Only one way it can.

You lose track of time as the two of you go at it, rutting away, mewling and moaning, growls and grunts, the sound of young lust driven by heat. You can feel something inside growing, an overwhelming urge to cry out, a burning desire, an uncontrollable heat building in your belly. You need release from the heat, you need Peter to make you yowl out, make you scream out his name.

"Peter," you moan out, "Harder. Don't stop. Make me yowl," you almost beg him between thrusts. Your body wants his release, wants his contribution to the inevitable pregnancy, his sperm to fertilize your eggs, one cub, perhaps two.

Peter doesn't stop, he's not going to until he pumps your belly full of his seed, but he leans in to kiss you. "I'm not stopping Tabs, not until you yowl. I want you to beg for it, beg for my seed. Beg for me to impregnate you."