Fauna could feel it.
The warm flood finally reached deeper than before—past the tight channel, past the cervix, straight into her womb.
The heat of her own milk pooling inside the very same sacred place where Anya had once been created, where Anya had once grown, where life had once stirred because of her body.
Now it was being filled again—not with seed, not with love in the traditional sense, but with thick, creamy streams of her breast milk.
Her belly also began to swell faintly, rounding out just enough to be noticeable, the skin stretching taut over the increasing volume.
It felt impossibly hot, impossibly full, like she was turning into a living flask designed solely to hold liquid.
She tried to fight it—clenching her inner walls with everything she had, squeezing her thighs together, willing her body to reject the intrusion—but nothing worked.
