More condescension

Abigail remains lodged inside you, her cock never fully softening after her orgasm. You feel it twitching, pulsing with renewed life as her breathing steadies. The fullness is uncomfortable—your tender tissues stretched around her girth with no relief.

"Such a good girl," she murmurs, stroking your hair away from your forehead. "Taking my cock so perfectly."

Her hips make small, **** movements, little thrusts that send fresh sparks of pain through your core. You wince, but she doesn't notice, too caught up in her own sensations.

"You know," she says conversationally, as if you're not impaled beneath her, "I never understood why men were so obsessed with sex before." Her cock swells noticeably inside you as she speaks, stretching you further. "But now I get it. The way your pussy grips me... it's addictive."

You shift uncomfortably, trying to adjust to her growing hardness. "It hurts," you whisper, hoping she'll withdraw and give you time to recover.

Instead, she smiles indulgently, as if you've said something cute but naive. "That's normal, sweetheart. Women's bodies need time to adjust. You'll learn to love it."

The dismissal of your pain makes you want to protest, but something in her tone silences you. She's speaking with the absolute confidence of someone who believes they know your body better than you do.

"Besides," she continues, her cock now fully hard again inside you, "this is what you were made for now." She rolls her hips deliberately, pushing even deeper. "Your pussy was designed to take my cock. To be filled with my cum."

Her words should offend you—the reduction of your entire transformation to a receptacle for her pleasure—but instead, they trigger a confusing pulse of arousal. Your body responds to her assertion of purpose with a fresh trickle of wetness.

"See?" she notices immediately, misinterpreting your body's lubrication response as enjoyment. "Your little pussy is getting wetter. It wants more."

You shake your head weakly. "I need a break," you try again, your voice small.

Abigail's expression softens, but there's something patronizing in her smile. "Just a little more," she coos, as if speaking to a child afraid of medicine. "My balls are still so full. And we want to make sure you get pregnant, don't we?"

She begins moving more deliberately now, slow drags of her thick shaft that pull at your swollen tissues. Each thrust is a fresh bloom of pain, but you find yourself lying still, accepting it, your new submissive nature preventing further protest.

"That's it," she praises, misreading your resignation as cooperation. "Let your wife use her pussy."

Her pussy, you note distantly. Not yours anymore—hers.

"You're being so good for me," she continues, her pace increasing slightly. "So different from when you were a man. Remember how impatient you used to be? Always rushing through foreplay, always focused on your own orgasm?"

The criticism of your former self stings, especially since you don't remember being a selfish lover. But you don't correct her. Something about this new dynamic makes challenging her version of reality feel impossible.

"Now look at you," she marvels, her cock driving deeper, making you gasp. "All soft and pliant. Taking whatever I give you."

Her thrusts become more insistent, her expression focused on her own pleasure. "This is better, isn't it? You being the soft one, the pretty one? Me being strong for both of us?"

You nod automatically, giving her the response she wants, even as pain radiates through your pelvis. Her cock feels impossibly large inside you, claiming spaces in your body that weren't meant to be invaded.

"I love how tight you still are," she groans, picking up speed. "So small around my cock. Like your pussy was made just for me."

Her hands grip your hips harder, fingers digging into your soft flesh as she uses your body more forcefully. The bed creaks beneath you, your smaller frame jolting with each thrust.

"Going to keep you full of cum," she pants, her rhythm growing erratic. "Every day. Multiple times a day. Until you're swollen with my baby."

The intensity in her voice triggers something primal in your transformed body. Despite the pain, despite your exhaustion, you feel your inner walls contracting around her, your fertility-enhanced body responding to her breeding talk.

"Yes," she hisses, feeling your involuntary response. "Your body knows what it needs. What it was made for."

Her thrusts become punishing, her control slipping completely. You close your eyes, enduring the onslaught, finding a strange peace in your submission.

"Taking it so well," she praises, her voice strained. "My perfect little breeder. My soft little wife."

With a guttural groan, she slams deep one final time and erupts again, flooding your already-full channel with a fresh load of hot cum. The quantity is shocking—even more than before—as if her body is producing extra to ensure fertilization.

The moment her seed hits your cervix, that now-familiar fertility flash courses through you—a brief, intense orgasm that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with biological function. Your pussy spasms around her, milking her cock as your cervix dips to draw her seed deeper.

"Perfect," Abigail gasps, feeling your contractions. "Taking every drop like you were born for it."

She collapses on top of you, her weight pressing you into the mattress, her cock still buried deep inside. You struggle to breathe under her, but don't push her away, accepting even this discomfort as part of your new role.

"I think I'm going to need this several times a day," she murmurs against your neck, her cock giving one final twitch inside you. "Is that going to be a problem?"

It's framed as a question, but her tone makes it clear there's only one acceptable answer.

"No," you whisper, surrendering completely to what you've become. "No problem at all."

She smiles against your skin, satisfied with your submission. "Good girl. That's what I thought."