Go home and wash up

You return to your senses in the cramped backseat, limbs tangled with James’s, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and sweat. All the horniness is fucked out of both of you. For now. Your body aches in the best and worst ways—thighs sticky, pussy swollen and sore, a deep fullness still lingering inside you from the countless loads he pumped into you. James stirs too, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his cock half-hard against your ass even now.

“Fuck… think we broke the car,” he mumbles with a tired chuckle, glancing at the soaked seat beneath you. Cum is everywhere—streaked across the upholstery, pooled under your hips, smeared on both of your bodies. You manage a weak laugh, too exhausted to do more than disentangle yourselves and climb awkwardly into the front seats. The summer dress is ruined, crumpled and stained; James’s sweatpants are equally wrecked. Neither of you cares.

The drive home is quiet, windows cracked to let in cool night air. You sit gingerly on a folded jacket to spare the seat further damage, but it doesn’t help much. Every bump in the road sends a fresh trickle of cum sliding out of you—warm, thick rivers that coat your inner thighs and drip steadily onto the makeshift barrier. You shift uncomfortably, feeling it ooze with every turn, the sensation both embarrassing and shamefully arousing. James keeps stealing glances, one hand on the wheel, the other resting high on your bare leg.

“God, look at you leaking,” he murmurs, voice low and satisfied. “That’s all me in there. Bet your womb’s absolutely flooded.”

You don’t answer, just bite your lip and watch the streetlights blur past, secretly thrilled at how thoroughly claimed you feel.

When you finally stumble through the front door, it’s well past midnight. The house is dark and cool. You head straight for the shower together, too tired for anything more than standing under the hot spray, letting it wash away layers of dried cum and sweat. James soaps you gently this time—almost tender—fingers tracing your curves, rinsing between your legs with careful strokes that still make you shiver.

Afterward, wrapped in towels, you collapse toward the bedroom. Sleep pulls at you like a tide, but James pauses at the dresser where he dumped the pharmacy bag earlier. He pulls out one of the packs of soft menstrual cups—the ones advertised for “conception assistance”—and turns to you with a sleepy but determined smirk.

“Not letting all that hard work go to waste,” he says, voice rough from exhaustion. He guides you onto the bed, towel falling away, and spreads your legs gently. You’re still swollen and sensitive, cum still slowly seeping out. He takes one of the soft, silicone discs, folds it expertly, and slides it inside you with two fingers.

You gasp at the cool intrusion, then moan softly as it pops open, forming a gentle seal high against your cervix. James presses it deeper, making sure it sits just right, his thumb brushing your clit in the process and drawing a tired whimper from you.

“There,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your inner thigh. “Now all those loads stay exactly where they belong—nice and deep, soaking in overnight. Gonna keep you plugged until morning. Maybe by then it’ll have taken.”

He crawls up beside you, pulling you into his arms, one possessive hand splayed over your lower belly as if already imagining it swelling. You’re too drained to protest, the fullness of the cup a strange, erotic pressure that lulls you toward sleep. The last thing you feel is his lips against your neck and the steady drip of exhaustion pulling you under.

Tomorrow there’s still almost a full day left on the curse—and your body is already stuffed full of his cum, sealed tight.