me.

She was leaning on the kitchen counter, that smug little smile on her face, tilting her head at me while I drank my coffee.

"So," she said, soft and teasing, "are you man enough to fuck my ass? Or are you a chicken?"

I set the cup down and answered that question that same hour.

I bent her over the bed, spread those cheeks with both thumbs, and pressed the head of my cock against her tight little rosebud. She whimpered and gripped the sheets, suddenly not so smug.

"Slow, slow, slow—" she begged.

I pushed anyway, steady and relentless, and felt her open for me inch by inch. That ring was stubborn — clenching, resisting, squeezing against the very tip like it wanted to push me back out. Her breath came in quick little hitches. And then it gave, all at once, and my head popped through into the tight, hot grip of her.

Laura let out a long, shuddering moan as I sank the rest of the way in, slow as a glacier, feeling every ridge of my cock dragged against that snug channel. Her fists twisted in the sheets. My balls settled against her wet cunt beneath.

Then I started to fuck her there.

Deep, patient strokes at first. Her colon stretched to take me, the tight grip slowly loosening just enough to let me move. She whimpered into the pillow, hips rocking, and soon those whimpers turned into moans, then into something close to hunger. I picked up the pace, driving deeper, watching her little hole swallow me over and over, stretched pale and glossy around my shaft.

She came like that — without a hand on her, just from the stretch and the fullness, gasping my name into the mattress.

When I came, I pumped her full of hot seed and buried it to the root, and she moaned as she felt it flood deep into her belly. When I finally pulled out, her gaping little hole winked at me, and a fat drop of my cum rolled slowly down her taint to her cunt.

After that, she teased me daily.

…

She became a little slut for my cock, and she knew it.

She walked around the flat with a sway in her hips. She bent over in front of me on purpose — reaching for the low cabinet, the oven, a dropped pen. Four times a day now. Maybe five. She was insatiable in a way she'd never have admitted a month ago.

And she started teasing me with her body in small, deliberate ways.

She'd "accidentally" bump into my crotch in the kitchen, turning sideways to pass behind me in the narrow galley, her hip brushing the front of my jeans — and she'd take her sweet time about it. She'd brush past and let her hand trail across my thigh. She'd hand me something and let her fingers drag slowly over my wrist.

She'd "accidentally" touch my cock. All the time. Reaching for the remote across my lap, her forearm grazing the bulge. Sitting down besides me and letting her knee press against my thigh, inching higher. Once, standing behind me at the sink, she pressed her palm flat against my back, then slid it down — slow, casual — until her hand cupped my ass and kept going, brushing against my cock from behind before she pulled away like nothing happened.

"Accident," she'd say, without looking at me.

It was never an accident.

But the one that broke me was the doorway thing. She started standing in doorways, leaning against the frame, one bare leg crossed over the other, watching me. Every time I walked past, she'd "shift" and her thigh would catch mine. Every time, she'd give me that smug little half-smile.

And every time, right before she turned away, she'd glance down at the front of my jeans — quick, hungry, not even trying to hide it anymore.

…

A month passed. Then two. And I still wasn't sure if I'd knocked her up.

So I kept fucking her bareback. Every time. No condom, no pull-out, just load after load into her waiting womb, night after night, trusting her little body to do the right thing eventually. Her cunt was a well-used, perpetually slick little thing now — she barely needed any coaxing, and half the time she was already wet before I even touched her, just from the anticipation.

The fear was still there, but it had changed shape. It wasn't panic anymore. It was a low, constant hum. She'd lie with her legs up after I came in her, sometimes even propping her hips on a pillow, and when I asked her why, she got embarrassed and said she'd read somewhere it helped. Helped with what? She knew what.

The teasing got filthier. She started whispering things. "Are you going to fill me up again?" She'd say it against my ear while she ground her ass back against my lap on the sofa. "Think it's working yet?" She'd ask it with her hand down her own shorts, watching me.

By the end, four times a day was normal, and a fifth wasn't rare. Morning, noon, afternoon, night, and once more in the dark if she woke up wanting.

She started dressing even more provocatively, even around the flat, like a woman with something to prove. Lingerie. Short silk things. Nothing underneath. A little necklace and nothing else. She'd catch me staring and do a slow turn, showing me the whole package.

And she'd stopped calling herself a victim somewhere along the way. She'd started saying we. We should eat. We should sleep. We should do this again.

…

Then, ten weeks later, I found her puking.

She was in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet, vomiting, one hand braced against the wall, the other in her hair. She looked up at me with wet eyes and a pale, waxy face, and I knew before she said a word.

I'd finally knocked her up.

She was carrying my bastard. And there was no morning-after pill that could save her now. Not at ten weeks. Not after all that seed I'd pumped into her, morning after morning, meal after meal, into a body that had never had a single barrier in it.

Laura wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, sank back onto the cold tiles, and stared down at her own flat belly like it had betrayed her.

"It's yours," she whispered.

"Yes," I said. "It is."

She looked up at me, and there was something in her face that wasn't fear anymore. Something softer. Something that had given up on running a long time ago and only just now figured it out.

"So what now?" she asked.

I crouched down in front of her, took her chin in my hand, and tilted her face up.

"Now," I said, "you stop pretending."

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she reached down, took my hand, and pressed it flat against her bare belly — the belly I'd filled over and over, the belly that was now going to swell because of it.

And in a small, raw, almost shy voice, she whispered it:

"I love your flesh inside my flesh."

To be continued.