Two months later...

Inhale.

You arch your back, bending your body towards the twinkling ceiling, its embedded metal shavings glinting in a morning sun filtered by the curtains of your bedroom. You can't believe you used to wake up before the sun, with blaring alarms and the angry shoves of that dead woman you somehow married. That old job, that enslavement under another, that stole so many moments of daylight from you, all while you were the master of naught but the house enjoyed by your slut spouse. What a foolish way to live... and as your phone alerts you to the latest life insurance payment in your swelling bank account, you redouble your doubt of that foolish lifestyle.

Exhale.

You turn in bed, eyeing the form next to you. Isabella's body is still beautifully lithe in her limbs, and one such arm, just a thin veneer of fat short of being considered ghastly or skeletal, grips the sheets to her body. She looks towards the ceiling with silent anticipation. She's awake... and she's still miserable, though you'd given up on trying to change that. You reach over to your nightstand and switch on the lights, temporarily blinding you and forcing the sheets over her head as she tries to evade the light. She knows you won't let her, and soon enough you're tugging the sheets from her grip and body. "There's no sense in struggling, sweetie," you coo, the last word becoming a grunt as you tear the sheets from her.

Her perverse body fills your vision and hardens your cock. Thin thighs and shins, thin arms, and a torso that is tight and muscular save where you've chosen to have it otherwise. Her swollen womb is less subtle now, too obvious a lump on her otherwise taut stomach, though it is totally outdone by her breasts, swollen with hyper-development as they were. She's an E-cup now, and her clothes look cartoonishly small on her, enough so that she just wears your ex-wife's pajamas on most days... on days you choose to let her be dressed.

You find the sheets in your grip are stained again; a droplet of white dances on one of her growing, fattening nipples, the latter darker than ever and made to seem even blacker by the former. "We have to extract the milk." She nods silently. She already knows that milk build-up is the number one cause of breast cancer, or such is why you explained your daily thirst for her milk. You convinced her that letting her try and milk herself would always leave a little behind, and so you had to be the one to suckle it from her massive teats.

"Might as well get the cleaning done too." You hook your hands behind her knees and spread her legs. Her pussy glistens now with every morning, a wonderful mercy for your cock (all that **** entry chaffs, you know!), but still not by her will. Despite her apparent misery in this position, her body does its best to prepare for violation, the trauma of your "cleanings" training it to minimize damage. After months of being **** every single day, it is fear and a dripping pussy that your cock inspires now. You plunge yourself effortlessly into her wet slit, and she barely grunts at the sudden fullness. As if her entire body were under some terrible pressure, her nipples leak more honestly when you bury yourself to the hilt. Wasting neither time nor that sweet nectar, you lay upon her fully, scooping her jiggling flesh into your mouth. Only now does she wince in pain; her breasts are tender and painful, and your constant application of cocoa butter is all that keeps the stretch marks from forming, but her skin is taut and even gravity has become her tormentor. You feel your growing child against your belly, and pride almost gives you pause.

That doesn't stop you, of course. You crush her breast while drinking, chugging whole mouthfuls of the life-nurturing fluid, earning small sobs of pain from your breeding toy as you give her the occasional, encouraging thrust. Your halfway to full when you swap tits, and as her cream fills your mouth at full **** again you finally feel your orgasm building. "Daddy... please... hurry..."

You swallow the pleasant dessert before asking, "How did we practice, sweetie?"

"L-like father and daughter..."

"Say it, honey."

She inhales sharply as you start abusing her clit with your right thumb, freed now that the left was in charge of squeezing more of her milk down your gullet. "F-Fill me up! You got me... you got me pregnant, daddy! Now no one else will marry me... no one but you w-will ever love me! I'm going to give birth, daddy, and then you're going to... you're going to..."

Your thrusts pick up speed, and her script hangs as you near orgasm. "What am I going to do, whore?!"

"You're going to... knock me up again!" She cries the words out, ****, believable, real. Though it remains a far-flung fantasy, you earnestly believe it as you paint her birth canal once again, embedding your stink and flavor into her pussy as you would every day until you finally, somehow, grew bored of her. You collapse onto your pet, spent, stomach filled with breakfast and her twat filled with your "cleansing" semen. You bask in her heat, in the squirming of her whimpering flesh wrapped around yours, and the growing pool of wonderful sensations. Eventually your orgasm ebbs, and the chirping of birds outside brings peace to the violent scene.

"... Daddy," she whispers, shifting under you, "can I have breakfast now?"

"Of course, baby, I'll serve it up." You withdraw your spent member from her nethers, where most of your cum has already spilled onto the bed. (You've have to wash the sheets almost daily now.) She begins to get out of the bed, and you watch silently... waiting for her to dare get it wrong or disobey. Half-dazed by her latest familial love session (or **** as her body tries to tell her), she nearly plants both feet on the floor... but catching your eye sets her straight. She softly falls to her hands and knees, letting her eyes fall on your feet as she crawls on the floor like a dog. "Very good, baby," you happily exclaim, "I almost thought you were going to endanger the baby again."

"Of course not, daddy... the first pregnancy is the most dangerous, after all."

"That's right," you complete her lecture, as you had two nights earlier, "and since both mother and child are endangered by vertically standing against gravity, you have to stay on your back or on your hands and knees until you deliver." You watch her quietly work her way out of the bedroom, ass wiggling in the air and soiled crotch glistening in the hall lights as they sense motion. You're not quite tired of this pet yet... and another afternoon in the basement, with more **** and greater levels of torment and bondage, would give you plenty of variety to keep her on her toes. Figuratively speaking of course.