Sometimes I'm convinced my body has its own memory. The girls are asleep, and the quiet tonight is different. It's not the heavy silence of loneliness. It's the quiet of an empty canvas. I was folding laundry earlier, the mundane scent of fabric softener, when I felt it—a deep, visceral pull low in my belly. Not a craving for a cock, exactly. A craving for creation.

I stood there, a warm towel in my hands, and I imagined a different weight. The swell of a new life under my skin. The ache of my tits filling. The primal, messy, beautiful act of being bred. The thought of a man I trust so completely, looking at me with that possessive fire, not just to fuck me, but to claim me in the most fundamental way. To pin me down and fill my cunt with his seed until it takes. To watch my body change because of him.

It’s a terrifying fantasy. It means trust that goes beyond letting someone choke me or fuck my ass. It’s surrender on a cellular level. And part of me, the part that’s so tired of being just a manager and a protector, wants it desperately. To be soft, and full, and used for a purpose that’s just… life.