Anatomical violation.

You pant as you exercise all the restraint you can. You imagine Mrs. Fields, you contemplate the economic crisis, you picture several key female politicians in a lesbian orgy with anything but sex appeal, and eventually you manage to calm yourself down. You stare down at her crotch, trying to use your sixth sense to see it, and... there it is. Vision that isn't vision, and becomes clearer when you close your eyes, permits you to find it: her uterus, a tiny thing almost dislocated by the presence of your meat stick. You slowly withdraw, bringing a small font of blood out with you from her ravaged hole. These fresh tears earn fresh tears from your future ****, but you can't be bothered to notice. Her eyes rise from staring as your bloodied cock mostly evacuates her body, and she tries to read what it is you're doing.

You don't expect her to understand. You don't really get it yourself, and you're not sure she can even withstand what you're planning. Your hand hovers over her torso, your four longest fingers pressed together as if to scoop up water, except that the fingers are pointed downward. She half-cries some question or another through her panties, and you offer no answers, only adjusting your hand slightly as you guide it with your vision of her womb. The hand slowly lowers... and presses onto her skin. She looks down at the contact, confused... until the fingers sink in a bit. They push against her skin... and then push deeper. Her abs, of which she has only a miniaturized civilian set, can do nothing to resist your fingers as they effectively sink towards the pipe against which her spine rests. Her body convulses as you continue to pinch her skin, muscles and now her very intestines, as if slowly stabbing her to ****. Where the panties managed to mostly quiet the screams of a virgin, it was now a fear of **** itself that inspired this new chorus.

But there was no symphony her lungs could play to earn respite. Your fingers dig deeper, deeper, straining her flesh to its limit, threatening to rupture her torso... until they've made it. They're here now... petting the top of her womb, which has since returned to its relatively low position... and use all this pinched flesh and muscle and peritoneum and intestinal lining to form a wall over it, holding it in place. It wouldn't move back or out of the way, now. She suddenly pisses all over you as your unnatural presence pushes what remains out of her bladder, but it does not slow your re-entry. Her primal panic pauses only when the head of your prick, and only half of your length behind it, reaches her cervix. Now, at last, with wide eyes and color draining from her face, does she understand.

And so you push. The uterus compresses in your mind's eye against the barrier of pinched flesh and fingers that you've formed in her body, and more screams, and more piss, and more shaking erupt from Xenia in a terrible chorus of begging for this new agony to stop. You do not. You press, and feel her cervix slowly buckle, blossoming inward as you **** your penis into that orderly, sanctified place. The uterus, unable to bend or flatten against the wall you've made, can do nothing to relieve its gateway. The cervix opens wide. Desecration. Your cockhead crowns in a reverse birth, the **** and strained ring of muscle now **** it just under the flared tip that nearly fills her tiny chamber with its presence. Her eyes roll into the back of her head as her body convulses. Her babymaker crushes your cock, and you can hold back no longer. You begin to come, and her womb is so immediately filled that you feel pressure trying to **** your exit. You withdraw your fingers at last, and angry red welts have formed on the flesh you so mercilessly stretched. Now impaled on your manhood, her organ had no way to escape; it simply fills until taut with semen, with thin strands of your fluid very slowly, and very painfully, filling her Fallopian tubes.

You look at your prize, smiling as you sense it: the ovum was fertilized. Hell, that was never in question, but now came the more critical one: would she survive? You don't want to kill her, but the agony she's in... the traumatizing pain you've inflicted... you want more of it. You rub the small lump on her lower torso that marks her filled chamber and your rigid cock, still stabbed into it. With a pinch of thumb and forefinger, you pluck the panties out of her mouth, ungagging the low, animal moans that escape her wide-open mouth. Her eyes are crossed and rolling back into her head erratically. Without the panties, her tongue lolls out as if begging for your meat to be in any hole besides the one it currently enjoys.

You feel it at the base of your spine: another orgasm, ready. You wonder aloud, "Do you think you'll survive if I come again, Xenia? Right... inside... you?"

She babbles weakly, shaking her head by rolling it along the pipe, but nothing coherent comes out. Agony like a drugless childbirth is her world now, and it mixes with the pleasure your seed brings and... oh. The egg binds to her, begins filling her immediately with your essence, and drives another orgasm out of her that fights past this newest threshold of pain. Her cunt grips you, her womb chokes you, and you come again.

You watch with twisted satisfaction as her torso begins to swell with the stretching, enlarging chasm. You rub her gut, now pregnant with jism, press on it softly to watch her body convulse, and eventually lose yourself to this powerful, gripping pleasure. By the time you finally let your manhood be pushed out of its new home, the poor dwarf looks a few months pregnant. The entire effect begins to reverse once you're out, with a steady fountain of seed following your exit... and Xenia finds enough of her mind again to cry... and laugh. You lean over her ruined body, hold her head in your hands, and softly kiss her open, giggling mouth. She suppresses her mad merriment to return it, lovingly and with gentle, romantic flicks of her tiny tongue. Your hands roam her trembling, sweaty, urine-sprinkled body, twist those nipples that might feed your young in time, and continue to rub the bulge that was sure to return in full come the second trimester.

You whisper into her mouth. "Thank your Master."

She whispers back in a sobbing, happy sigh. "Thank you, Master."