During the night, I let my body run wild. Jake and his girlfriend were out, and I was able to enjoy some time alone. At least, that's what I thought when I ate shortly after waking up and watched a series online. It was early in the morning, while everyone else was asleep. It would have been the perfect opportunity for me to possess other bodies, but I didn't feel tired. Instead, I remained focused on Emily. She was too tired to wake up in the next few hours. I could have taken over her body so she could relax.
Jake and Sarah opened the front door late at night and came in. Jake was in terrible shape. I was looking at my computer when I heard Jake vomiting in the bathroom before he muttered something. Sarah ignored him and forced him to continue looking into the toilet bowl. "Look down, I don't want to have to clean up after you." I leaned back and enjoyed my series again, because that way I had my peace and quiet. Sarah seemed to have slowly forgotten her phobia, because she must have thought she was crazy for what had happened to her, but I wasn't done with her yet. I had plenty of time to play with her.
Morning slowly dawned and I felt my tiredness setting in. I knew it was time and lay down. I closed my eyes and reached.
The drift was instant, effortless, miles collapsing into nothing. No tug, no strain. Just presence.
Emily's eyes opened to soft gray light filtering through bedroom curtains. The digital clock glowed 6:45 a.m. Beside me, Daniel slept on his back, one arm flung over his head, mouth slightly open. The pregnancy pillow was still wedged between her knees; the maternity nightshirt had ridden up during the night, exposing the lower curve of the belly. I exhaled slowly through her nose, feeling the familiar weight settle into place: center of gravity forward, breasts heavy against the mattress, lower back already protesting the side-sleep position. The baby stirred—slow, lazy roll rather than kick—like he was stretching after a long rest. I placed both hands on the swell, palms flat, and felt the answering pressure: a foot pressing outward, then relaxing. The linea nigra stood out darker in the morning light; stretch marks shimmered silver. I traced one with a fingertip, feeling the faint raised texture, the heightened sensitivity that turned even innocent touch into something erotic.
No rush. I let her body lie there for twenty minutes, simply existing in it. Breathing in sync with the double heartbeat. Feeling the constant low hum of hormones—libido simmering beneath exhaustion, mood stable but fragile, ready to tip into tears or laughter at the slightest trigger. The nesting instinct tugged again: sudden urge to fold the throw blanket at the foot of the bed, to wipe the nightstand dust with her sleeve. I gave in—small domestic rituals that felt strangely satisfying through her.
Eventually I eased up. Bathroom first. Standing took effort: roll to the side, push with one arm, swing legs over, brace the belly with both hands. The mirror showed her face softer in sleep, cheeks flushed, hair tangled. I lifted the nightshirt—belly round and proud, navel popped, breasts veined faintly blue from increased blood flow. Nipples darker, larger, already beading with colostrum at the slightest chill. I cupped one breast, thumb brushing the tip; the sensation shot straight to her core, clit swelling under cotton panties. Dirty thrill: standing here, heavily pregnant, touching herself in the quiet morning while her husband slept feet away. I resisted—barely—and peed (constant pressure on the bladder now), washed hands, brushed teeth (gums more sensitive, toothpaste stinging faintly).
Back in the bedroom, I dressed her carefully for the day: soft gray maternity leggings that hugged the ass and thighs without pinching, a long-sleeved tunic top in pale blue that draped over the belly without clinging, a cardigan for warmth. Bra first—wireless maternity style, cups lifting the heavy breasts into gentle support. The fabric brushed nipples with every movement, keeping them peaked. No makeup—Emily rarely wore any now; just moisturizer, lip balm. Hair into a loose ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face. Flats on swollen feet. I felt the balance shift again—waddle pronounced, posture arched, every step rocking the belly side to side.
Daniel stirred as I moved toward the door.
"Morning, beautiful," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. He rolled over, hand finding the swell instinctively. "How'd you sleep?"
"Like a rock," I answered in her soft, warm tone. "First time in weeks I didn't wake up at 3 a.m. to pee."
He smiled, eyes still half-closed. "Miracle. You look… good. Rested." His thumb stroked the curve. The baby kicked once—firm hello to Daddy. Daniel's face lit up. "He's up early too."
"Always showing off for you." I leaned down—careful, slow—and kissed him. His lips were warm, familiar to her body. The kiss lingered; hormones flared, heat pooling low. I pulled back before it deepened. "I should get ready. Mom will have a meltdown if we're late."
He groaned playfully. "Ten o'clock sharp. Got it. I'll shower and pack the hospital bag—just in case."
I laughed—her laugh, light and genuine. "Always the worrier."
Downstairs, I made decaf coffee (smell still heavenly, even without caffeine), ate Greek yogurt with berries and granola (cravings demanding tart and crunchy), and felt the baby roll lazily as breakfast settled. The fullness pressed low, adding to the pelvic ache that hovered between discomfort and dirty promise. I rubbed the belly in slow circles, coaxing more movement—tiny hiccups now, rhythmic and soothing.
By 9:15 we were in the car. Daniel drove; I sat passenger, seat belt low under the swell, one hand resting on the dome. The twenty-minute drive passed in comfortable quiet—his hand occasionally finding mine or the belly, soft music on the radio. The baby kicked in time with the bass line. I felt Emily's automatic contentment: love for him, trust, quiet excitement about seeing her parents.
The twenty-minute drive to her parents' house felt longer in Emily's body. Every pothole sent a gentle jolt through the pelvis; the seat belt sat low beneath the swell, pressing just enough to remind me constantly of the forward weight. Daniel drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the belly like it was the most natural place in the world. The baby responded to his warmth—slow rolls at first, then sharper kicks when Daniel hummed along to the radio. I let Emily's hand cover his, feeling the double-layered intimacy: her genuine affection for him mingling with my detached curiosity and the low, simmering arousal that pregnancy hormones refused to let die.
Margaret opened the door before Daniel could even knock—same eager smile, same quick once-over that catalogued every detail: hair, skin tone, how low the belly sat, whether the ankles were swollen. "Emily Rose! Oh honey, come here—" Arms wide, careful not to squeeze too hard. The hug smelled of her mother's signature perfume (Chanel No. 5, same since 1998) and the faint rosemary from whatever was roasting inside. Margaret's hands immediately slid to the sides of the belly. "He's so low already. Any pressure? Any Braxton Hicks today?"
"Not yet, Mom. Just… heavy. But good heavy." I gave her Emily's patient half-smile, the one that said I'm tired but I love you for worrying.
Paul appeared in the hallway behind her, dish towel over one shoulder, apron tied crookedly. "There's my girl." His hug was broader, more enveloping; his big palm patted the top of the dome like he was greeting an old friend. "Daniel—good to see you, son. Come on in before the cold gets the baby."
Inside smelled like Sunday: herb-roasted chicken crisping in the oven, garlic and thyme, fresh bread cooling on a wire rack, coffee brewing strong enough to wake the dead. The dining room table was already set with the good china—white with tiny blue forget-me-nots around the rim, a wedding gift from Margaret's mother. A small crystal vase held winter berries and evergreen sprigs; cloth napkins folded into neat fans. Margaret had clearly been up since dawn.
"Sit, sit," she insisted, guiding me to the padded chair at the head of the table. "You shouldn't be standing too long at this stage. Ankles?"
"A little puffy," I admitted, lowering myself carefully—hand under the belly, knees apart, back straight until the last second. The chair creaked softly. Daniel helped ease me down, then sat beside me.
Paul brought a decaf latte in Emily's favorite mug (ceramic with tiny painted daisies, chipped on the handle from when she was twelve). "Extra foam, just how you like it." He winked. I wrapped her hands around the warmth, feeling the ceramic heat seep into palms that were always slightly cooler now from pregnancy circulation changes.
Lunch arrived in waves, family-style:
Golden roasted chicken, skin crackling, herbs embedded deepCreamy mashed potatoes whipped with butter and a touch of garlicGreen beans almondine—crisp, bright, toasted almonds scattered on topWarm dinner rolls, steam escaping when torn openA simple arugula salad with lemon vinaigrette "for the vitamins," Margaret said pointedlyHomemade cranberry sauce, tart enough to make Emily's heightened taste buds sing
I ate slowly, savoring through altered senses: salt exploded brighter, butter felt richer, the chicken's savory depth almost overwhelming. The baby kicked hard when the gravy hit—three sharp thumps right under my ribs. I pressed a palm there instinctively, smiling. "He's a fan."
Margaret's eyes instantly filled. "Oh, listen to him go. He knows Grandma's cooking." She reached over and touched the belly; the baby rolled toward her hand like he recognized the voice. Hormones swung hard: sudden lump in the throat, eyes stinging. I blinked rapidly, letting Emily's emotion show—tears of gratitude, of overwhelm, of the quiet terror that labor was coming soon and everything would change forever.
Paul cleared his throat, always uncomfortable with tears. "So… nursery coming along?"
Daniel jumped in, describing the soft blue walls, the star decals they'd ordered, the crib now fully assembled in the spare room. I added details from Emily's memories: the rocking chair she'd found second-hand, the mobile of tiny wooden moons and stars, the way the late-afternoon light hit the window just right. Conversation flowed—easy, warm, laced with the small anxieties neither generation ever fully voiced.
"What if I'm not ready?" Daniel admitted quietly when Margaret stepped into the kitchen for more rolls. "What if I mess this up?"
Paul leaned forward, voice low. "Every man thinks that. I did. Your mother cried every night for a month after Emily was born because she was convinced she'd drop her. You learn. You love. That's enough."
I squeezed Daniel's hand under the table—Emily's steady reassurance rising automatically. "We'll figure it out. Together."
Dessert was apple crisp—golden crumble topping, cinnamon-scented apples still bubbling at the edges, vanilla ice cream melting into the cracks. I ate two helpings, the sweetness cutting through the savory richness, cravings demanding more. The baby hiccupped—tiny, rhythmic jolts that vibrated through the core like internal Morse code. Fullness pressed low again, adding to the pelvic heaviness, the subtle throb between legs that pregnancy refused to let fade. I shifted in the chair, leggings seam brushing the swollen clit, sending a dirty spark up the spine. Dirty thought: Gina at a family lunch like this, forced to sit bloated and leaking, humiliated while everyone cooed over her "glow." Revenge simmered—quiet, patient, delicious.
Margaret insisted on leftovers: foil containers packed with chicken, potatoes, extra crisp. "For the freezer. You won't want to cook right after he comes." Hugs at the door—longer from her mother, firmer from her father. Paul slipped an envelope into my hand. "For the baby. Don't open it till he's here."
In the car, Daniel reached over again, palm on the belly. "Good day?"
"Perfect," I murmured, voice thick with borrowed emotion. The baby kicked once more—slow, contented roll—as if agreeing.
Back home by 2:15 p.m. Daniel rubbed my feet on the couch while I pretended to nap—his strong hands kneading swollen arches, sending pleasure-pain ripples up legs that pooled low and filthy between thighs. I let the touch linger, feeling Emily's body respond: heat building despite exhaustion, hormones turning tenderness into need. But rest won. I guided her to bed—pregnancy pillow wedged, nightshirt rucked up over the dome, one hand resting protectively on Luca's slow movements.
I stayed inside her a while longer—stroking the belly in slow circles, feeling every flutter, every hiccup, every quiet roll. The revenge fantasies flickered again: Gina's slender frame mine to bloat, to force-feed, to humiliate in front of her rich boyfriend until she cried. But here, in this warm, full, life-carrying body, the anger felt distant. Almost petty.
Eventually—gentle fade. Back in my own skin, apartment quiet, Sunday afternoon stretching ahead. I thought that I was alone but I was wrong. The apartment smelled like stale beer and leftover Chinese from the excitements of Jake and Sarah. Jake sprawled across the couch in sweatpants and a hoodie that had seen better decades, feet propped on the coffee table littered with empty cans and a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips. The TV was on mute—some college football bowl game neither of us cared about—but his phone was propped against a beer bottle, scrolling through group chats with manic energy.
"Dude," he said without looking up, "next Friday. Psych stats final drops. I'm throwing the mother of all blowouts. No excuses. You're coming, Sarah's coming, half the floor's coming. I already booked the off-campus house on Elm—big backyard, fire pit, the works. We're ending this semester like kings."
I leaned against the kitchen doorway, nursing a lukewarm IPA, trying to look casual while the bond with Lena hummed in the background like white noise tuned to her frequency. She was home tonight—early shift ended, shower running, steam fogging the mirror while she sang off-key to some indie playlist. I could feel the hot water sluicing over her freckled shoulders, the faint ache in her calves from standing all day. Comforting. Familiar. Mine.
"Sounds solid," I said. "You inviting the whole psych department or just the ones who survived the stats gauntlet?"
Jake grinned, finally glancing up. "Everyone who passed. And a few who didn't. Booze doesn't discriminate." He paused, eyes narrowing with that conspiratorial glint he got when he was about to drop something stupid. "Also… I'm thinking it's time. You know. Branch out."
I raised an eyebrow. "Branch out how?"
"Come on, man. You've been single since Gina pulled the nuclear exit. It's been, what, six months? Seven? You're wasting prime college years jerking it to porn in your room while Sarah and I are loud as fuck next door. This party? Perfect hunting ground. Fresh faces. Girls who just survived hell week and want to celebrate with bad decisions. You could walk out of there with a new situationship. Or hell—go big. Find someone who's ovulating and make it permanent."
He laughed like it was a joke, but his eyes flicked sideways—gauging if I'd laugh too.
I didn't.
The words landed heavier than he intended. Permanent. Impregnate. The image flashed unbidden: some nameless girl from the party, flushed and tipsy, legs wrapped around me—or around someone while I rode inside her skin—coming hard while I whispered filthy promises in her ear. Then weeks later, the missed period. The test. The panic. The life-altering consequence I'd planted without ever touching her myself.
My cock twitched at the thought. Dirty. Irreversible. The ultimate revenge fantasy turned inward—not on Gina this time, but on the world. On women who'd never know the father wasn't really there.
Jake misinterpreted my silence as hesitation. "Look, I'm not saying roofie anyone. Just… vibe. Flirt. Get laid. Maybe find a girl who's down for no-strings breeding kink or whatever. You're not getting any younger, bro."
I forced a chuckle. "Yeah. Maybe."
Inside, the idea rooted fast.
The party was a week away. Plenty of time to scout. To test. To decide how far the new power could stretch when the goal wasn't just pleasure or revenge, but legacy. Something that would outlast me. A child conceived in possession—DNA mine, but never my body in the act. The thought was so wrong it looped back to hot.
That night, after Jake crashed, I lay in bed and reached for Lena.
She was already half-asleep, curled on her side in fresh sheets, one leg hooked over a pillow. The bond pulled me in effortlessly—no distance tax, no strain. I slipped inside her skin like breathing.
Full control again.
I opened her eyes to the dim glow of her string lights. Rolled her onto her back. Spread her thighs. The cotton boyshorts were already damp—she'd been dreaming, probably of the same hazy touches that had been haunting her naps for weeks. I peeled the fabric aside, fingers tracing the soft curls, dipping into slick heat. Slow circles on her clit. Her breathing deepened immediately.
But tonight wasn't just about getting her off.
I made her hand move higher—cupping one breast, then the other—then lower again. Teasing. Edging. Building her up until her hips were rolling, breath coming in soft whimpers. Then I stopped. Let the ache sit. Let her body throb with unspent need.
In her voice—low, husky from sleep—I whispered into the dark:
"You want more, don't you? Want to feel full. Want someone to come inside you. Deep. No pulling out. Just… stay."
Her hips jerked at the words. A fresh gush of wetness coated my fingers.
I started again—faster this time. Three fingers curling inside, thumb frantic on her clit. Her back arched. Moans spilled out unrestrained. When she came it was violent—thighs clamping, body shaking, a cry that echoed off the dorm walls. I rode the waves, clenching around my own fingers, drawing it out until she was trembling and oversensitive.
Then I made her hand stay there—palm pressed flat against her mound, feeling the aftershocks pulse.
I stayed inside her for another hour. Let her drift back toward sleep while I explored idly—tracing freckles on her stomach, pinching nipples until they ached sweetly, dipping fingers back inside to feel how swollen and slick she still was. No rush. No limit.
Eventually I let go—gentle fade-back to my own bed.
But the bond carried the echo forward. I could feel her wake briefly around 2 a.m., confused, thighs sticky, heart racing. She didn't reach down to touch herself. She just curled tighter around the pillow, smiling faintly in the dark, whispering to no one:
"Whoever you are… don't stop."
I smiled into my own pillow. Next Friday's party loomed. I had a week to decide. Who to target. How deep to go. And whether I'd let the girl remember any of it—or make sure she never forgot.