“Real eggs. Fertilized. Viable.” Second wave releases—only five eggs but each one has presence. “Female is being bred for keeping, not just daily need.”
“Fuck.” She watches her belly swell, but it's different. Lower, rounder. Permanent-looking. “Should have warned me.”
“Would warning have changed anything?”
“No.” The portal is half its original size now, shrinking as wave three deposits. “Would have chosen this anyway. Want your eggs. Your offspring. Your claim on me.”
The possessive surge that creates makes me deposit wave four immediately—seven eggs that make her moan. “Mine. Female is mine now.”
“Yours,” she agrees, pushing back against me. “Asshole.”
I lean over her, letting her watch the portal shrink while I fill her with our future. Twenty-three eggs total—I count each one as it transfers from my internal chambers to her womb. The most I've ever produced. My body giving everything because it knows she's staying.
“Can see them,” she breathes, looking at her swollen belly.
She's right. The eggs are visible through her stretched skin—oval shadows clustered in her womb. Real pregnancy, not temporary swelling.
“I'm really pregnant.” Wonder in her voice.
“Really pregnant with my clutch.” The portal is just a speck now. “No changing mind now.”
“Good.” She turns her head to bite my arm as the last egg settles. “Don't want to change my mind.”
The portal winks out just as my cocks release the binding fluid—the substance that will ensure the eggs attach properly. She comes screaming as it happens, her body celebrating the claiming while her old world disappears.
“It's gone,” I say unnecessarily.
“Don't care.” She's still convulsing around me, pussy milking every drop of binding fluid. “Have what I want right here.”
She's different after.
Not submissive—she'll never be that. But settled. The frantic energy that's driven her for thirty days has calmed into something else. Purpose maybe.
We float in the pool waiting for my cocks to release. The secondary takes longer with real eggs, ensuring everything is properly placed. She runs her hands over her swollen belly, tracing the outlines of eggs visible through her skin.
“Twenty-three,” she counts. “That's excessive.”
“That's perfect. Strong clutch from strong female.”
“Your female,” she corrects, then looks surprised she said it.
“My female,” I agree, tightening my coils around her. “My angry, violent, impossible female.”
“Don't get sentimental on me now.”
“Not sentimental. Possessive.”
“Better.”
When we finally separate, she stands differently. The weight of the eggs has already shifted her center of gravity. She has to lean back slightly, belly thrust forward. The sight makes something primitive in me deeply satisfied.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself,” she says, catching my expression.
“Can't. Female chose me. Carrying my clutch. Mine forever now.”
“Technically just three months. Then I lay these and?—”
“Then you carry another clutch. And another. Female's body won't let her stop now.”
