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Assistant: Title: Aphrodite
        Author: Amnoartist Amnoartist 
        Chapter: 1/1 
        Summary: It’s just supposed to be a cruise—sunshine, smooth seas, and a little luxury. But the futa CEO of Emmerich Group is onboard. That changes everything. She's now intent on turning the whole ship into her personal breeding ground.
        Contents: Summary:
            
              It’s just supposed to be a cruise—sunshine, smooth seas, and a little luxury. But the futa CEO of Emmerich Group is onboard. That changes everything. She's now intent on turning the whole ship into her personal breeding ground.
            
        


  





    
        
          Tide CarriersThe Aphrodite’s Mercy cut through the open sea like a knife sliding through silk, its hull gleaming beneath the amber of a late afternoon sun. It was the kind of vessel spoken of in whispered luxury blogs and forbidden corners of the internet—a ship so lavish, so tastefully excessive, that it didn’t even have a public itinerary. You didn’t book passage on it. You were invited.Above, the sky blazed with strokes of pink and violet as the sun kissed the ocean’s rim. The clouds were tinged like the inside of a ripe peach, and the air shimmered with heat that refused to break, even as the day slipped into dusk. Seagulls circled in the distance, their wings catching gold in the fading light. The ship's wake spread behind it in gentle froth, churning the water into a hypnotic pattern that stretched far into the horizon.On the upper decks, passengers basked in the endless spoiling of their senses. Every inch of the ship had been designed not just for comfort, but for indulgence. Tanned bodies reclined on padded loungers, drinks sweating in elegant glasses perched on teakwood side tables. Bare skin gleamed under a sheen of oil—shoulders, chests, thighs—every surface shining like sun-warmed marble. Laughter spilled into the air from the pool bar, where champagne flowed endlessly.The scent of grilled seafood wafted from the alfresco dining terrace, mingling with the citrusy perfume of blooming frangipani that lined the railing in oversized terracotta planters. Chefs in tall hats presented lobster tails and perfectly seared scallops, their guests too sun-drenched and lazy to do more than murmur appreciation.And towering above them all, like the prow of a great ship herself, stood the penthouse deck—walled off from view by frosted glass. That level wasn’t listed on the ship’s official map. There were no elevators that led to it. Only a private staircase, locked behind biometric security. Passengers below occasionally glanced upward, curious, wondering who could possibly afford a suite that occupied the entire top floor.They didn’t know it, but the ship was already hers.As twilight draped itself like velvet across the sky, the ship’s lighting flickered gently to life—soft golden sconces along the promenades, underlit railings that bathed the deck in warm honey. The pool glowed cerulean under the gathering dark, casting slow, shifting ripples of light onto the bare, lounging bodies still sunk in their chairs. Champagne flutes clinked with delicate chimes. Murmurs turned to laughter. Moans of satisfaction rose from private cabanas where massage oils slicked over flesh and silk curtains billowed just enough to hint at indulgences too bold for the daylight.Couples kissed lazily under the stars, lips stained with wine. Some already flirted more brazenly, hands drifting beneath sarongs and towels, the moans barely concealed by the crash of waves against the hull. The crew said nothing. They were paid to serve, not judge.Then, the sound began low: a breathy exhale, then the rustle of crisp hotel linens, a faint moan muffled by luxury sheets. The bed creaked—not from frantic motion, but from sheer weight. Then another exhale—this one sharp, amused, almost smug.The blanket lifted, and Jessica rolled, her pregnant belly preceded her like an announcement.She shifted slowly, letting the thick hotel sheets fall away from her skin inch by inch, revealing sweat-slicked thighs, a deeply stretched stomach, and br@@sts so full they glistened with a faint sheen of cream under the low golden lights. The belly was impossible—rounded and heavy, the kind that made even her balance seem borrowed. Her center of gravity had long since shifted.“Ugh… there you are,” she muttered to herself, one hand dragging lazily over the curve of her belly, fingers spreading wide as if cradling something sacred. Her voice was thick with satisfaction as her thighs parted, and a flush rode high on her cheekbones—not embarrassment, but indulgence.The room smelled faintly of s@x and flowers. Vanilla, jasmine, and the musk of earlier activity still hung in the air like perfume that had been sprayed on every surface. The sheets were damp in places, and the memory of pressure lingered on her inner thighs like a brand. Her nipples, dark and plump, stood stiff against the salty air-conditioning that filtered in through the vents.Jessica groaned softly as she sat up, her belly shifting forward, taut skin catching the light. A deep indentation ringed the underside—where it had rested, too heavy to be supported without her body curling around it. She didn’t hide it. She loved it. Her hands glided beneath the curve, lifting it slightly, feeling the strain in her arms.“God, you’re heavy today,” she whispered with a smile that was all pride, all ownership. Her baby kicked, a hard thump just below her navel, and she laughed—actually laughed. “Mmm, someone’s excited for their first ocean sunset…”She stood, finally, moving with the careful grace of a woman used to managing obscene weight. Her belly dropped slightly as gravity reclaimed it, pulling her hips into a wider stance, her back arching just enough to make the silhouette more pronounced. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above the minibar and paused. A slow smile spread across her face as she admired her own reflection. She turned slightly, giving herself profile—watching the way her belly stuck out, proud and bulbous. Her hand caressed along the swell, then lower, grazing the line of her thighs.She bit her lip, hard. Her eyes glazed over, breath hitched, her thighs clenching with a soft tremor as her fingers lingered low on her belly, drifting toward the heat gathering between her legs. But then— Jessica’s head snapped up, the flush in her cheeks deepening to something molten.Nicole leaned in the threshold between the master suite and the private bedroom alcove, one shoulder braced casually against the frame, her arms crossed—each bicep straining the limits of her sleeveless black tank. The muscles were hewn, deep cuts and ropes of vascular density that shifted with the subtlest twitch of her posture. Her chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately, and beneath her swim shorts, that impossible bulge sat smugly against one leg—heavier now, thicker, the size of it visible even from across the room. The soft, wet slosh of weight within shifted as she stepped forward.Jessica didn’t speak.She didn’t need to.Her robe slipped from her shoulders like it had been waiting for an excuse to abandon her. Her bare feet padded across the thick carpet, her belly leading the way. The moment she reached Nicole, she collapsed into her—hands flying up like she couldn’t not touch her.“Oh—f@ck—Nicole…” Jessica gasped, her fingers already burying themselves in the deep valleys of Nicole’s delts, sliding feverishly down the steep wall of her chest, her nails grazing the heat-hardened ridges of abdominal muscle one by one. “God, you’re—still pumped. You didn’t… you didn’t let it out yet, did you?”Nicole tilted her chin down, a slow grin unfurling. “Why would I waste it?” she murmured. “I’m not finished with you.”Jessica moaned—actually moaned—as her hands clutched the thick slabs of Nicole’s torso like she was trying to climb her. Her belly pressed between them, heavy and squirming, but she leaned in as if to sink into the heat. Her hands slid down Nicole’s stomach, worshipping every indention, every trembling wall of muscle, and then lower—lower—until her palm flattened over the monster bulge between Nicole’s thighs.It twitched under her touch. Sloshed.Jessica’s knees buckled.Her lips parted in helpless awe, eyes wide with l@st and reverence. “I can feel it—God, you’re full. Still. Still…”Nicole growled softly, and one massive hand came up to cup the underside of Jessica’s belly—lifting it slightly, like it weighed nothing. Her palm spanned nearly the entire bump. Jessica whimpered and immediately melted into her, her hands squeezing Nicole’s bulge as if to coax its obscene contents to the surface. The heat radiating off the thick, veiny shaft beneath the taut fabric was feverish—alive. She pressed into it with a kind of devotion that wasn’t s@xual in the traditional sense—it was religious. Her belly pushed against Nicole’s abs, caught between their bodies like an offering, and she whimpered, breathless and desperate.Nicole’s smirk deepened. Her massive hand slid from the underside of Jessica’s belly to her cheek, thumb smearing a bead of sweat from her temple. She leaned in.Clink.The door opened.“Hey,” came Ethan’s voice, light, nervous, and entirely wrong for the moment. “I brought the tray you asked for.”Jessica froze.Nicole didn’t even flinch.Ethan stepped into the room holding a large silver platter with both hands, the contents trembling slightly as he walked: hard-boiled eggs, protein bars, four scoops of cottage cheese, a full roast chicken, and a bowl of quinoa the size of a beach ball. It was a grotesque display of nutritional excess. He shuffled forward, breathless, struggling to balance it as he crossed the threshold into the master suite—only to stop dead at what he saw.His  wife—his wife—was naked, flushed, her belly glistening under the lights like polished marble, and she was clutching Nicole’s c@ck through her shorts like she was holding onto a life raft. Her legs were trembling. Her br@@sts were leaking. Her mouth was slightly open, lips slick with spit. And Nicole?Nicole hadn’t even looked at him yet.Ethan blinked rapidly, his face turning bright red, then pale. “I—uh—sorry. I didn’t know you two were…”Nicole turned her head slowly, like a beast acknowledging the presence of something too insignificant to pose a threat. Her eyes swept over him—sweaty, awkward, lips pursed, trying not to look but failing completely.“You’re late,” she said, flatly.“I—I stopped to ask the kitchen about your macros, and they didn’t have all the right—”“You were late.” She said it again, not louder, but heavier. Like the words themselves pressed against his ribs. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter. You brought what I need.”She stepped back, letting Jessica lean against the wall to steady herself, her swollen belly jutting outward like a trophy caught mid-motion. Nicole took the tray from Ethan with one hand—one hand—while he struggled to keep his balance. She walked to the small dining nook and began inspecting the food with deliberate precision.Ethan stood in place, still staring at his wife—red-faced, sweating, hardening against his own will. Jessica didn’t meet his eyes.She didn’t even seem to see him.She was still catching her breath.Her thighs were soaked.Nicole peeled a protein bar from its wrapper, biting off half in one chew. Her jaw flexed, temples twitching with effort as she demolished it like it was nothing. The sheer density of the protein bar, meant for bodybuilders and Olympic-tier athletes, vanished between her teeth like a puff pastry. She chewed, swallowed, and licked a bit of chocolate from her lower lip with a slow, deliberate drag of her tongue.Then she turned to Ethan, who stood there like a boy who’d walked in on a private ritual he was never meant to see.“How’s your mother?” Nicole asked casually, as if she were inquiring about the weather.Ethan blinked. His mouth opened. Closed. He shifted his weight and adjusted his shorts, which had begun to tighten traitorously at the crotch. His eyes flicked to Jessica, still leaning against the wall, her belly casting an obscene curve in the light, her thighs sticky and her nipples still leaking slowly from arousal. She didn’t say a word.Nicole’s tone sharpened, just slightly. “Well?”Ethan swallowed. “She’s, uh… she’s teasing.”Nicole’s mouth curled upward at the corner. “Teasing?”He looked down at the floor. His voice dropped. “Yeah.”Nicole moved toward him, slow, like a predator closing distance to toy with its prey. “Be specific.”He flinched. “She—she came out of the shower in just a towel,” he blurted, shame flooding his voice. “It—it barely covered her. She knew I was there.”Nicole was silent.“She bent over on purpose, I think. Said she dropped her conditioner. Took forever to pick it up.”Still no reaction.He continued, now spiraling. “She asked if the towel made her hips look wide. Asked if she was still… fertile-looking.”Nicole arched a brow. “And what did you say?”Ethan’s face burned. “I didn’t—I mean I tried to say something normal. But she… she kept looking at me. Like she was waiting for something.”Nicole stepped closer, her scent thick and warm—musk, arousal, protein, power. “That’s because she was. How did she look in that towel?”He didn’t answer. So she asked again—quieter, slower.“How did your mother look, Ethan?”His jaw clenched. His c@ck twitched.“Beautiful,” he whispered, barely audible. “She looked… f@ck@ng beautiful.”Jessica moaned softly from the wall, the first verbal reaction from her since he walked into the suite—an almost involuntary sound, warm and throaty, as if her very lungs were swollen with the weight of what she carried. The gently swaying walls of their stateroom aboard Aphrodite’s Mercy did nothing to mute it. Instead, the low moan seemed to reverberate along the polished cherrywood paneling.Nicole didn’t even glance at Jessica. Her gaze was pinned on Ethan—cold, expectant, predatory. She had since stretched across the divan like it had been built for her, one massive thigh thrown casually over the other, her bulge resting visibly along her inner leg, clearly outlined by the tailored navy slacks she'd never bothered to change out of since boarding.“Tell me,” she said, her voice a deep and rolling tide, far steadier than the ocean beyond. “How’s your mother’s day gone so far?”Ethan froze, his back still to the closed door. “What?”Nicole leaned forward a fraction, her thick forearms resting on her thighs, the sharp creak of the furniture followed. “Your mother. Margaret.” She smiled faintly, and something in that smile twisted his gut. “I let her out this morning with a belly so tight I could’ve bounced a tray off it. And I know how she gets when she’s full. Did she flaunt it?” She licked her bottom lip. “Has she been parading that belly across the decks like she should be?”Ethan’s voice faltered. “She… she went to the Lido Deck.”Nicole chuckled. “Of course she did. Perfect place to waddle around, bumping into tables, knocking over juice glasses with a belly too heavy to steer.”“Her belly was just… out. Everyone could see. Some women were whispering. One of them asked if she was overdue.”Nicole laughed—low, deliciously cruel. “Was it the woman with the baby in the stroller? Or the skinny blonde in the sunhat who keeps glancing at me during deck yoga?”“The stroller,” Ethan said, voice weak. “She looked like she wanted to cry.”“Jealousy,” Nicole whispered. “It always hits the hardest when the womb’s already been used up. They see Margaret and they know they missed their chance. That softness? That dragging weight? I gave her that.” She spread her thighs slightly, making the bulge in her slacks shift and twitch. “And she loves it.”Ethan’s mouth went dry. “She told a woman in the elevator that she can feel them fighting for room. And she said—” He swallowed. “She said she’s never felt more complete.”Nicole tilted her head back and sighed, her smile dark. “Good boy. Keep watching them all. Report back to me. You're my little spy, remember? You see a jealous b@tch on Deck Seven? You tell me. You hear someone moaning about how their husband’s too weak to get them pregnant? You tell me. Because on this ship…” She nodded toward Jessica’s groaning form, the immense swell of her belly hard to ignore. “…they’re going to learn what real breeding looks like.”Ethan gulped.“But for now, I’ll hit the gym.” The doors to the Aphrodite’s Mercy gym parted with a quiet hiss, spilling cool, sterilized air into the corridor’s humid haze.And then Nicole walked in. The scent of steel and sweat was immediate—rubber mats, protein shakes, testosterone-fueled grunting, the rhythmic clank of plates meeting plates. The space was sleek, pristine, stocked with high-end machines and free weights lined like obedient soldiers in racks of polished chrome. A few televisions hummed above, muted news cycles and looping infomercials playing in irrelevance.Because Nicole had entered the room. Barefoot, topless, only a taut pair of black shorts slung low on her hips, her c@ck outlined blatantly against the fabric, dripping from the tip. Her shoulders, muscle rippling like the tide under golden, oil-slicked skin. Her traps were flared like she carried the world. Her pecs bounced with casual, effortless power. She hadn’t even lifted yet, and already, every man in the room had stopped. It started subtly—just a pair of eyes flicking from the mirror to her reflection. Then another man, mid-rep, faltered. The dumbbell dropped to the floor with a soft thud, his mouth slack. Then silence and the slow realization of every single man in that space:She was bigger than them. She was harder than them. She was what they wished they could be—what their girlfriends fantasized about when they turned off the lights. Nicole walked past the benches like they weren’t there, like the three men currently panting through a sweaty pyramid set were just part of the décor. Her c@ck twitched against her shorts, drawing visible eyes downward, then back up. One guy—massive, juiced to the neck, veins bulging—opened his mouth, probably to talk sh@t, or flirt. Or cope.Nicole looked at him. Once. And he sat down.Smart boy.She moved to the free weights, selected the heaviest dumbbells the rack could offer—without testing, without hesitation—and curled them cold. No warm-up. No fuss. Her biceps swelled instantly, the heads splitting with each motion, veins crawling thick and high under her skin like living cables. The men couldn’t look away. Some were shaking, some were hard.Nicole didn’t need to turn around. The mirror in front of her told everything. She could see the way they stared. The twitch in their jaws, the gulp in their throats, the dumbbells paused mid-rep, forgotten. The way some pretended to stretch, to adjust, to towel off—just so they could watch her move. And more than a few had the telltale bulge forming in their shorts, stiff and trembling from the moment she stepped inside.She lived for this.Her eyes flicked lazily across the reflection—counting them. Tall ones, tanned ones, lean and shredded and bulked and puffed up with pride. All of them thinking they were alpha until she walked in, until they saw a woman curl double their max like it was a warm-up, her biceps tearing out thick and full and pumping harder with every casual rep.Her c@ck twitched again inside the too-tight shorts, a damp patch blooming near the tip—noticed by more than one pair of eyes. She caught a younger guy watching it like prey watches a shadow, his lips parted, breathing quick, confused by the ache in his chest.And she wondered. Which of these good little gym boys had a girlfriend back in the cabin? Which of them had a fiancée waiting at the spa? Which of them had come onboard with a sweet, eager sweetheart—maybe toned and hungry for something more? Which of them would see her tonight, sweating, shaking, split open on Nicole’s c@ck, their womb claimed and flooded, her belly swelling before his very eyes?The thought made Nicole moan, low and quiet—barely more than a purr, but dense with satisfaction. She let it sit on her tongue like heat, savoring the ache in the room, the impotent reverence thickening in the air behind her. Every time she breathed in, it was there: fear, awe, arousal. Male pheromones stirred like smoke.And then—one of them broke. A voice—tentative, cracking—piped up from just behind the squat rack.“E-Excuse me…”The guy stepped forward. Younger. Late twenties maybe. Solid frame, trying to carry himself like someone who belonged in that gym, but his hands were twitching slightly—nervous. Curious.Nicole finally looked at him through the mirror. Her eyes hit his reflection like a hammer.His throat bobbed. “You’re… are you her?”She let the dumbbells drop—not carefully. They hit the mat with a slam, the vibration crawling up through the floor and into his legs.Nicole turned. Slowly. She let the full weight of her body face him now—pecs flexed, abs rippling, her c@ck outlined like a threat against the thin black fabric, still visibly leaking. Every other man in the gym had gone still, frozen mid-set, mid-breath, waiting. Nicole c@cked her head slightly. “Her?” she repeated, voice deep and amused, the corner of her mouth lifting just enough to show teeth.The guy nodded quickly. “The CEO. Of Emmerich Group. The, um…” His eyes dropped—he couldn’t help it—to her thighs. To the twitching meat hanging thick between them. “The, uh… founder. Of the… fertility labs?”Nicole didn’t answer right away. She took a slow step forward. He didn’t move—he couldn’t. She was taller than him, wider. More real than anything he’d ever seen online or dreamed about alone. Every instinct in his body screamed back away, but he stood there, helpless, skin prickling. Hard.Nicole stopped right in front of him, close enough for him to smell her skin—musky, potent, almost sweet with something deeper. “I am,” she said simply. “Why? Looking to change careers?”The guy blinked, jaw half-open, pupils blown wide. He shook his head, breath catching in his throat. “I—I mean, not exactly,” he said, voice too soft for his size, like he hadn’t meant to speak it aloud. “It’s just… I’ve heard a lot. About you. From the news. The interviews. That podcast. And—Jesus—the Forbes cover…”Nicole’s brow arched, amused, already knowing the answer before he even stammered through it. She tilted her head, her body looming in the mirror behind him like something that shouldn't fit in one frame. “Then you already know I’m the founder,” she said, voice low and smooth, like a syringe drawing blood. “And not just that.”Her pecs rose slightly as she inhaled, her c@ck visibly twitching beneath the slick black shorts—more a presence than a garment, more a weapon than a detail. The guy’s eyes darted downward, then snapped back up like he’d been caught trespassing. But Nicole smiled. It was the kind of smile that made grown men remember their mother’s warnings.“I also engineered the serum that makes this—” Her hand slid down her torso, past her abs, and cupped the thick, swollen outline twitching lazily against her shorts. “—not just possible. But permanent.”He made a sound then—a breathy, almost wheezing gasp—like his brain was trying to catch up to his c@ck. Nicole’s smile sharpened. She watched him gulp, chest heaving, sweat slicking his temple. His hands twitched at his sides, useless. Lost. And Nicole stepped even closer, until their bodies almost touched, her c@ck brushing just faintly against the waistband of his gym shorts, heavy and warm and undeniable.“Still not looking to change careers? I am on the lookout for more manservants while I… you know…”Her voice trailed off, deliberately unfinished—but her meaning rang clear. Her hips rolled forward with casual precision, and the thick, half-turgid weight of her c@ck twitched again—slapping sharply against the guy’s own with a meaty, wet thud that sent a visible jolt through his entire body.He gasped like he’d just been touched by lightning.Nicole didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. She smirked, watching his eyes go wide, watching the tremor race down his spine as his c@ck—not even hard, not compared to hers—twitched helplessly beneath his waistband like a dog bowing its head before the alpha. The guy’s jaw worked uselessly, his hands twitching like he didn’t know whether to cover himself or drop to his knees. His c@ck pulsed again, confused by the surge of humiliation and need pooling hot in his gut.And the man—quivering, flushed, c@ck painfully hard now under nylon that couldn’t hide anything—swallowed so hard it was audible. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But Nicole didn’t need words. She saw it in his posture. The submission. The ache. The yes.And then—she moved.One long, tree-thick leg slid forward, muscles rippling beneath oiled skin as her bare foot planted itself squarely between his sneakers. Nicole extended her leg—not gently, not flirtatiously, but deliberately. Her quad flexed, an eruption of muscle so dense and defined it looked like it could grind stone to powder. Her calf tightened. Her ankle turned slightly, presenting the entire limb like a divine offering.No words. None were needed.The man blinked, his breath hitching violently, and then—slowly—he dropped to his knees. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t elegant. It was desperate. Like he couldn’t not. Like her body had overruled his spine and puppeted him downward. His hands reached out like they belonged to someone else, trembling as they hovered over her leg, terrified to touch and terrified not to. Nicole tilted her head. She didn’t even glance down. Her arms remained crossed over her chest, pecs swelling with every breath, abs twitching as she watched him from beneath the hood of her lashes.And the gym—The gym had stopped.Not just quiet. Frozen. The other men—some mid-set, others half-sipping from their protein shakers—watched, eyes wide, pulses pounding in their necks. They didn’t understand it. Not fully. But they felt it. One guy near the pull-up bar shifted his stance, trying to hide the swelling in his shorts. Another, red-faced and fl@stered, adjusted his waistband and stared at the mirror like it would explain away what he was seeing. But none of them looked away. None of them could.And then—delicately, almost like asking permission—his lips met her quad.It was electric. Not just because of her heat, or the faint tang of sweat clinging to the skin, but because of what lay beneath. He kissed once, gently. Then again. And on the third kiss, Nicole flexed. The muscle against his mouth erupted like a breaking wave—her quad swelling impossibly hard in an instant, the striations rising against her gleaming skin. It pressed back into him like it was alive. Sentient. His lips parted in shock, his breath catching as the sheer force of it nudged his jaw aside. He whimpered—actually whimpered—as he scrambled to plant more kisses, greedy now, his tongue darting out to taste the heat in the crevice between two corded muscle bellies.The men watching? They were barely pretending anymore. One man near the water fountain had stopped pretending to sip, his hand halfway to his mouth but frozen, his eyes locked on the scene. Another—huge, shaved head, the kind of guy who had probably been the biggest in his college gym—had gone completely slack-jawed, the dumbbell in his hand hanging limply as his free palm rested on the front of his shorts like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.Still, no one spoke. Because Nicole hadn’t spoken. And they all felt, deep in the pits of their guts, that if she spoke—if she turned her attention toward them—they’d fall just as fast. Just as hard.Meanwhile, the man at her feet was kissing higher, messier now, his mouth moving up toward the thick overhang of her groin, where her c@ck lay pulsing against the top of her thigh. He buried his nose against the hard meat of her quad and moaned—like the scent of her alone was enough to make him c@m.Nicole looked down at him at last—not with affection, but with the kind of slow, simmering curiosity a lion might show a twitching gazelle. Her expression barely changed, only the faintest arch of an eyebrow,. Her c@ck twitched again. His breath hitched, lips parted, tongue still dragging along the groove where her thigh met her pelvis like he was trying to memorize her with his mouth.Then came her voice.“You got a girlfriend?”The question landed like a trap already closing. He froze, just barely, his mouth still pressed against her muscle, his hands twitching where they gripped her calf. Slowly—so slowly—he nodded. It was the kind of nod that looked like shame trying to squeeze itself into a confession.Nicole’s smile spread. “Bet she’s sweet,” she purred, dragging the toe of her other foot up the man’s ribs, trailing it along his chest until he shuddered. “Bet she waits up for you after your little lifts. Sends you selfies. Squeezes your c@ck under the table when the waitress walks by.”“I bet…” she whispered, voice thick with promise and peril, “you wouldn’t even blink if I bent her over one of these benches and bred her right in front of you.”His body jerked—like the words struck a nerve that ran straight to his c@ck.Nicole saw it.“You’d watch, wouldn’t you?” she said, louder now, just enough for the rest of the gym to hear. “You’d sit on your pretty little knees and stare while she took all of me. While I pumped her full. While her belly started to swell and she thanked me for it.”The man let out a strangled gasp, one hand flying to his crotch like he could will away the bulge tenting his shorts. But it was useless. The shame only fed the fire.And around them? The rest of the men were paralyzed. Eyes wide. Breathing shallow. Half of them visibly hard, the others shifting like they were afraid to admit just how much they wanted to be in his place.“You think she’d still call you daddy,” she added, voice drenched in wicked laughter, “with my kids kicking in her gut?”And the man at her feet? He whimpered, kissed her again. And didn’t deny a thing.Then he came. No warning. No permission. Just an involuntary seize of his whole body as his hips jerked once—twice—and the wetness flooded the inside of his shorts. A dark, spreading stain bloomed across the front of his gymwear, and he collapsed forward, forehead pressing into the side of Nicole’s flexed thigh like it was an altar. He gasped against her skin, trembled like a leaf, his hands clutching at her leg as the aftershocks wracked him, helpless and ruined.Nicole looked down, utterly unimpressed. “Oh,” she said flatly, c@ck twitching once against his flushed cheek. “Already?”And then it happened. Like a chain reaction, a virus of need. All around the gym, the other men began to break. One by one, like dominoes. A guy by the preacher curl bench—tall, jacked, veins bulging—let out a strangled moan and hunched forward, hands flying to his waistband too late to stop the surge. His c@ck spasmed under tight shorts, a visible pulse hammering the fabric as he groaned through gritted teeth.Another—leaner, younger, cheeks flushed bright pink—bit his own fist as his knees buckled, a visible wetness darkening the grey nylon between his legs. He staggered against the dumbbell rack, gasping, unable to look away from Nicole even as he spilled into his underwear like a teenager catching his first glimpse of heaven.And still more—three, four, five men in total—each fighting it, twitching, sweating, gritting their teeth like they were lifting the heaviest weight of their lives. But they weren’t fighting Nicole, they were fighting their own d@cks, their own need — their own helpless, traitorous bodies begging to be ruined by the mere sight of her.Some tried to cover themselves. Others just let it happen. C@m soaked shorts. Wet patches spread down thighs. Some groaned. Some whimpered. One sobbed, his chest heaving like he didn’t know what the f@ck just happened to his life.And through it all, Nicole didn’t so much as flinch. Her c@ck twitched again and got harder. She exhaled, slow and easy. “Pathetic,” she murmured, voice low and sharp like a blade dragged across silk. “You all came just from watching?”She uncrossed her arms, flexing once—once—and her biceps swelled like they wanted to snap the air in half.The man still kneeling against her leg was whimpering again—soaked through, spent, clinging to her like he’d just been baptized and condemned in the same moment. Nicole looked down at him, the corners of her mouth curling into something darker than amus@m@nt. Then she extended one massive arm and brought her hand to the back of his head.She cupped it —possessively—fingers curling into his scalp like she owned it. He gasped at the touch—reflexively, instinctively—his breath stuttering as her fingers curled into his hair and held him there, just a little tighter, a little deeper against her thigh."Shh," Nicole murmured, her voice a velvet vice. "You did what you could."The praise—if it could be called that—hit him like a bullet to the chest. His body slumped harder into her leg, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut as a broken little sob slipped from him. His c@ck gave one last, feeble twitch.She cupped the back of the guy’s head tighter, slowly grinding the weight of her thigh against his face. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind him—and everyone watching—where he belonged. "You came for me," she said, louder now. "Like a good little servant."Nicole smirked."I wonder how many girlfriends on this ship would do the same. Just have to know where they are."And then—He wasn’t the biggest. Wasn’t the most shredded, either. But he’d lasted the longest.“They’re… they’re on Deck Six,” he blurted, voice breathless, hoarse. “Serenity Viewport. That’s where all the women are by now…”Nicole turned her head. Slowly. The smirk that bloomed across her face then wasn’t just indulgent—it was cruel. It was the grin of a queen who’d just been told the gates to another kingdom had been left open. “Of course they are,” she said, almost to herself, as she peeled the kneeling man off her leg with one hand and let him slump to the floor, trembling and sticky and still whispering thank-yous into the rubber matting.She adjusted her shorts—not to hide the bulge, but to frame it better. Her c@ck strained forward now, no longer content to be hinted at. And then she laughed. Once. Low and sharp.“Funny,” Nicole said, stretching one arm overhead, her lats flaring like wings, her pecs bouncing beneath her tank with the motion. “That’s right about where Margaret ought to be.”She turned to the door with no rush to get there. Just a slow, rolling gait of pure power—shoulders wide, c@ck bouncing with each step, a trail of ruined men left panting in her wake.Because now? Now it was parade time. Deck Six. Serenity Viewport. Where wives lounged with mimosas. Where daughters strolled in dresses bought just for the cruise. Where girlfriends tanned their thighs and chatted about yoga and innocent things.They didn’t know. But they would. Nicole—the embodiment of every fantasy they never dared confess. The end of every honeymoon’s illusion. The monster under their lovers’ beds. And they were about to learn that. The sun had just begun to stretch itself across Deck Six—the Serenity Viewport, a glass-paneled promenade at the stern of Aphrodite’s Mercy, reserved for adults, a favorite of those who preferred their luxury with silence and sea spray rather than splash zones and margaritas.Olivia sat cross-legged on one of the padded loungers, her tablet forgotten in her lap, her untouched mimosa already warm. She hadn’t turned a page in the last fifteen minutes. Her eyes had locked onto something else entirely.Correction—someone.Margaret.The older woman moved slowly across the deck, cradling her belly with both hands, and Olivia’s pulse skipped in time with her footsteps. She had heard the rumors. Everyone on the ship had. A matronly woman—mid-sixties, no less—pregnant, massive, glowing. Not just carrying, but exhibiting. There were murmurs in the massage parlor, talk in the dining lounge. Olivia hadn’t believed it—thought it was a misunderstanding, or some cruise gossip twisted into fantasy.But now she was seeing it with her own eyes. Margaret was real. And bigger than anyone had claimed.Her belly was outrageous. Spherical. Low. It strained the fabric of her sheer kaftan like a prize melon wrapped in silk gauze, every seam begging for mercy. Her sandals slapped lazily against the deck as she waddled forward with a reverence that wasn’t just maternal—it was theatrical.Olivia’s thighs pressed together slightly. She hadn’t meant to. But her body betrayed her.Margaret paused by the railing, turning just enough to let the sunlight spill across her side profile, and good god. That belly wasn’t just big—it was heavy. Olivia could see the weight of it pulling Margaret’s spine into a gentle arc, hips thrust slightly forward to counterbalance it, her lower back subtly massaged by one hand as she took in the view. She shifted her stance and the taut curve shifted with her, settling into her thighs like an anchor.And the br@@sts.Olivia’s throat went dry.Margaret’s bust had always been… womanly. But now? Now they hung like ripened fruit, full and aching, nipples stiff beneath the gauzy fabric, a stain of damp just beginning to soak the underside of the left cup. She was leaking. In public. Margaret didn’t seem embarrassed. If anything, she smiled. Like she was proud.That voice in Olivia’s head was insistent, sharp, familiar. It came from deep inside—the part of her that had always wondered if something was wrong with her body. The part that had seen mothers at grocery stores and felt a flash of longing. The part that used to dream about pregnancy, about fullness, about aching, about being watched.Margaret turned slightly, one hand supporting the underside of her belly, and began a slow walk toward the bar where the morning staff were still setting up. Olivia watched the way her kaftan clung to the bottom curve of the bump as she walked, a perfect globe swaying with mass. Other women were watching too—two newlywed brunettes seated near the back, a curvy woman in yoga pants who hadn’t touched her smoothie since Margaret arrived. All of them stared with the same half-hidden awe Olivia felt—equal parts reverence and envy.Margaret waddled to the counter and leaned against it with effort, shifting her hips and placing her belly on the bar—just rested it there like it had its own weight class. The bartender blinked, speechless.Olivia’s nails dug into her palm.She wanted that. She didn’t know how, didn’t know who, but she wanted that weight. That glow. Margaret didn’t ask for attention. She was built to demand it. And someone… someone had done this to her. Someone had filled her up so completely she couldn’t walk without groaning, couldn’t sit without spreading her legs wide.The fabric whispered as Margaret parted the front of her gauzy kaftan, almost thoughtlessly—as though revealing herself like this was not just natural but expected. Her skin shone, dewy with perspiration from the walk down to the deck, stretched to obscene proportions by the gravid swell. It wasn’t the belly of a woman in her second trimester, nor even her third. No, this was something beyond trimesters, beyond maternity. This was a belly packed full past the boundaries of modesty—domed high, heavy, and impossibly round. Her navel had inverted into a deep pit, the skin around it drawn smooth as parchment, veins mapping beneath like roots.The bartender’s hands froze mid-pour.A splash of liquor missed the rim of the glass entirely. His eyes locked onto the sight before him with a kind of car-crash horror—no, not horror. Reverence. L@st. Disbelief. His pupils dilated, the flush rising from his neck to his ears so quickly it looked like he was boiling under the collar of his uniform.“Ma’am—” he stammered, his voice cracking halfway through the word, the glass bottle trembling slightly in his grip. “I… I didn’t mean to—”Margaret c@cked her head slowly, her eyes half-lidded with the ease of a woman who had been fed full of something divine and addictive. “It’s alright,” she purred, her fingers making lazy circles just beneath the widest curve of her belly, the flesh shifting ever so slightly with the motion. “I don’t blame you. It’s hard not to look.”The bartender’s mouth opened, then closed again—speechless. His lips quivered as though on the cusp of forming a question, an apology, a confession of the hard-on now visibly straining the front of his slacks, but all that escaped him was a soft, strangled gasp.And then it happened.Margaret’s belly kicked.It was neither a flutter nor a ripple but a violent lurch, as if something immense had turned or stretched or claimed more space than its cramped womb would allow. The movement was forceful enough to jostle her br@@sts, her entire body rocking forward an inch, her knees wobbling as she braced both hands on the bartop.The bartender let out a choked noise that sounded halfway between a moan and a prayer. Margaret caught it. She saw everything. The way his eyes widened, pupils swallowing light. The subtle twitch in his jaw. The way his hand dropped out of view behind the bar, elbow flexing rhythmically against the cabinetry. She knew exactly what he was doing.“Oh,” she whispered, feigning innocence so poorly it was its own form of cruelty. She rested her hand atop her belly, stroking the place where the kick had left a faint, swollen imprint in her skin. “Did you see that?”The bartender nodded, throat working, breath shallow and fast.Margaret leaned in—slowly, br@@sts swelling against the neckline of her kaftan, the weight of her belly brushing the counter like it was dragging her forward in search of attention. Her voice dropped to a soft, syrupy drawl, her smile sweet yet venomous.“He’s getting so strong,” she whispered, eyes glinting with wicked pride. “Would you like to feel him? He likes being admired.”The bartender’s face flushed so red it bordered on purple. His hand twitched visibly now, pressed to the bar top for stability, knuckles white.Margaret’s palm glided in slow, sensual circles over the stretched curve of her belly. “Mmm… he knows when he’s being watched,” she cooed, as another soft roll shifted beneath her skin, the musculature of her womb distending visibly for a moment. “Sometimes I think he does it just to tease.”Then she smirked.“…And he’s just one of them.”The bartender’s head snapped back slightly, his face going pale then immediately flushing deep crimson.Margaret’s grin turned downright wicked, lips parting in something between a purr and a chuckle. “Oh, sweet thing,” she cooed, her voice laced with cruel amusement. “You didn’t think I was this massive from one little baby, did you?”She shifted her hips again, letting the full weight of her womb drag forward, belly swaying like a pendulum of raw fertility. The kaftan slipped further apart, exposing more of her overstretched skin—veins dancing just beneath the surface, her flesh rippling subtly with internal movement. The bartender stared, transfixed, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.“Nine,” she said, voice a breathy moan of confession. “There are nine of them. Packed in so tight I can feel them fighting for space. Every stretch, every twitch, every time I sit down and I can’t close my legs—that’s them.” She traced a hand down the front of her belly, pressing until her fingertips dipped into the groove between two bulging shapes. “That’s two heads, right there,” she whispered, rolling her hips and dragging a low groan from deep in her throat. “Maybe three, if they’re squirming again…”The bartender had gone glassy-eyed. His hand was beneath the bar again, working furiously now. He wasn’t even pretending not to. Margaret’s smile widened as she leaned in, her voice dropping into the low, commanding tone that only came from women who knew the power of what they carried.“And every one of them’s a gift,” she breathed. “Stuffed into me by someone strong enough to fill me this full… this ruined. My body’s not mine anymore—it’s a breeding vat. And I love it. I can’t sleep on my back, can’t walk without waddling, can’t even come unless I’m holding this heavy belly like it’s a c@ck I need to jerk off—just to feel some relief.”A massive kick rocked her again—one of the babies twisting sideways, testing the strength of her womb from within. She moaned shamelessly, pressing her thighs together as the tremor rolled through her belly, skin jumping visibly. Her breath hitched, her hand gripping the counter as she rode the sensation like a lover’s thrust -slow, rolling, sensual. The ripple of pressure beneath her skin lingered, one of the babies having shifted positions, stretching her uterus in a way that sent a tremor all the way through her spine. Margaret let the moan spill from her lips without shame, savoring it.She turned her head, just slightly, enough to meet his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he was breathing through his mouth, hadn’t noticed how far he’d hunched over behind the bar, his hand working furiously beneath the counter. But she had. Oh, she had.“Well, well…” she purred, her voice a purr drenched in honey and venom. “Are you really doing it right here? Stroking yourself to this?” She shifted her stance, rolling her hips forward so the bar dug into the lower curve of her belly. The pressure forced a low groan from her throat, and a small slosh sounded beneath her skin, a grotesque and visceral echo of the movement inside her. “To me?”The bartender’s breath stuttered, his rhythm faltering for just a moment, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
Margaret leaned in, belly brushing the edge of the bar again with a wet-sounding thump. “I can hear it, you know. The way you’re panting. The way your elbow’s twitching. You’re not even being subtle.”The bartender whimpered. He was close. She could see it.Margaret’s tone hardened, her voice turning imperious. “Then don’t you dare slow down.”He let out a strangled sound as his hand sped up, the soft slick-slick of it unmistakable now, obscene and helpless.She licked her lips and swayed again, deliberately exaggerating every motion, letting her massive womb rock forward. Her hand dipped between her thighs, pressing the fabric there in a slow circle. “That’s right. Keep going. Stroke it for me. Show me how much you need this.”Her fingers pressed harder at the base of her belly, and something inside shifted—a baby rolling, kicking upward toward the pressure. She gasped, her back arching, eyes fluttering shut as her body rocked forward with it. “Ohhh fff@ck—there’s so many of them. I can’t even tell whose feet that was…”The bartender’s head tilted back slightly. He was nearly there.“Faster,” she commanded, her voice suddenly steel wrapped in velvet. “Do it faster, you pathetic little thing. I want you to c@m to the idea of how full I am. I want to know you came to the sound of me sloshing when I walk.” She pushed her hips forward again, belly jiggling obscenely from the force. “Now. C@m now.”His breath hitched—and then he did. It was visible in his face: the tight grimace, the eyes squeezed shut, the quiver in his jaw as his entire body went rigid behind the bar. The silence that followed was broken only by his gasps and the faint sound of something hitting the underside of the counter.
Margaret exhaled, smug and slow, dragging her palm one last time across her belly with a soft groan of pleasure. “Good boy,” she murmured, her voice low and thick with satisfaction. “Next time… you ask before you start stroking. I don’t mind being worshipped.”The words had barely left her lips when the air shifted.It started with a strange stillness that wasn’t quite silence but awareness. Something was coming. The ocean breeze stilled, the golden light seemed to pause, and every pair of eyes along the promenade turned as if drawn by instinct.And then she appeared.Nicole.She stepped out from one of the shaded passageways with the sun behind her, her figure emerging like a monolith from the sea. The light caught every angle of her body—every thick, vascular rope of muscle, every impossible curve of feminine brawn twisted into masculine scale. Her shirt, a sleeveless black number that clung like a second skin, strained across the breadth of her chest. Each step made her arms flex and swell, the dense muscle of her biceps writhing beneath skin stretched so tight it gleamed. Veins snaked down her forearms, her shoulders practically shelved.But it was the bulge that stopped people in their tracks.It swayed as she walked, proud and heavy and utterly unashamed. Her tailored slacks had been fitted—that much was obvious—but even custom fabric couldn’t fully contain the obscene shape that tented forward from her hips. It hung like a pendulum, each step sending it rolling softly against her thigh, the weight so apparent it seemed to echo with each strike of her heel on the polished floor. The outline was clear, veined and monstrous and terrifyingly alive.She didn’t even glance at the gathering crowd of sun-dazed couples and flushed staff members who’d stumbled onto the promenade for a sunset stroll. She didn’t need to look. They were already hers.A newlywed couple near the glass leaned into each other reflexively—the husband stiffening, eyes narrowing, his lips pressing together in a thin line. His wife, in a floral dress that suddenly felt two sizes too tight, sucked in a sharp breath as Nicole passed, her eyes locked on that bulge like prey spotting a shadow in deep water. The husband noticed her stare and looked away in humiliation.Two deckhands whispering by the side stairwell fell silent, their jaws slack, their eyes flicking from Nicole’s biceps to her trousers and back again. One of them—barely out of his teens—blushed so hard he looked fevered. The other shifted his stance, subtly trying to adjust himself without drawing attention. It didn’t help.Nicole made a beeline for Margaret, who had shifted her weight to one hip, belly forward, the sheer curve of it framed perfectly against the backdrop of ocean and fire-lit sky. She didn’t close her kaftan. She let the open panels flutter in the breeze, letting the air kiss the hard-earned stretch of her skin.“You’ve been busy,” Nicole said, her voice a low rumble that rolled across the deck and settled into everyone’s bones.Margaret smiled without turning. “The bartender paid tribute.”Nicole chuckled. A single, indulgent sound. She stepped behind Margaret, her towering frame engulfing her like the tide swallowing the shore. Her hands slid forward, cupping the underside of that monumental belly with reverence and ownership.Margaret exhaled, her spine curving into Nicole’s touch. “They can feel you,” she whispered. “Every time you’re near… they start to move.”
Nicole’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Of course they do.”And the promenade watched. Frozen. Breathless.A group of sun-kissed women in bikinis near the railing stared, their eyes wide, nipples stiff beneath stretched lycra, thighs pressing together with quiet desperation. One leaned to her friend and whispered something—then gasped softly as Nicole turned her head and smirked at her. The woman practically melted against the glass.Margaret arched her back as one of the babies kicked again—hard, a bulge rising beneath her skin. Nicole’s fingers splayed possessively over the movement, pressing in with slow, deliberate firmness.The bartender groaned behind the cart, audibly—broken, undone, his brain fried by the sheer weight of the scene in front of him. Margaret, belly high and obscene, swaying gently in the golden twilight; Nicole, vast and terrifying in her effortless masculinity, shadowing her like a monument raised to ruin the old world.Nicole peeled herself away from Margaret with a final, lingering stroke across the underside of her belly, her massive hands making it look smaller only by comparison. She towered over the poor boy behind the bar, who flinched like prey cornered by something apex and amused.“Ginger ale. Cold,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried like a gunshot. The bartender fumbled, nearly dropped the bottle, and retrieved one with trembling fingers, his eyes unable to rise past the swell at the front of her pants. The bottle cap popped in his hand with a wet crack.Nicole took it, nodded once, and turned back to Margaret.“You look heavy,” she said casually, taking a sip.Margaret smirked, resting both hands beneath the curve of her womb. “You would know. It’s your fault.”Nicole’s grin was slow and wicked. “Though I’m sure you could be heavier.”But even as they talked—casually, like old lovers lounging on a park bench, the women on the promenade were trying, desperately, not to stare. They failed. Every last one of them. Some stood near their partners, some with friends, some alone—but their gazes were identical. Fixed. Fevered. Raking up and down the length of Nicole’s colossal form with barely contained need.One in particular—Tina, a lithe brunette in a backless sundress with a honeymoon glow still soft in her cheeks—stood near the curved glass, her boyfriend mid-sentence about something irrelevant and small. She wasn’t listening. She couldn’t. Her mouth was slightly open, lips parted around a quiet, shallow breath. Her eyes tracked the curve of Nicole’s bulge like they were watching the second coming. In her mind, Tina was no longer standing on a ship’s promenade. She was bent over something—anything—being split open by the very thing barely contained in Nicole’s pants. She could feel it already: the stretch, the pop of pressure, the impossible heat. Her legs pressed together, thighs clenching with unconscious need. She’d forgotten her boyfriend’s name.And she wasn’t alone.A blonde in a blue romper fanned herself slowly, eyes locked on Nicole’s arms. Her wedding ring sparkled on her finger, catching the sun—but her thoughts were miles away, picturing those veined, monstrous arms hooked under her knees as she was pinned down and pumped full until she forgot her own birthday. She whimpered softly, once. Her husband gave her a concerned look. She didn’t hear him.Two young moms on the far bench whispered to each other in frantic, hushed tones—but they never stopped staring. Their pupils were blown wide, their cheeks flushed. One absently ran her hand over her own barely-there belly, the other rubbing her wrist against the damp skin behind her knee. When Nicole shifted her weight and her bulge twitched—just once, the fabric tightening visibly—they both moaned.And Margaret watched them all over her shoulder with open amusement. “They want you,” she said, eyes glinting.Nicole took another sip of her drink, watching the women out of the corner of her eye, her grin lazy and inevitable. “Of course they do.”Margaret chuckled darkly. “Their men are right there.”Nicole shrugged. “That won’t matter.”And it didn’t.The women didn’t care. Not about who they came with. Not about decorum. Not about propriety or shame. Not anymore. Not with her here. Every single one of them was mentally spread wide, eyes glassy, bodies already clenching around a fantasy that had stepped into the sun and was now sipping ginger ale like she hadn’t just changed their lives. The outline of her c@ck strained against the front of her trousers like it had its own gravity. The bulge throbbed against the fabric with a lazy sort of menace, soft but dense, coiled like a stormcloud—not even hard, and already more than any of them could take.Somewhere to her left, near the curve of the glass railing, a small argument crackled into being. It started soft—hissed words between clenched teeth, a woman’s tone sharp with frustration and something else. Something breathless. Something wet.“—I’m just saying,” she muttered. “I can see it through her pants. Why the hell aren’t you built like that?”Nicole didn’t need to turn. She knew exactly who said it.The boyfriend—short-haired, sunburned, shoulders a little too tight in his pastel polo—hissed back, flustered. “Jesus, could you not say that out loud?”But his girlfriend wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were locked on Nicole, lips parted, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. Her knuckles were white against the railing.“She’s not even hard,” she whispered, as if confessing to God. “And she’s still bigger than you’ve ever been.”Nicole took a slow sip of her ginger ale, the condensation dripping down the side of the bottle. She didn’t smile. Not yet.The boyfriend tugged at her sleeve. “Are you f@ck@ng serious right now?”She pulled her arm away like he’d burned her. “I’m sorry, but look at her,” she said, her voice rising. “Look. That’s not a d@ck, that’s a f@ck@ng blessing.”Nicole turned. Slowly. Deliberately. She let the motion emphasize every part of her body: the broad span of her shoulders, the flex of her chest under fabric, the way her bulge swung as she shifted her stance. She looked directly at the girl. Not her boyfriend. Her.The girl’s breath caught audibly. Her knees actually bent, just a little.All around the promenade, other women shifted, thighs clenched, mouths dry, hands subtly moving across their bellies, their hips, between their legs. Nicole hadn’t just entered the scene—she’d rewritten it. Every man now a footnote. Every woman listening.The boyfriend stood there, stunned and red-faced, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as his girlfriend had just moaned—moaned—at another woman right in front of him, and now she was storming off down the promenade, legs clenched tight like she was trying to hold something in.He called after her once, weakly. “Babe—wait, can we just—”But she didn’t stop. She didn’t even look at him. She was gone, lost in her needy fog, probably off to find the nearest restroom or private corner to recover from the sight of that walking s@x god they’d all just seen.And then he saw her.Nicole. The source of the damage. The epicenter of every pair of ruined panties on this deck. She was still casually sipping from the fresh ginger ale, chatting with that massive, smugly pregnant woman beside her like they were discussing the weather. Her arms were crossed now, bulging, the deep groove between her biceps and triceps like something sculpted by ancient gods and sharpened by sin.His eyes dropped. Then froze.Oh.Her bulge was front and center, unconcerned and utterly f@ck@ng enormous. Even soft—if it was soft—it defied reason. The fabric of her slacks was pushed outward in a steady, lazy swell that angled forward from her hips like a battering ram. There was weight to it, the kind that swayed with her slightest movements. The kind that could bruise a throat just by brushing it. The seam of her pants curved around it like an outline from an erotic comic—thick, veiny, alive.He felt something in his gut twist. Something deep. Something ugly. Because there was no coming back from this. There was no rationalizing, no gaslighting, no male pride capable of spinning it another way. There was just her—Nicole—standing there with a c@ck that looked like it needed a two-handed commitment, radiating power without speaking, while his girlfriend’s scent still lingered faintly from when she practically soaked herself at the sight of it.He swallowed, hard. His fists unclenched. His jaw loosened. There was just no f@ck@ng way he could compete with that. Whatever heroic confrontation had been building inside him fizzled to ash the second he imagined standing in front of her—Nicole looming, smirking, that massive bulge pressing forward until it brushed his own shamefully average, now-shrinking erection.No. No, he would not be that guy. The one who got laughed off the deck in front of a dozen women who already knew the truth. He turned slowly, deliberately, and walked the other way, pretending he hadn’t even seen her. Pretending he wasn’t hard. Pretending he didn’t already know she could take his girl, break her in half, and have her thank her for it.Margaret watched the defeated boyfriend slink away with a grin that could’ve soured champagne. She didn’t need to hear his thoughts—every inch of him radiated humiliation, shrinkage, and a desperate need to disappear into the floor. His dick, no doubt, was retreating faster than his pride. Good. Let him wallow in it.But Margaret… Margaret wasn’t done. Not nearly. Nicole’s presence had ignited something in her—something dark, electric, and performative. She could feel the eyes still on them. Still on her. The other women on the promenade hadn’t stopped watching. Even with Nicole towering behind her, some of that hunger—some of that envy—was reserved for Margaret, too.And she intended to feed it.With a coy little hum, Margaret peeled herself off the railing and took a single, deliberate step forward into the center of the deck’s promenade, bathed in the molten gold of the setting sun. Her belly swayed like a pendulum, pendulous and commanding, the weight of nine restless bodies sloshing gently inside her. The motion forced her to widen her stance, hips rolling to accommodate the sheer mass of herself. The kaftan fluttered around her, the open front catching the breeze like sails, framing the obscene curve of her body like the wrapping on a gift.“Oh, it’s so warm,” she said sweetly, though her tone dripped with sadistic amusement. “I think I’ll go for a swim.”Nicole chuckled behind her—low and approving.Margaret stopped at the center of the promenade, surrounded by sunloungers, stunned onlookers, and that ever-widening circle of glassy-eyed women who couldn’t seem to look anywhere else. Slowly, like a queen undressing before an altar, she reached for the ties at her hips and let the kaftan fall. It slid from her shoulders, pooling around her ankles in a heap of gauzy fabric. She stepped out of it with the poise of someone used to being watched. What she revealed was no modest swimsuit.Her bikini was custom—had to be. Nothing store-bought could’ve supported that belly. The top barely contained her massive, swollen br@@sts, veins thick beneath skin stretched taut, nipples fat and pressing against the dark triangles of fabric like they wanted to escape. But the bottom—oh, the bottom was a sin. A low-rise sling of black lycra that clung like a second skin, disappearing beneath the heaving curve of her womb. Her belly dominated her profile, jutting out obscenely in front of her, its size exaggerated by the way her bikini was designed to show every inch of skin. It glistened with oil, the taut flesh gleaming in the golden light, marked with the faintest stretchlines and deep veins that pulsed softly under the surface. Her navel was an overburdened pit, and across the underside of her womb, the subtle shapes of limbs shifted lazily—reminders that her body was overcapacity and past any hope of subtlety.A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.One woman let out a soft “Oh my god,” clutching her drink with both hands. Another whimpered. Tina nearly dropped her sunglasses.Margaret smiled sweetly, turning in profile just to let them see. Her belly now led her movements, the heavy sphere of it shifting her balance and forcing a sway in her hips that made the entire promenade feel like a dance floor. Every step toward the edge of the swim platform made her belly jiggle—slosh, visibly. Each motion sent a soft shockwave through her body, her br@@sts bouncing beneath their taut restraint, her thighs brushing wetly with each step.She paused just before descending the swim ladder. One hand braced her back. The other cradled beneath the weight of her bump. She turned to face the crowd—her lips curling in a smirk that said you wish this was you.“Hope someone’s watching,” she said with a wink. “Because if I slip, it’ll take three of you to pull me out.”And then—splash—she lowered herself into the water, belly first, moaning softly as the coolness enveloped her. Her body bobbed, buoyed by the weight of her belly, her womb swaying like a great ship’s hull beneath the surface.And on deck? Every woman was imagining the same thing. What it would feel like to be that full. To need the water just to carry the weight. To have to float because walking hurt. To be ruined the same way. And the men? They just watched in silence, knowing they’d never fill someone like that.Margaret could feel it— all those eyes crawling over her like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She floated on her back, buoyed by the bulk of her belly. Her stretched bikini top barely restrained her br@@sts. She let her arms drift wide, letting her head roll back, her belly a massive, living island that rippled gently with the movement of the lives inside her.And then—she moaned. Long, slow, indulgent—loud enough to be carried by the wind. Not from pain or discomfort, but from pure, dripping satisfaction.“Ohhhh f@ck,” she groaned, one hand sliding down to cup beneath the wide curve of her belly. “I can feel them moving all at once.”There was a shiver on the deck—real and audible. Several women shifted where they sat. One bit her lip and crossed her legs. Another just whispered “Jesus…” under her breath, staring slack-jawed.Margaret rolled lazily to one side, now half-submerged, her belly dipping below the waterline with a soft slosh. She brought her hand up and slicked the wet hair from her face, blinking slowly—like a siren who already knew you were too weak to resist her song. “I don’t blame you for staring.” She wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular—and yet, every woman on the promenade sat up straighter. “I would, too.”She dragged one hand over her belly, letting it glide across the stretched, glistening skin just beneath the water’s surface. “They never stop. Kicking. Stretching. Growing.”Nicole, still seated at the bar, looked up from her ginger ale with a lazy smirk. She watched Margaret float, her massive belly rolling with movement, the gentle sway of life within causing water to swirl in gentle waves around her. She saw the women—every one of them—transfixed. Their breath quick, their thighs tight, their knuckles pale on plastic wine glasses.Nicole lifted one hand and said flatly, “She’s not exaggerating. That belly used to be half that size two weeks ago.”Margaret chuckled darkly, letting herself drift closer to the pool steps where more of the women could see her profile. “You all want it, don’t you?” she purred, half-lidding her eyes. “To be stretched this wide. To wake up in the night because they’re kicking your ribs from the inside.” She cradled her belly then, rocking slightly as a foot or elbow pressed hard beneath her skin. “To beg your partner to f@ck you after you're full. Knowing there’s no space left, but still hoping they’ll try.”One woman near the glass railing whimpered audibly.Margaret noticed—and grinned. “I wonder…” she murmured, drifting back in front of Nicole. “How many of you are wet right now? Actually soaked just from watching me float like this. Thinking about how it would feel if it were you. Belly round. T@ts leaking. Back aching because someone like her didn’t know how to stop.”The words dripped from her lips like honey in heat, every syllable calculated, and they landed—hard.The women on the promenade were visibly squirming now, breaths short, eyes glassy. One, seated cross-legged on a lounger, had slipped a hand beneath her towel, fingers working in slow, desperate circles. Another, leaning against the railing, was red-faced and trembling, her knuckles white on the bar as her boyfriend whispered nervously into her ear—words she didn’t hear, couldn’t hear. Not with Margaret’s voice curling around her like smoke.Margaret, flushed and bobbing in the water, let her hand drift beneath the waterline. “You should join me,” she said, turning her head to look up at Nicole, eyes full of wicked dare. “Let them see what did this to me.”The deck seemed to hold its breath.Nicole didn’t hesitate. She set her drink down slowly. Then, her hands moved to her waistband. There was no dramatic flourish. No coy hesitation. She unfastened her trousers, the fabric hissing as it slid down her thighs—and then, with a casual kick, she stepped out of them, her feet bare against the deck’s sun-warmed slats.No one was prepared. The air changed, time froze and the moment became legend: Nicole stood there—completely, shamelessly naked. Her body was a violent love letter to strength. Muscles swelled beneath her skin in impossible harmony—delts carved like sculpture, arms corded with veined brawn that flexed slightly with even the smallest shift. Her thighs, tree-thick and roped with definition, stood braced like columns.And her c@ck. God. It hung from her hips, thick and long and heavy, soft but massive, veiny and dark and resting with lazy menace against her thigh. It bounced slightly when she stepped forward—just one step—and the watching women gasped as if the ship had lurched beneath them. One woman cried out. Another beside her sunlounger trembled, her fingers twitching against her chest like she didn’t know whether to cross herself or start masturbating right there.Nicole said nothing. She didn’t need to, just stood there—arms relaxed, c@ck bobbing slightly in the sea breeze, head tilted just enough to watch them.One couple was arguing again—somewhere near the back.“I said stop staring at her!”The woman didn’t even blink. Her eyes stayed locked on Nicole’s body. Her mouth hung open, her chest heaving. Her partner looked at her—looked at Nicole—and just deflated, visibly realizing there was no comparison.Nicole’s eyes met his, just for a second.She smirked.The man turned red and looked down at his feet like a scolded dog.Nicole took another step toward the water, her c@ck bouncing, the head already beginning to swell slightly from anticipation. She let her arms stretch out, then she turned slowly, letting everyone see her from every angle—c@ck, ass, back, calves—an anatomy lesson from a wet dream.She stepped down into the pool without a word.The water lapped up her thighs, her waist, and then her c@ck—massive and half-hard—disappeared beneath the surface in a slow, obscene submersion. But it didn’t vanish. No. Even under the water, the faint outline of it moved like a leviathan beneath the ripples.Margaret turned lazily in the water to face her, floating like some overripe goddess—her belly breaching the surface, radiant and tight, nipples peeking just above the waterline, her bikini clinging to her curves.Nicole waded toward her. And then touched her. Her hands—those hands—rose slowly from the water and cupped Margaret’s belly with reverence. Fingers spread wide, palms pressing in just enough to lift the weight ever so slightly, to let Margaret feel herself suspended between buoyancy and worship. Nicole’s thumbs traced the sides of Margaret’s belly, dipping just beneath where the womb met hips. Her fingers splayed over a sharp kick from within and she exhaled, deep and satisfied, like she’d touched the heartbeat of some sacred beast.The deck trembled. Figuratively. Women were moaning quietly now, one openly crying. A man stood and turned away, hands over his crotch. His girlfriend didn’t even notice. She was leaning forward, hands clenched between her thighs, eyes fixed on Nicole’s hands.Then Nicole moved. One strong arm dipped beneath Margaret’s thighs, the other across her back—and she lifted her. Margaret let out a sharp gasp as her massive belly wobbled from the shift, but Nicole held her effortlessly, like she weighed nothing, like her belly wasn’t a groaning monument to excess and fertility.Margaret looped her arms around Nicole’s thick shoulders, her fingers dragging across slick, warm, hard muscle. She moaned softly into Nicole’s ear, legs now straddling her underwater, belly cradled between them. “My god…” she whispered, trailing her hands across Nicole’s back, down her arms. “You’ve grown.”Nicole’s grin was wicked. “So have you.”“Maybe,” she said, her voice low and electric, “we should give them what they’ve been waiting for.”Margaret blinked, dazed, still clutching her belly where it swayed between them, buoyant and obscenely full. “You mean…?”Nicole adjusted her stance in the water, her c@ck shifting beneath Margaret’s straddle, thick and upright now, parting the surface with a subtle, threatening throb. “Look at them,” she said softly. “They’ve been starving for it. Chewing it over in their heads since we walked onto this deck. Every fantasy. Every flick of the tongue against their lip. Every time they pressed their thighs together hoping no one would notice.”Margaret’s breath caught. Her eyes darted to the women—Olivia among them, red-cheeked, openly weeping now, one hand over her mouth, the other stuffed between her legs. Further down, another guest was trembling against her partner’s chest, whispering something frantic and wet. He looked pale. She looked ready to beg.Nicole’s grip tightened on Margaret’s thighs, drawing her closer. The head of her c@ck bumped against Margaret’s slit beneath the water—just once, just enough for a spark to jump through both their bodies.“I say,” Nicole murmured, her mouth brushing Margaret’s jaw, “we stop making them imagine. Let’s educate them.”Margaret moaned—deep and broken—her hips already starting to rock in anticipation, her belly wobbling with each tremble. “Oh, f@ck yes…”And with that, she began to lower Margaret—slowly, reverently—onto her c@ck.The water swirled around them, gentle and warm, but everything else—the deck, the crowd, the ship itself—vanished. There was only this: Margaret's trembling, gasping body, suspended over Nicole’s monstrous c@ck, and Nicole, strong and unshakable, holding her in place like an altar might hold a sacrifice. The tip breached her with slow, claiming pressure, parting her open inch by inch.Margaret’s moan echoed across the deck, low and ragged and shattering. Her fingers dug into Nicole’s shoulders as she sank lower, the weight of her gravid belly shifting between them, compressed slightly against the muscular wall of Nicole’s abs. Her entire body shook as she was filled—stretched—around something thick enough to make her legs go numb.“Ohh—God, yes—” Margaret gasped, her head falling back, hair wet and tangled, br@@sts jostling with every slow descent. “You’re—bigger—than last time—”Nicole’s arms flexed beneath the water, guiding her slowly, never breaking rhythm. Her voice was calm and hungry. “You can take it.”The sound of Margaret’s body easing down Nicole’s c@ck—wet, full, slick—was audible even above the lapping of the water. It was obscene. It was perfect.The watching women weren’t still anymore. Some clutched their lovers with wide eyes and open mouths, not in affection—but in grief. They’d never feel that. They’d never be that. One woman was openly fingering herself now, hand buried beneath her sundress, eyes glazed and unblinking. Another was biting her own shoulder, muffling sobs of arousal. Olivia had collapsed at the glass railing.Nicole held Margaret under her thighs and hips, guiding her up—and then down. Slowly. Deeply. Letting her ride the entire length in long, dragging motions that made Margaret groan and writhe, belly bouncing softly between them. Margaret’s face twisted with every thrust—full of pleasure, overwhelmed, conquered. Her hand found her belly, rubbing where a kick had started, one of the babies reacting to the pressure inside.And the rhythm picked up. Water splashed. Br@@sts bounced. Margaret’s ass slapped gently against Nicole’s hips, the sounds mixing with her moans and gasps, and the quiet cries of the women above. Nicole didn’t rush. She drove into Margaret slowly, deeply, lifting her every time like she was weightless—even as her belly hung between them, bloated with nine restless lives. Margaret’s moans turned into broken little sobs, her p@ssy so soaked she could barely hold onto Nicole’s c@ck without twitching from overstimulation.Nicole looked up, c@ck still buried in Margaret’s clenching heat, and met the eyes of a woman at the railing—a curvy redhead with a wedding ring and a tremble in her knees. Nicole kept going, riding the rhythm, each thrust timed, every roll of her hips a command to remember this moment. Margaret’s belly bounced with every movement, and the life inside it kicked, twisting under her skin like they were desperate to be part of the moment too.Nicole’s hips bucked upward one final time—and froze. Her c@ck twitched violently inside Margaret, thick as an arm and buried to the root. The pressure built so fast, so tight, that even Nicole let out a strangled grunt, her whole body tensing like a bow drawn to its breaking point. And then—release.It hit her in waves.The first burst of c@m shot into Margaret like a hydraulic ram, so forceful she jerked in Nicole’s arms, mouth falling open in a strangled moan. Her belly quivered from the impact, a rippling tremor of tension rolling beneath the taut, veiny skin as the warm, flooding heat filled her already stuffed womb.Nicole wasn’t gentle. She wasn’t slow. She came hard. Again. And again. And again. Each pulse of her c@ck pumped another thick, scalding surge of c@m into Margaret’s overbred c@nt, and the effects were visible. Her belly—already grotesquely distended with nine restless, shifting babies—began to swell. Not all at once. Not cartoonishly. But steadily.“Ohhh—*nghhf@ck—*Nicole—!” Margaret sobbed, her voice high and breathless, her hands flying to her belly as it began to press outward against her palms. It pushed forward inch by inch, rounding out, the taut skin blushing red from the stretch. The weight of it deepened. Veins rose beneath the surface like rivers struggling to hold course. Her navel flattened, then inverted, as the pressure from inside overwhelmed her body’s ability to contain it.Nicole kept groaning, hips twitching in rhythmic spasms, her face locked in a snarl of effort and pleasure as more and more seed erupted from her c@ck. It felt like her b@lls had been building for days, and now they were finally allowed to empty.“*You’re—so f@ck@ng tight,” she gasped, watching Margaret’s belly grow between them like a time-lapse of ruin.Margaret let out a noise between a cry and a laugh, delirious, wrecked. Her whole body trembled as she felt herself stretch further, her core packed beyond reason. Her belly shifted again. A heavy twitch, followed by a sluggish slosh of internal motion as one of the babies rolled violently to one side, displaced by the flood of c@m now flooding every pocket of her womb. Her sides swelled wider, the weight of her belly drooping lower, heavier, making her sink deeper in the water even as Nicole held her aloft.Nicole grunted—her final thrust deep and brutal—and held. Margaret’s breath caught. Another gush filled her. Her belly pushed out again. A full, obscene inch. Her bikini bottom snapped somewhere beneath the water.And only then did Nicole stop. Nicole slowly pulled out—and when she did, the sound was wet, slick, and utterly obscene. C@m gushed from Margaret in thick, milky torrents, spilling out of her ruined c@nt in ropey waves, mixing into the water like cream poured into clear tea. It didn’t just swirl—it spread, flooding around their hips, clouding the pool from the center out like a s@x-drenched nebula. And the pool turned white.Margaret lay back, held only by Nicole’s arms, belly monstrous and twitching, nipples leaking milk down into the foggy mess, her thighs parted loosely as more c@m dribbled from her ruined, twitching slit.Nicole looked up at the women frozen on the deck—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking at the edge of towels and waistbands. The air was thick with stifled breaths, the low hiss of arousal, the collective ache of a crowd that had just witnessed the impossible and knew it wasn’t over.Then, with zero ceremony, Nicole turned and began walking toward the pool’s edge. Water streamed from her body in thick rivulets, tracing the sculpted lines of her back, cascading over boulder-like shoulders, pooling down the deep furrow of her spine. Her thighs parted with each step through the water, calves flexing, glutes tightening, muscles tensing and releasing like a machine primed for more.And her c@ck?Her c@ck bounced back into view the moment it crested the surface—slippery with water and streaks of thick c@m, still glistening from the aftermath. It swung low and heavy between her thighs, half-hard already, the kind of lazy erection that spoke of boundless stamina, the kind that dared every woman watching to imagine if she had more left in her.She did.Nicole reached the steps, each rise out of the water lifting her slow and deliberate, her muscles clenching and gleaming, droplets tracing her abs like beads of sweat down carved stone. No one moved. No one dared to.Then she turned. Standing tall at the top of the steps, framed by the setting sun, water running down her like she’d just been born from the sea itself, Nicole looked over the panting, soaked, trembling mass of women on the promenade, and she posed. Arms curled upward, fists tight, biceps exploding into monstrous spheres of veins and flesh. Her chest flared, her abs cut into perfect slabs, her shoulders brimming with power—and right below it, her c@ck bobbed with each pulse of her blood, thickening even as she held the pose.The collective gasp from the deck was soft, but visible.Nicole held the pose a moment longer—smirking, c@ck twitching, c@m still sliding from the tip in lazy, obscene threads down the underside of her shaft. Every vein along its length pulsed visibly, and the gentle slap-slap of it swinging against her thighs was like a metronome counting down to someone’s undoing.Then, with the casual grace of a predator sated but never full, she turned away.She reached down and picked up her clothes, still neatly folded by the poolside, untouched. She didn’t put them on—didn’t need to. She simply draped her shirt over one shoulder and her pants over the other, every movement slow, unbothered, perfectly timed for maximum effect. Her c@ck bobbed with each step as she walked, still half-hard, still fat from the load she’d dumped into Margaret. She paused at the edge of the promenade. Her broad back rippled as she turned just slightly, eyes grazing the now utterly ruined crowd—flushed cheeks, parted lips, clutched thighs, leaking p@ss@@s, and wide, pleading eyes.And she said it.“If any of you s@x-starved sl@ts…” she began, her tone amused, indulgent, laced with cruel sweetness, “are looking to have a baby or six…” She let it hang. Let them want it. Then, finished: “I’ll be in the dining hall later. I’ve worked up quite the appetite.”As she turned to go, her c@ck gave a sudden, audible throb—wet and heavy, the shaft bulging visibly down the center as another pulse rolled through it, like her body was already preparing for the next womb to fill. The women watched her retreat, glassy-eyed and trembling, their bodies still buzzing from the spectacle they'd witnessed—no, survived. Some were holding each other now, seeking some sense of grounding, but most just stood there, legs unsteady, underwear ruined, jaws slack.And then, with stunning comedic timing that only reality could provide, the ship’s intercom crackled to life. A chime rang out from speakers. Then a voice—level, official, and so desperately trying to sound calm—rang through every speaker on deck.“Good evening, guests of the Aphrodite’s Mercy. This is your First Officer speaking…”A pause. Too long.“…We’d like to inform all passengers that the aft pool on Deck Six will be out of commission for the remainder of the cruise.” Another pause. Silence fell across the deck. Several guests blinked. One woman burst into a shaky giggle. Someone snorted behind a sunlounger. “This is… due to a chemical imbalance in the filtration system,” the voice continued—flat, but undeniably strained. “For your health and safety, please refrain from entering the water. Alternate pools remain open at this time.”There was a click and then system went dead.Nicole, halfway down the steps to the lower promenade, grinned. Broadly. She didn’t turn around—she didn’t have to. Her c@ck swung with finality, twitching once more as if it, too, was proud of the pool’s retirement.Margaret, still floating—exhausted, belly bloated with seed and life and soaked in her own juices—laughed hoarsely, rubbing one hand over the massive dome of her stretched stomach. And above, across every glass railing and balcony, dozens of women wondered just how soon dinner would be served. The main dining hall of Aphrodite’s Mercy was decadence afloat—a cathedral of appetite carved into the heart of a ship that catered to every vice dressed up as leisure. Vast, it spanned the ship’s midsection in a curved, sweeping design. Floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped around the starboard side, revealing the darkening horizon in strokes of crimson and violet as the sun dipped low, turning the sky into a slow striptease of color. Soft, golden lighting shimmered from recessed fixtures in the high ceiling, mimicking candlelight.The air was rich—thick—with scent. Warm bread. Roasted meats. Sweet fruits braised in sugar and brandy. The clink of cutlery on plates was constant, coupled with the low hum of strings from the live quartet on a raised platform in the corner.Tables were set with silver, real crystal glasses with red and white wine. Linen napkins folded like seashells rested untouched by the hands of diners who had, for once, lost their taste for food. The women—dressed in silks and airy wraps, sequined tops that sparkled under the chandeliers—had a different sort of hunger behind their eyes. They sat with backs stiff, legs crossed too tightly, breathing slow and shallow as if trying to contain something raw and aching. Many sipped at their drinks without tasting. Some didn’t even pretend.The men beside them—husbands, lovers, friends—shifted uncomfortably in their seats. There was tension in their jaws, and embarrassment in their posture. They ate quietly or not at all. Whatever dominance they’d once walked onto this ship with had been bled out of them by something none of them could quite name. But they all knew who was to blame.The staff, clad in crisp uniforms, moved gracefully between tables. But even they were affected. The waitresses carried themselves with flushed cheeks, avoiding eye contact. The waiters were quiet, distracted, some with stiff gaits and awkward trousers. One busboy had already dropped a glass and been rushed out by the maître d’.One of the women from the pool emerged into the dining hall like a storm in human form—poised, electric, hungry. She walked with a sway in her hips that hadn’t been there earlier that afternoon, her heels clicking against the floor.She had changed. Not just her outfit. She wore something halfway between a gown and lingerie: a deep burgundy wrap dress, sheer in all the right places, high-slit and clinging, the fabric whisper-thin over her hips and bust. But it was her midsection that had become the centerpiece—her belly laid bare by design. A dramatic oval cutout in the dress exposed the whole of it: slim, sculpted, slightly glistening, like she had oiled it before coming in. She walked like she wanted it seen. Needed it compared.And she wasn’t walking in alone.A man—her husband, maybe, or just the unfortunate shell of him—trailed behind her. He looked dazed, overwhelmed, and woefully out of sync with her pace. His shirt was crisply pressed, his hair styled, but his posture screamed something else entirely: he knew he didn’t matter tonight.He said something to her. Something low, pleading.She didn’t answer.Her eyes were scanning the dining room like a predator hunting in slow motion. Her lips were slightly parted, breath shallow, one hand resting just above her exposed belly as if to remind the room it was still empty. She wasn’t interested in food. She wasn’t interested in wine. She wasn’t even interested in the man floundering beside her, trying to reclaim the connection he’d clearly lost hours ago.She was looking for her. For Nicole. And as her gaze passed table after table, ignoring the stares, the mutters, the under-the-table shifting of legs and fingers and utensils—she exhaled slowly. Her nostrils flared. Her pupils dilated. She knew Nicole wasn’t here yet.But she would be.And as the woman in burgundy settled into her chair—legs crossed just so, dress parting to reveal the long curve of her thigh, one hand resting lightly atop her exposed, toned belly—she began to notice.It wasn’t just her.Across the dining hall, other women from the pool had arrived. Olivia, the redhead who had cried at the railing, the woman who had collapsed to her knees the moment Nicole's c@ck first slapped the surface of the water. All of them were here now, filtering in one by one, taking their seats like it was all coincidence.Except it wasn’t. Not one of them wore a traditional dress anymore. There were cut-outs, cropped tops., halters, strategically parted wraps, tight skirts that left nothing to the imagination, high slits and bare bellies—everywhere. Toned, flat, glossy with oil or lotion, subtly flexed with every shift of posture. A dozen perfect stomachs gleaming in the soft lighting, each one empty, each one proudly displayed.It was a competition now. They were here for the same thing she was. And they were advertising the same message—Look at me. I'm still flat. Still untouched. Fill me.The tension between the women wasn’t polite, wasn’t social. It was primal. Silent glances traded across candlelit tables weren’t just glances—they were challenges. Who would be noticed first? Who would be picked? Who would get to walk out of this room not slim and clean and waiting—but round, full, and owned?Her husband shifted in the seat across from her, blinking. “You uh… didn’t bring a shawl or anything?” he asked, voice small, uncertain, his eyes darting to her exposed belly, then to the others.She didn’t even look at him.Instead, she adjusted in her seat, letting her back arch slightly to lift her chest, her abs contracting just enough to make the muscles beneath her skin dance in the flickering light.“No,” she said, her voice like silk drawn across bare skin. “That would defeat the purpose.”He paused, swallowing hard. “What… what purpose?”She turned her head, finally meeting his eyes.Her smile was slow. Cruel. Certain.“I’m advertising, babe” she said. “Just like the rest of them.”And as the soft music played and the silverware clinked gently on porcelain, the women sat—and the tension wound tighter.The woman in burgundy uncrossed her legs slowly, deliberately, letting the dress fall open just enough to reveal more of her inner thigh. Her bare belly caught the glow of the candle between them, the little divot of her navel like a beggar’s bowl—empty, open, offered.She wasn’t listening to her husband—he’d gone silent anyway—but her ears were tuned, razor sharp, to the voices around her. Low murmurs. Soft giggles. Wet sighs behind half-finished flutes of champagne.“Did you see her arms?” someone whispered from a table two over, just behind her shoulder. “When she lifted Margaret? Like it was nothing?”“Oh my god,” another answered, breathless. “Her back. I’ve never seen a woman with a back like that. It moved like it had muscles inside of muscles. Like she could just crack you in half without even trying—”“And her c@ck,” a third cut in, voice nearly choking on the word. “Did you see it when she pulled out? It was still hard. And the way it… throbbed, like it wasn’t done. Like it wanted another one.”The woman in burgundy smirked to herself, head turned just slightly, listening without looking. Her thighs pressed together beneath the table.A soft moan, half-suppressed, came from somewhere near the glass wall. A woman across the room dropped her fork, visibly flustered.“I swear her c@m changed the color of the water,” someone whispered with a laugh that was too high, too shaky. “It looked like milk by the end. Like she poured half her body weight into that woman in the pool.”“She made her bigger,” came another hushed voice. “Like visibly. Her belly was already huge and it still—expanded. I thought it was going to burst.”“She didn’t even stop after that,” the first voice added. “She posed. I thought I was going to f@ck@ng die.”All around the dining hall, wine went untouched. Food cooled on plates. Women whispered like schoolgirls in church, each one confessing a different sin, a different moment they couldn’t forget. The way Nicole’s c@ck had twitched after breeding. The way Margaret screamed. The sound of the c@m hitting the water.And then the double doors at the back of the dining hall opened. The music didn’t stop, the lights didn’t flicker, the air conditioning didn’t falter. But somehow, the moment stopped anyway.Nicole’s outfit was a masterpiece of precision—tight in every single place that mattered, and loose where it only enhanced what lay beneath. A button-down shirt—jet black, slightly sheer, clinging to her shoulders like a second skin—was tucked into tailored slacks that rode low on her hips, cut sharp, hugging her ass like it had been designed to worship her. The sleeves were rolled just enough to show off her forearms, veins pulsing visibly beneath like lightning under glass. Her chest strained the buttons. Not because it didn’t fit—but because it shouldn’t. Each step made the fabric ripple across her pecs, the lines of muscle beneath pressing for freedom, one button at the edge of giving out. And beneath her waistband—The bulge.Her c@ck wasn’t even hard, not really—it hung low, long and heavy, a thick weight that the fabric barely managed to contain. But the imprint was unmistakable. The outline of the shaft pushed against the front of her slacks, thick and veiny, running long and to the side in that heavy, lazy way that made a lie out of every man at every table. The head was outlined. The ridge. Even the curve And it twitched—a subtle but visible throb as she entered, as though the fabric wasn’t keeping it calm, just holding it back.Nicole walked like she owned the ship, not in arrogance nor pretense, but in fact. And every eye followed her. The women who had whispered were now silent—hands twitching against thighs, lips parted. The woman in burgundy gripped her wine glass so hard the stem creaked. Across the room, Olivia gripped the edge of the table like she might stand, or collapse.Nicole didn’t look at them. Not yet. She moved through the center aisle, slowly, as if every footstep was choreographed to the tightening pulses of cl@ts all across the hall. Her c@ck swayed, a heavy roll in her pants that made some women exhale—and others whimper. One waiter, mid-tray, tripped.She passed the woman in burgundy, who sat upright like she’d been hit with an electric charge. Nicole didn’t speak, didn’t stop. But her eyes flicked—once—down to the smooth, exposed, tight belly. And then back up. A single look. It wasn’t approval. It wasn’t rejection. It was consideration. And for the woman in burgundy, it might as well have been divine judgment.Nicole moved on. All eyes followed her—not just the women aching to be noticed, but the staff as well. The busboys. The servers. Even the musicians missed more than a few notes as their eyes dragged over her veined forearms, her broad chest, the heavy outline hanging from her hips.She approached the maître d’—a petite, aging man in an immaculate black tuxedo—who tried to maintain composure as she leaned in close. Nicole’s lips brushed his ear. She said something short. Too quiet for anyone else to hear. Whatever it was, the man’s face drained of color in an instant. He swallowed, his hands twitching at his sides, the fine white linen gloves flexing once, twice, as though preparing to perform a task he hadn’t expected—and one he could never forget.Nicole didn’t wait for confirmation. She turned from him, her smirk still in place, and strode across the floor to the center of the dining hall. An empty circular table sat alone beneath the largest of the chandeliers, the tablecloth snow-white. Around it were high-backed chairs upholstered in deep navy blue and gilded with real brass. Nicole arrived, paused, then sat.The chair gave an immediate, unmistakable groan under her weight, the sound sharp and metallic—Creeeeaaaak—echoing through the hall like a warning. It wasn’t that it couldn’t take her—it was that it wasn’t meant to. Nicole’s body, all slabs of muscle and hung meat overwhelmed the thing. Her thighs spread wide, taking up more than one seat’s worth of room, her shirt stretching tighter than ever across her chest, buttons holding on by the grace of tension alone. Her c@ck shifted visibly beneath the tablecloth.She felt their eyes. Dozens of them—every woman who had walked into the dining hall hoping to play it cool, to feign subtlety, now sat with their bodies pitched forward, barely breathing, hands twitching in their laps, lips slightly parted as if tasting the memory of c@m in the air.Nicole exhaled once, slow and theatrical, then raised both arms—elbows wide—and flexed. Hard.The effect was instantaneous. Her biceps exploded into dense, veiny peaks, skin pulled taut over thick cords of muscle that seemed to shift under the chandelier’s golden light. Her chest puffed out with the motion, the shirt stretching across her pecs until a single button popped open, revealing a sliver of flushed skin and a glimpse of the solid wall of mass underneath. Her forearms flexed next, bulging as she held the pose, and even her neck thickened with effort.The dining room reacted — forks clattered to the floor, a wine glass shattered at a table near the window., and the women moved. Not walked. Not tiptoed. They swarmed. Chairs scraped violently against the floor as women stood. Lovers, husbands, dates reached to stop them—only to be ignored completely. It was a mass exodus of thirst, of obsession, of surrender, like moths to fire. They filled the empty chairs around Nicole table like they’d been summoned, not invited.The woman in burgundy, Olivia, the redhead, others, nameless but unmistakably eager, pressing thigh to thigh, their exposed bellies rising and falling in shallow, tremulous breaths.The silence didn’t last long.“How old are you?” one of them finally breathed—Olivia, voice thin, shaky, like she couldn’t believe she was even allowed to ask.Nicole c@cked an eyebrow, her lip curling upward. “Twenty-two.”There was a pause. A heartbeat. And then chaos.“What?!”
“F@ck off, no way—”
“Are you serious?”A sharp gasp came from the redhead, her hands clenched in her lap. “Twenty-two and already that… big?” She blinked down at the tablecloth, visibly imagining what was beneath it. “That hung?”The woman in burgundy turned her head, stunned. “You’re not even twenty-five and you’re… this?”Nicole gave a lazy shrug, her chest flexing slightly as she moved. “Started early.”“Doing what?” one woman gasped.“CEO,” Nicole said, like it was nothing. “Emmerich Group. Pharmaceuticals, biotech, logistics… fertility R&D.”Another beat of silence—until one woman choked on her wine.“That Emmerich Group?” the redhead whispered, eyes wide. “That’s a multi-billion-pound firm!”The table collectively squirmed. One woman reached beneath the table, her elbow rhythmically moving. Another licked her lips unconsciously. Twenty-two. Massive. Muscular. Hung. Rich. And casually breeding women in pools like it was her hobby.“I—” Olivia stammered, her voice cracking. “I just—how does someone even get like this?”Nicole turned her head slowly to meet her eyes, her smirk turning sharp.“Dedication,” she said simply. “Discipline. A very high libido. And a lot of experimental drugs.”Nails tapped against crystal. One woman rolled her hips in her seat, just enough to shift the pressure. The woman in burgundy had gone very still, her bare belly rising and falling in slow, shallow pulls like her body was bracing for the inevitable.Then a voice—low, sultry, a little too breathless to be casual.“How many?”Nicole tilted her head, eyes sliding lazily toward the woman who’d spoken. Blonde. Fit. Bare midriff on display like the others, smooth and taut, her navel like a siren’s whisper: fill me.“How many what?” Nicole asked, knowing exactly what she meant.The woman swallowed. Her thighs rubbed together beneath the table. “Women,” she said softly. “How many women have you… knocked up?”The entire table went still.Nicole didn’t hesitate. She leaned in slightly, arms flexing against the table’s edge, her shirt stretching dangerously. The bulge beneath the linen cloth shifted again—heavier now, fuller, twitching with the faintest audible scrape against the table leg.“Besides the two I brought with me?” she said, lips curling upward. “Thirty-seven.”A shudder passed through the table like a gust of heat.“Thirty-seven,” she repeated. “Confirmed. Delivered. Multiple births, in most cases. And not one of them walked right for weeks.”There were gasps. One woman bit her knuckle. Another just moaned—loudly—then clamped a hand over her mouth, face flushed red.Nicole wasn’t done.“I don’t use condoms. Ever. I don’t pull out. If you’re wet enough to take me, you’re wet enough to keep me.”The redhead whimpered, thighs clenched tight under the table. Olivia was visibly trembling, her hand gripping the edge of the cloth as though it was all keeping her grounded.Nicole went on, her voice now a slow, deliberate purr. “I make them waddle. I breed until they can’t bend over. Until they can’t think without rubbing that belly. I don’t f@ck for fun—I fuck for results.”She sat back again, the chair groaning under her weight, the bulge in her pants now too swollen to hide. The tip pressed against the cloth, making a small but obscene tent in the center of the table. It twitched again.And then, with all the smugness of a storm that knows it was coming, she added:“Why? You offering to be number thirty-eight?”The table erupted in a symphony of feminine need. Moans, gasps, breathless half-laughs, and needy little whimpers spilled out. A few women leaned forward instinctively, chests heaving, pupils blown wide with want. The redhead covered her mouth with both hands, eyes glassy. Olivia whimpered yes before she even realized she’d said it aloud.Then came the scramble.“I saw her first,” one woman hissed, voice tight with frustration, hand planted firmly on the edge of the table.
“You didn’t speak first,” another shot back, her tone playful but desperate, one perfectly manicured hand resting protectively over her bare, empty belly.The woman in burgundy scoffed, all grace and venom. “She looked at me.”“She considered you,” Olivia snapped. “She wanted me.”“I need her,” someone said from the far end, barely able to speak through the breath caught in her throat. “I’m ovulating. Right now.”The arguments weren’t cruel. And yet it was as though a fight had broken out, not out of jealousy, but urgency like bees swarming a single flower.And then, while the others bickered and pled their case with words, one woman acted.She was quiet, small, pale in her sundress and bare-footed now beneath the table. She didn’t speak. Didn’t argue. She simply leaned forward, eyes locked on Nicole’s half-hard c@ck outlined like a weapon beneath the tablecloth—and slid her hand beneath it.And then—contact.Nicole’s breath hitched.The woman’s fingers slid slowly across the thick ridge of shaft, dragging down from the base toward the head with reverence. The tablecloth lifted, just a little, and the shape of her hand beneath it was obscene. She was tracing everything, bold and slow, mapping the sheer mass of it like a blind woman reading scripture in heat.Nicole didn’t stop her. She just leaned back again, eyes half-lidded, her jaw tightening slightly. Her c@ck twitched beneath the woman’s hand—violently. The entire tablecloth jolted upward with the movement, a visible dome of flesh surging against fabric that was never meant to contain it. A fork rattled. A glass spilled.And the woman? She moaned.“God,” she whispered, her other hand slipping to her own lap. “It’s so heavy…”Nicole didn’t stop her. Didn’t so much as flinch either. Her only response was the low, animal sound that curled from the back of her throat—a rumble, like distant thunder on a hot night. Her c@ck twitched again, violently, visibly, the tablecloth tenting higher for just a second before slapping down around the poor woman’s wrist. She gasped, but didn’t stop, only leaned closer, lips parted, eyes fixed on Nicole like she was worshiping a god incarnate.Nicole tilted her head, gaze flicking to the opposite side of the table—where the woman who had breathlessly announced her cycle now sat flushed, squirming, two fingers digging crescent moons into the pale skin of her bare thigh. “You said you were ovulating,” Nicole said, her tone casual, like it was dinner conversation.The woman nodded quickly, desperately, chest rising in frantic little huffs. “Y-yes. I—I stopped my birth control three weeks ago. I’m ready. I’ll take all of it, I swear, just—”Nicole raised a hand—not to stop her, but to make her listen.“You think that’s going to matter?” she asked.The ovulating woman blinked, breath catching.Nicole leaned forward now, elbows on the table, muscles flaring beneath the fabric, her eyes dark and sure. Her c@ck was still being slowly stroked beneath the table, the moaning woman beneath now panting, nearly drooling against the edge of the cloth, but Nicole’s attention was on this other woman.Nicole’s voice dropped lower. “You’ll get pregnant whether you’re ovulating or not.”A strangled moan came from the girl beneath the table.Nicole didn’t even look down.“And if you think you’ll be the only one?” she asked, now looking at all of them again—Olivia, the redhead, the woman in burgundy, every flushed, trembling sl@t trying to stay composed around linen and wine?“You won’t.”She leaned back again, c@ck throbbing beneath the table as the woman stroking it gave a gasp and a shaky moan, her wrist now working faster, her own breath ragged.“By the end of this cruise?” Nicole said. “I’m going to knock up every single one of you.”Under the table, the woman let out a muffled, choked gag—sharp and wet—her lips stretched wide around the thick, veined crown of Nicole’s c@ck, her throat already being tested far beyond its limits. She’d meant to tease, to taste, to maybe show off a little for the others, but Nicole didn’t stay at one size.Her c@ck didn’t just get harder. It swelled. Thickened. Lengthened. Every second buried deeper into that helpless throat as blood rushed through the monstrous shaft with visible force. Under the linen, her c@ck expanded with a pulsing hunger, veins bulging harder against the tight skin, the weight of it growing heavier in the woman’s mouth until her moans turned to gasps, her hands gripping Nicole’s thighs in panic and bliss.She clenched her jaw for a moment—just a second—as the warm, gagging tightness of the woman’s throat spasmed around her newly engorged girth. Her nostrils flared. Her fingers twitched. But her voice? Smooth. Steady.“I like the ambition,” Nicole said, addressing the ovulating woman again as if nothing at all was happening between her legs, as though her c@ck wasn’t currently being choked on by a sobbing girl under the table. “Offering up your womb like it’s something special. Sweet. Innocent.”Another choke beneath the table. The girl’s shoulders shook, tears streaming silently from the corners of her eyes as she fought to keep up—her mouth distended around the impossible width now flooding deeper by the second. Nicole grunted softly—just once—but turned it into a sigh, composed, cool.“But I’m not looking for innocent,” she continued, voice thickening just slightly, the rumble of a groan buried beneath syllables like heat under silk. “I’m looking for volume. For stretch. For capacity.”Her hips shifted a fraction forward. The girl gagged again—this time louder, her whole body pressing forward as the swelling c@ck bulged her throat visibly beneath the linen.Nicole smiled, teeth sharp. “That includes you,” she said to the redhead, whose knees were visibly shaking beneath the table. “And you,” to Olivia, who had both hands in her lap and was now breathlessly rocking in her seat.The girl under the table whimpered, her moans turned helpless, gurgling, ecstatic—each wet sound trembling from deep in her throat as Nicole’s c@ck continued to grow, stuffing her mouth and neck like she was being used from the inside out. Her nose pressed to the underside of that impossible shaft, now visibly outlined against the white tablecloth like a ship’s mast breaching through fog. Her hands clutched Nicole’s thighs, not for control—for survival.Above, Nicole leaned casually back in her groaning chair, legs spread wide, abs tight. Her voice remained smooth, barely touched by the throbbing heat of the mouth wrapped around her. But her eyes flicked—knowingly—to the rest of the dining hall.And that’s when the reactions started.The men looked stricken—devastated, emasculated, shrinking deeper into their seats with every second Nicole remained the epicenter of every woman’s desire. Some stared openly, jaws slack, helpless to look away from the twitching, tented mountain beneath the linen. Others tried to pretend nothing was happening, picking at their food with trembling hands, sweat glistening at their temples. One stood abruptly, his chair skidding back—only for his partner to grab his wrist, yank him down, and glare at him without saying a word.The waiters moved in jerky, uncomfortable patterns—flushed, wide-eyed, unsure where to look, unsure if they were allowed to look. One tripped and caught himself against a post. Another simply stopped moving halfway to a table, tray shaking in his grip as Nicole’s c@ck gave another slow, wet-sounding throb beneath the cloth.The waitresses were worse. Or better, depending on one’s point-of-view. One of them—mid-thirties, gorgeous, golden-toned, hair coiled in a tight bun—stood behind a tray stand, breathing too hard. Her thighs were pressed together tightly, knees bent just slightly. Her lips were parted. One of her coworkers passed behind her and gave her a look—concerned, confused. But she didn’t answer. She was staring at the shape Nicole’s c@ck made in the tablecloth. Like it was calling her by name.And then—finally—the meal arrived.A different waiter—young, shaking, clearly told not to screw this up—approached Nicole’s table pushing a heavy, domed silver tray on a trolley. It was comically oversized. Larger than any other service platter in the hall. As he parked it at the table’s edge, the dome glinted under the chandelier, polished to a perfect mirror finish.He swallowed hard. “M-Miss,” he stammered.Nicole didn’t move. The girl under the table was still choking softly on her c@ck. Her throat had visibly bulged now, her face flushed and shining with tears of sheer f@ck@ng BLISS. Nicole casually reached under the table with one hand, stroked the girl’s hair once—gentle, possessive.Then she looked up at the waiter “Open it,” she said.He fumbled for the handle and lifted the dome with a dramatic lift. The heat of the meal rose immediately—a massive, steaming, sizzling spread of grilled meats, seared duck breast, braised lamb, piles of roasted vegetables, thick slabs of bread already dripping with melted butter. It wasn’t dinner. It was fuel.Nicole picked up her fork, slicing into a cut of duck as if she weren’t being deepthroated under the table by a woman sobbing from bliss. The meat tore clean, juices dripping, and she brought it to her mouth—lips parting, tongue wetting the bottom one before she took her first bite.She moaned. But it was the kind of sound that made every woman at the table flinch in place like they’d been touched. Her jaw flexed. She chewed slowly. She swallowed and then c@ck throbbed once more in the tight, wet tunnel of the girl beneath the table.“Mm,” she said, licking her thumb. “Good start.”At the far end of the dining room, seated in the quiet shadows where candlelight didn’t quite reach, a woman watched. She was young, maybe mid-twenties, blonde and elegant in that clean, expensive way that spoke of new love and careful planning. Her dress was cream silk, her makeup fresh—her fingers clutched tightly around the long-stemmed glass of champagne that had barely been sipped.And on her left hand, glittering in the muted light, was a brand-new diamond ring.Was.She stared at the scene at the center of the dining room—the impossible woman lounging like a crowned beast, surrounded by worshippers, her massive c@ck moving beneath the tablecloth with every stroke of the sobbing girl’s throat. Nicole was eating, laughing softly at something one of the others whispered, a smear of red wine on her bottom lip.The blonde woman’s heart raced. Her fiancé—sitting beside her, oblivious, nervously cutting into a steak—said something. Something about how rare it was. Something about how the sauce was too heavy. Something that sounded small and irrelevant.She didn’t answer. Her hand moved slowly, and before her fianace had a chance to react, she slipped the ring off her finger. This was supposed to be her honeymoon, too. But it wasn’t anymore. She didn’t go to Nicole. Not yet. She wasn’t brave enough for that. Not while her fiancé still sat beside her. But in her mind—in her body—the decision had already been made. She ached. Her belly ached to be full. Her throat ached to try what that girl under the table was being stuffed with.Nicole licked her fingers, casually, her voice rich and smooth as velvet soaked in wine. “Well,” she said, glancing around the table at the women flanking her, “I can’t say I’m not pleased.”They were all still there—Olivia, the redhead, the woman in burgundy, and more—sitting like obedient pets, barely breathing, hands trembling on their laps or clutching the edges of the tablecloth to ground themselves. Their cheeks were flushed, their bellies tight and bare, legs crossed too tightly or not at all.“You all look very eager,” Nicole continued, her c@ck twitching hard beneath the table with a thick, wet throb that made the cloth shift and the woman below gurgle audibly. “Some of you are practically vibrating. I’d say you want it badly.”A few nodded. One whimpered. Another squeezed her thighs shut and visibly bit her lip.Nicole’s eyes gleamed—but then her voice cooled. Not cruel. Just direct. “But only one of you,” she said, pausing just long enough for silence to grip the table, “had the spine to act.”There was a beat. And then the others looked down. At first just a glance. Then a double take. And then— The realization rippled through them like a physical shock. They saw the tablecloth moving—pulsing upward in time with the choking, gagging gasps coming from beneath. They saw the faint shape of a woman’s head bobbing between Nicole’s massive, spread thighs, her fingers curled hard into Nicole’s leg for balance. The wet sounds were no longer ambient—they were front and center now, full of spit and struggle and the obscene friction of a throat being used by something it could barely contain.One woman gasped. Another covered her mouth. Olivia moaned, softly, uncontrollably, on the verge of a complete f@ck@ng breakdown. The redhead leaned forward like she wanted to dive under and help.“She didn’t wait,” Nicole said, tone low and even. “She didn’t ask permission. She saw what she wanted and took it. And now she’s being rewarded.”The woman beneath the table gurgled again, her moan strangled by the thickness pushing deeper. Her eyes were rolled back, throat visibly bulging with the size of what she was swallowing, tears dripping steadily down her cheeks.
“She’s going to get her load,” Nicole said, licking a bit of butter from her thumb. “And the rest of you?”She glanced around again.“You’d better start earning yours.”The words weren’t even cold in the air before the table around her exploded into motion. Chairs scraped and tipped over. Cutlery scattered. Plates clattered to the floor, forgotten mid-course. Whatever final threads of shame had kept them still were severed in an instant. The women moved like a single creature: h@rny, hungry, possessed. They didn’t even ask, just seized the moment.Olivia was the first to drop. Straight to her knees on Nicole’s right side, hands trembling as she reached out to wrap both palms around Nicole’s thigh—her quadriceps, thick as a marble column, muscles like tightly packed rope beneath fabric that had no business surviving the stretch. She pressed her cheek to it and moaned, like she could come just from the heat radiating through that muscle.The redhead didn’t even hesitate. She straddled Nicole’s left boot like a throne and bent forward, kissing the exposed skin above the rolled cuff of her pants, then running her tongue upward, shameless and wet. “God,” she whimpered.One woman climbed into Nicole’s lap—briefly—only to be grabbed by the shirt collar and redirected. Nicole said nothing. Just nudged her aside with a single, commanding gesture—not yet, sl@t—and the woman mewled, then obediently knelt between her spread thighs, hands disappearing under the table to join the girl who was already choking on that c@ck like it was air itself.Another, bolder one, leaned in close to Nicole’s right bicep, which was still flexed from her last slow sip of wine. She kissed the peak reverently, then again, then bit, just enough to leave a mark. “Please,” she whispered. “Let me worship.”The woman in burgundy took the space behind her, sliding her hands over Nicole’s massive traps and shoulders like a masseuse in heat, fingertips trembling as they traced the dense terrain of her upper back. Her dress had already slipped down one arm. She didn’t fix it. Her bare br@@sts pressed against Nicole’s back as she leaned forward and kissed the nape of her neck, breath hot and broken.Under the table, it was chaos. Nicole’s c@ck had become a holy object—massive, alive, claiming the throat of the girl who’d dared first, and now two more were down there. One woman licked the shaft exposed near the base. Another tongued the underside of her b@lls, mouthing at the weight of them as if she could feel the next flood building inside. Their hands fought for space, for pressure, for even a chance to taste what was leaking from the crown.Nicole sat at the center of it all—her chair groaning under her weight, her c@ck visibly swelling beneath the linen, her mouth full of duck and wine and power. She chewed slowly, watching it all unfold like a queen surveying her harem. One hand idly brushed a head between her thighs.“That’s more like it,” she murmured.And then—A throat cleared. Deliberately.Nicole didn’t look up right away. She finished chewing a bite of lamb—tender, well-seasoned, practically falling apart on her tongue—then reached for her wineglass. She swirled it, then drank. Only after that did she slowly shift her eyes to the man standing just beside the table, pale, stiff, lips pursed like someone who hadn’t come in months. The head waiter. Trembling.“Miss,” he said stiffly, his voice brittle with forced authority, “I’m afraid I must inform you that what’s currently happening at your table constitutes a clear violation of our ship’s guest conduct policy.”Nicole blinked once.He pressed on, swallowing hard. “The dining hall is a shared space. Intimate acts of a s@xual nature are not permitted in communal dining areas, regardless of—ah—status, or… participation enthusiasm.” He cast a quick, horrified glance downward—just once—as another wet gag rang out from beneath the table. One of the girls moaned. Another squealed, the sound muffled by c@ck. The movement under the cloth was now unmistakably frantic “I’ll… I’ll have to ask you and your… your group… to cease these activities immediately or move them to a more private—”“No.”Nicole hadn’t raised her voice. She didn’t need to.The waiter’s mouth twitched. “M-Miss—”Nicole lowered her wineglass. Her hand drifted down, under the table, gipped something. Thrust. A deep, soaking choke burst from below, followed by a mewling moan that rose up around her thighs. One of the girls at her feet shivered, collapsing fully onto Nicole’s shin like she’d just been blessed. Her c@ck throbbed—and the sound of a small climax rippled from below.The waiter swallowed again. His jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to run, or cry, or kneel. But he turned. And fled.Nicole smiled—slow, wicked, and completely satisfied. Then she turned to the redhead tonguing her deltoid and said, “You. Take your top off.”The words hit the redhead like a direct order from God himself. Her breath caught audibly, lips frozen against the slope of Nicole’s shoulder, and then—obeyed. She pulled back just enough to sit up on her knees, her fingers already scrambling for the hem of her top. It wasn’t hesitation that made her fumble—it was urgency. Her hands shook, her chest rose and fell in desperate bursts, and when the fabric finally peeled up over her flushed skin, the entire table stilled just a little more.She wore nothing underneath.Her br@@sts bounced free with a soft, perfect weight, the skin blushed and tight, her nipples already stiff from minutes of arousal. She dropped the top behind her without care. Her hands rose—slowly this time—and cupped herself, offering them upward.Nicole let her eyes slide down over the redhead’s bare torso, her abs flexing as she adjusted on her knees, spine arching slightly, her hands trembling as she held her own br@@sts aloft. She didn’t speak, but her eyes said everything: Use me. Fill me. Break me open.Nicole let out a soft hum of approval and turned back to her meal, her free hand slipping back beneath the tablecloth to stroke the soaked, tight grip of the woman still gagging on her c@ck. She gave an absent-minded thrust—one that made the table jolt again.“Mmm… good,” she said, lips curling around another forkful of seared duck. “She listens.”At those words, Olivia whimpered and immediately reached for the straps of her own top, yanking them down past her shoulders with an urgency that bordered on delirium. Her br@@sts spilled free, flushed and eager, nipples taut from the cool air and the heat rolling off Nicole like steam from a volcano. Beside her, the woman in burgundy loosed the knot of her dress with trembling fingers, letting the fabric slip down around her waist, exposing her bare stomach—flat, smooth, empty—like an altar waiting to be consecrated.Her breath hitched as she touched her own navel, her eyes fixed on Nicole’s c@ck pulsing beneath the linen, on the writhing shape of the girl gagging still under the table. Her fingers brushed across her belly with reverence, almost as if she could feel it swell already, feel it take.And that’s when the change began.Nicole took another bite of meat—thick, charred, juicy—and swallowed it down in one long, deliberate motion. Her throat worked, and her whole body responded.It started in her arms. Her biceps twitched—a sharp, visible jolt beneath the stretched black fabric of her shirt. Then they bulged, growing thicker, rounder, the peaks rising like mountains under storm-dark clouds. The fabric over her sleeves strained, a low creaking sound rising just beneath the murmurs of wet mouths and breathless worship.Nicole flexed, almost absentmindedly, and the right sleeve split, tearing open with a soft riiiiip as her arm outgrew its confines. Her shoulders widened, traps thickening, pressing upward toward her ears as her frame expanded. Her back pushed harder against the chair, its frame groaning louder now, the wood warping audibly beneath the mounting mass of Nicole’s growing form. The creases between muscle groups deepened, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. Her pecs swelled next, buttons threatening to explode off her shirt as her chest filled outward, heavy and powerful, stretching the already tight black fabric until it looked painted on.Her abs followed—beneath the table, hidden from direct view, but every shift of her hips made the cloth ripple with the movement of slabs thickening, grinding together, pressing outward as her entire core grew to match the scale of her divine mass.The girl beneath the table squealed—whether from fear or pleasure was impossible to say—as Nicole’s c@ck began to expand with her, growing heavier, thicker, longer, stretching her jaw even further. Nicole growled softly as the girl’s throat clenched around the fresh girth—welcoming it, choking on it—and still trying to suck deeper.Nicole finally sat back again, stretching her newly swollen arms across the backs of the chairs beside her. Her forearms alone looked like thighs now—hard, veiny. She exhaled. Deep. Slow. Satisfied.“Protein,” she said flatly, licking a trace of sauce from her lips. “Does a body good.”At the far end of the dining hall, the woman who’d only moments ago slipped her engagement ring from her finger stared at Nicole with wide, dazed eyes. She hadn’t moved since. Her chest rose and fell like she’d just sprinted a mile, the champagne glass forgotten at her fingertips. Her fiancé—no, not that anymore—was still murmuring beside her, still trying to make small talk about the menu, the texture of the bread, pretending not to see what the entire hall was watching.She blinked slowly, like waking from anesthesia, and turned to look at him—really look.He smiled at her, uncertain. “You okay, babe?”She set the glass down softly.“I want a divorce.”The words landed, icy and irreversible. His face froze mid-expression, confusion quickly fracturing into disbelief. “What?”And with that, she stood. Her chair scraped backward, sudden and loud in the charged quiet of the dining room. The man stammered something, reaching to catch her wrist—but she was already gone. Already walking—no, striding—toward the table at the center, where women knelt like supplicants around Nicole’s growing, twitching, gloriously fed form. She slipped past Olivia and the redhead, and lowered herself to her knees beside the writhing worshippers, her bare legs folding gracefully beneath her. Her dress had shifted up her thighs with the motion, exposing more skin, more want. Her lips were parted. Her breathing ragged.Nicole didn’t even look at her.The woman exhaled once, then leaned forward and pressed her lips to Nicole’s flexed, pulsing forearm. A kiss.And suddenly, it was undeniable. This wasn’t just a private display anymore. It was a performance, a show—for the entire dining room. The way the women clung to her—licking, kissing, moaning, serving. The way Nicole’s c@ck twitched violently beneath the table, practically forcing the cloth upward with the sheer weight of it. The way her body grew, muscle piling on like a slow-motion explosion of power and mass. It was obscene, rapturous, and being watched by every woman who hadn't dared rise, by every man who now knew he’d never compete, by the staff, paralyzed in place.Kisses pressed against her biceps, tongues danced across her abs when they peeked from between buttons pulled to their limit. Women moaned and whispered over her skin like she was holy. The girl beneath the table—once first, once brave—was now barely conscious, her body trembling between Nicole’s thighs, her throat stretched, jaw unhinged, locked into service to a c@ck that had grown with its owner, outstripping what the human mouth was ever meant to endure.Nicole leaned back, her chair shrieking under the pressure, and her eyes fluttered shut. Not from fatigue, but from pleasure, from the storm behind her clenched jaw as it finally began to crest. A sharp breath, then another. And then—sound. A guttural moan exploded from beneath the table. Half-choked, half-sobbing, and completely wrecked. Followed by a gag, then a whimper, then a sharp, wet sound—like someone trying and failing to swallow down something too thick, too much, too fast.Nicole exhaled like a furnace, her abs locking down as her c@ck pulsed. And then again. And again. The girl beneath made a noise—not pain. Not quite. Not fear, either. It was overwhelm. As if every jet of c@m forced into her was expanding her from the inside out, a flood she could neither control nor contain. Then more choking. Then—“Hrrrrk—ahk—nnghhh—”Her throat bulged beneath the cloth. The women closest to Nicole leaned in, wide-eyed, pressing their hands between their own legs as the noises grew more frantic, more obscene. They could hear the c@m pouring, the slosh of it filling her belly, stretching it taut beneath the table where none of them could see.Nicole’s head tilted back, lips parted, her c@ck still pulsing, still pumping into that ruined throat. And then—silence, except for the slow, thick, drip-drip-drip of excess seed splattering onto the floor beneath her. Nicole opened her eyes, glowing with post-climax heat. She reached under the table once more—slowly—and brushed the girl’s hair back with one large, wet hand.The tablecloth shifted—slowly, heavily—then lifted as the woman emerged from beneath it like something reborn. She didn’t crawl so much as drag herself free, hands trembling against the floor, knees slick with spit and sweat and splattered remnants of the unholy volume Nicole had just pumped into her. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears and strands of hair glued to her face, mascara run in two black rivers down to her chin. She blinked slowly, eyes glassy and unfocused like she’d just been pulled from another world.But it wasn’t her face that drew the collective gasp from the table. It was her belly.
She was huge. Round. Obscene. Taut as a drum. Her stomach had swollen—actually expanded—like she was six, seven, eight months pregnant. Her skin glistened under the lights, veins subtly visible beneath the stretched layer, her navel now pushed flat and throbbing from pressure. Every step she took forward came with a slosh, a shift of mass inside her, thick and heavy and alive with heat.She finally stood, bracing herself with a moan, legs wide for balance. Her hands instinctively cradled beneath the swell of her c@m-stuffed belly, as though her body itself was unsure how to hold it all. She rubbed it slowly, then patted it once—smack—and the sound was wet. Hollow. Heavy.“Oh fuck,” she breathed, her voice cracked and shaking. “Oh my god, there’s so much.” The woman cupped her belly again and let out a trembling laugh, one hand dragging over the curve, the other sliding around back to lift it slightly—just to feel the weight. “I can’t believe it fit,” she whispered. “I can’t believe you got all of it in…”The woman moaned and bit her lip. And the rest at the table? They looked at her belly. At the size, at the way it swayed, at the shine of sweat on stretched skin and the slosh of liquid life inside her. They watched her breathe with effort, watched her waddle slightly to keep her balance, and realized, all at once, with the certainty of a religious calling—That’s what they wanted too.Nicole felt it like a shockwave through her system. The moment. The tension. The need. Her c@ck—already massive, already used—twitched back to life like it had been merely resting. A pulse rocked through it, thick and angry, and it began to rise again, visibly, unapologetically, vein by vein, inch by obscene inch, until it stood proud and ready once more, defying everything about human limits, hunger swelling right alongside it. She exhaled slowly, c@ck hardening in real time.Then, calmly, she stood. Her chair snapped backwards behind her, tipping with a sharp crash as she rose to her full, impossible height. Towering. Broad. Still shirt-torn and slick with sex, c@m drying on her thighs, muscles swollen from meat and adoration.Her eyes swept the table. Then the room. Then—everyone. And she said it. “Who wants to get pregnant?”Silence followed, for only a heartbeat. Then hands shot into the air. All of them. Every woman at the table raised her hand instantly, some with both arms shaking like they were begging to be chosen first. Olivia. The redhead. The woman in burgundy. Even the freshly filled one, now cradling her c@m-swollen belly, let out a cracked “Again, please—again,” and lifted her arm with a whimper.And then the wave began, across the dining hall. Other women. Watching. Waiting. Hiding. Hoping. Waitresses near the kitchen dropped their trays with a clatter and raised their hands in unison. A cruise guest near the glass wall wept openly, one hand over her womb, the other in the air like she was surrendering to lust itself. A young couple at a booth—only the woman stood, her hand high, while her boyfriend stared at her, open-mouthed and defeated.It spread. A contagion. Dozens of women—of every body, every age, every shape—lifting hands like they were pledging themselves to a new goddess of seed and swelling. And then… Nicole saw her. In the far corner of the dining hall sat an elderly woman—gray-haired, stoic, dressed in formal cruise attire with a string of pearls and a half-finished c@cktail. She had been silent through it all. Observing. Unmoved. Unblinking.Until now.She raised her hand. Calm, confident, high. Nicole’s gaze snapped to her—and something shifted behind her eyes. Her c@ck jumped, hard enough that the redhead gasped as it slapped the underside of the table, and Nicole’s nostrils flared.She smiled—slow and feral. “I see you, sweetheart,” she murmured. “You want a handful of little uns, do you?”The woman gave a single, almost regal nod.And Nicole groaned. Loud. Deep. “Then I’m going to wreck you,” she growled, voice vibrating through the bones of the room. “You’re not walking off this boat. You’re gonna waddle off.”Her c@ck throbbed in front of her.And every woman in that hall just got wetter.The tension was unbearable now—visceral in every corner of the dining hall. Thighs squeezed shut and then opened again. Fingers twitched, nails dug into skin. Waitresses stood frozen mid-step, flushed and panting. Guests—dozens of them—stared with parted lips and glassy eyes, their entire realities collapsing into the black hole that was Nicole: massive, growing, throbbing.Her c@ck stood slick and twitching, bobbing proudly in the air like it hadn’t just emptied inside one girl and was already demanding more. Her muscles gleamed with heat and meat-fed expansion, shirt all but destroyed, sleeves torn open and fabric stretched near bursting around her chest. She stood above the chaos she created, flanked by kneeling women, dripping women, filled women—and grinned.And then, her voice rang out. “Every woman—” she said, raising her voice just enough to own the hall, “who wants to get pregnant tonight…”Every head lifted. Every woman leaned closer, breath caught.Nicole’s grin widened, slow and wolfish. “…Be at Room 65 in ten minutes.”A low murmur rolled across the dining hall—half gasp, half moan. One woman dropped her fork and didn’t even notice. A waitress whimpered and ran toward the exit. Olivia gasped and clutched the woman next to her. The girl still cradling her c@m-stuffed belly gave a soft, broken laugh of disbelief—and started waddling toward the hallway right then and there. Six hours later…A line had formed outside Room 65, and it stretched far beyond the tasteful gold plaque on the stateroom door. It wound down the corridor, past guest rooms, past the decorative potted plants and glossy art prints, past cleaning carts and room service trays—past sanity itself.By the time it reached the emergency stairwell, it was a living serpent of women. All shapes. All ages. All nationalities. Some barefoot. Some half-dressed. Some with their dresses tied up above the waist already. Some in robes with nothing underneath. All of them held the same look: glassy-eyed, thighs slick, wombs empty and waiting.There were no protests, nor was there shame when anyone of any creed showed up. Only anticipation.At the front of the line, the girl who had been first—the one who had taken Nicole’s c@ck to the gut and come out swollen, dripping, changed—stood quietly, belly now even rounder from the sheer volume she’d held onto. She stroked it slowly, reverently. She wasn’t waiting for another turn. She was waiting to listen. One held a towel between her thighs. The other just dripped openly onto the carpet.And behind them? Not dozens more. Hundreds. Even a few from other parts of the ship. Spa staff. Room attendants. Married guests who had snuck away from sleeping partners. A mother holding hands with her grown daughter, both nodding solemnly to each other. One pregnant woman, already heavy with someone else's child, clutching her belly and whispering “I need more, I need her…”And at the very back—behind them all—stood the ship’s captain. Hat tucked under one arm. Uniform collar undone. Medals shining under the low hallway lights. She was in her fifties, maybe older, but her hand was steady as she ran it down the front of her blouse, already halfway unbuttoned. A radio sat clipped to her belt. It buzzed with static.“Captain,” came a voice from the bridge. “Ready to resume course?”She raised the radio slowly. Brought it to her lips.“Negative,” she said, voice calm, firm. “All ship operations are on hold until I’ve had my turn.”A beat of silence.Then the voice again, quieter. “...Understood.”She clipped the radio back and exhaled.Silence lingered in the corridor—hot, thick, humid with arousal and anticipation—but only for a moment. Then it began, soft and tentative at first, like a spark passed hand to hand: conversation. But not the kind women usually had while standing in line. No idle talk of weather or husbands or where they’d boarded the ship. This was different.A woman midway through the line turned to the one behind her—slim, athletic, dark hair matted at the roots from sweat. She looked her up and down once, then let her eyes drop to the exposed skin beneath her knotted tank top, where her belly gleamed with a sheen of oil.“So,” the woman asked, voice breathy, “how many are you planning on taking?”The dark-haired one didn’t hesitate. “Six.”The first woman blinked. “Six? In one go?”The dark-haired one shrugged, licking her lips. “She’ll make it fit.”A third woman—a voluptuous brunette in a torn dress clutching a damp towel between her thighs—let out a laugh. “Six is cute,” she said, eyes smoldering. “I want nine. I want to feel my skin stretch for days. I want to hear them kick every time I move.”“I want a litter,” whispered one woman in a business skirt with no panties. “Three’s not enough. I want to be carried off.”“I want her to fill me and my sister,” another woman said, jaw set, eyes glassy. “Together. One right after the other. I want to watch.”Laughter rippled. Not the kind of humor that relieved tension—this laughter was taunt, competitive.“I’m gonna ask for twins.”
“Quads, or I’m crawling back in for another load.”And then the door opened again—Room 65 creaking just a little wider, light spilling into the hallway like the mouth of a furnace. Nicole’s voice rolled out, low and rich and absolutely sure of itself: “Next.”The line stilled. She stepped forward.The elderly woman.Except no one would have dared call her old in that moment.She wore a bikini that was blatantly designed to provoke—thin straps that clung to her hips like they feared for their lives, a top that barely covered her nipples, the lower curves of her br@@sts spilling out like they were daring someone to stare. Her silver hair was coiled up in a tight bun, face glowing, not from makeup, but from confidence—a woman who’d seen life, dominated it, and now wanted to be wrecked by something bigger than herself.Someone whispered, “Oh my god.”
Another: “She’s gonna do it. She’s really going in.”And she did.The elderly woman stepped into Room 65 like she was entering a temple—not with hesitation, but reverence. Her heels clicked softly against the polished floor, her bikini riding high on her hips, skin bronzed and shimmering with oil, chest rising in shallow, anticipatory breaths.But it wasn’t Nicole she saw first. It was the aftermath.The room was thick with heat and scent—sex and sweat. And strewn across the velvet-upholstered furniture, against the walls, across the floor—were women. Breathless, gasping, moaning, leaking, ruined women. Their bellies were round and taut and high, each one shining with the flush of exertion, covered in sweat and faint smears of c@m. And some of those wombs? They weren’t just full. They were moving.One woman—familiar in her groaning dignity—lay spread across a chaise, her legs still twitching, one hand splayed over her stomach as it shifted. Something inside her rolled. Kicked. She moaned aloud, her other hand drifting down to her dripping slit.It was Jessica.Next to her, on the wide center bed, was Margaret—her kaftan long discarded, her body almost unrecognizable beneath the sheer size of her gut. She was propped on her elbows, breathing in short, shallow bursts, her belly jerking beneath her hands with rhythmic thumps, the swell visibly alive. She looked up with hooded eyes and smiled.Everywhere she looked—women splayed, some of them still twitching with aftershocks, thighs soaked and open, milk leaking from full br@@sts, lips swollen and kissed raw. One was still moaning Nicole’s name. Another was trying, and failing, to sit up, belly rocking with every small movement. A third just whimpered, hands on her own abdomen, whispering more over and over again.And then… Nicole emerged. Not from behind the bed. Not from the shadows. From…somewhere—as if the room itself had birthed her, summoned her back into being when the next womb was ready for filling. She came out barefoot, completely naked, her body a living contradiction of savagery and control. Veins trailed her thighs, her biceps, her c@ck—which hung long, still wet, streaked with milk and c@m from prior triumphs. Her pecs bounced with every step, abs flexing and gleaming with a sheen of sweat.And in her hand—gripped casually—was a large, wide-mouthed bottle. The label was gone. The liquid inside? A dense, murky gold. Viscous. Rich. Not a protein shake. She tilted it back without a word and chugged. Her throat worked greedily. The fluid coated her lips, rolled down her chin, trailed thickly over her collarbone—and kept going. The liquid poured between her br@@sts, sliding in thick, heavy rivulets down her pecs, over the ridges of her abs, gliding slowly down the carved gutters of her obliques. It coated her nipples, ran in slow streams down her belly, dripping off her hips, steaming slightly where it met the warmth of her skin.She exhaled, then growled low in her throat—just once. Her c@ck twitched, the skin drawing tighter, swelling visibly in the space of seconds, thick veins rising like rivers under pressure, fed by a hunger that had never been satisfied.And then it started. The drink, whatever it was—whatever it had done—began to work.Nicole’s body grew. It didn’t happen all at once. No. It started slow—sinisterly slow—like the moment before a fault line splits, like the sea pulling back before a tsunami. Her traps thickened first, rising with her breath as though they were inflating, pushing higher around her neck. Then her pecs—already massive—swelled outward, the ridges deepening, the muscle piling on top of itself like it couldn’t decide where to stop. Her nipples, soaked from the thick liquid she'd chugged, jutted obscenely from her chest as the weight of her upper body doubled in seconds.A deep, wet creak echoed from her core as her abs pushed forward, brick by brick by brick, each one growing denser, deeper, more defined—until they looked sculpted from living iron. Her obliques flared out with terrifying symmetry, her waist thickening slightly, not from fat, but from foundation.The elderly woman gasped—genuinely, reflexively—as she watched Nicole’s thighs begin to push apart, growing wider and thicker, quads splitting into distinct, meaty heads with each minor shift of stance. Her calves followed—diamond-cut and pulsing with power, as if her body needed to anchor itself to the earth just to stay standing.And her c@ck? It wasn’t just growing longer—though it was, by the inch, every heartbeat pumping more length through that thick, twitching shaft—but wider, heavier, visibly veined, glistening with the sheen of whatever alchemical fuel she'd just downed. The head swelled, angry and flushed, a thick pearl of golden pre-seed drooling from the slit and rolling slowly down the curve of it. The shaft curved upward now, the weight alone forcing it to lift.Nicole tossed the bottle aside—clink—and rolled her shoulders, her chest heaving, her body surging with one last wave of hypertrophic glory. There was no longer a human word for what stood before that door. Just mass, girth and hunger.She loomed in front of the older woman, casting a shadow longer than logic, body ans c@ck so hard and wide it seemed to throb and flex in time with the rhythm of the room itself. Her voice came slow, thick, rumbling like the engine of the ship.“Tell me,” she said, c@ck twitching with expectation, “how many babies do you want?”The older woman opened her mouth—but no sound came. Not right away. Because to her left, there was movement. The trio of women tangled together across the sunken couch began to stir—violently. Their bellies—already enormous—kicked beneath their hands, pulsing, legs twitching, nipples leaking thin streams of milk down flushed, panting chests.Another arched, gripping her stomach as something inside shifted, her skin flexing outward with a visible, rolling movement. She moaned. Sobbed. Laughed.The older woman turned her head—Only to see, to her right, a different kind of miracle taking place. Two women knelt on the carpet, panting, one clutching the other from behind, both of their bellies growing. Visibly. Second by second. The tight skin swelling outward, taut and hot, veined and pink with pressure. One gasped, then groaned.Nicole just stood there, c@ck rising like a tower of judgment, watching the older woman tremble, waiting for the answer. And around them—A cacophony began. Moaning. Kicking. Wombs shifting. Guts churning. Bellies swelling. Bodies leaking.The woman finally turned back to Nicole, eyes wild, lips parted, chest heaving with the thudding drum of her heart. “I—” she stammered. “I don’t know,” she gasped. “As many as you can give me.”Nicole grinned. Slowly, predatorily. Her c@ck throbbed—hard—rising just a little higher, heavy with the weight of a new load ready to find a home. She stepped in close, towering over the older woman. One massive hand lifted—cupped the woman’s jaw. She tilted it up gently.“I like a challenge.”The older woman moaned, her knees nearly buckling under her.“Let’s find your limit, sweetheart.” DAYS LATERThe Aphrodite’s Mercy glided across the ocean like a satiated beast, her engines humming low and steady beneath the glassy calm of the early morning sea. Gone was the urgency of departure, the high-strung buzz of restless guests seeking entertainment. Now the ship moved with the serene heaviness of something that had consumed, and consumed well.And up ahead—breaking the endless horizon of blue—was the island.It rose like a jewel from the sea, kissed by sunlight and too perfect to be real. A lush crescent of emerald and gold, ringed with sand so pale it looked bleached to the bone, fine as silk dusted from the sky itself. Palm trees dotted the shoreline in elegant curves, their fronds swaying in a gentle breeze, casting long shadows across the white stretch like the fingers of lazy gods.Behind the beach, the terrain climbed—gentle at first, then dramatic. Verdant hills rolled upward into cliffs adorned with flowering vines in reds and pinks and burning oranges. A thin silver waterfall spilled from a jagged green peak, its cascade sparkling in the sunlight like a thread pulled from the hem of heaven, disappearing into a freshwater pool ringed with black stone and flowering hibiscus.The scent of salt and blossom drifted on the breeze, reaching even the upper decks of the Aphrodite’s Mercy, teasing its guests with the taste of paradise before the first foot had even touched the shore. To the left, a series of smooth, pale boulders formed natural terraces where the waves crashed and rolled back in slow, foaming sighs. The waters glowed clear turquoise, the sea life visible from above—reef fish in brilliant flashes of color weaving through the rocks and coral like threads in living embroidery.Farther in, the architecture began. Low-slung villas in creamy stone, kissed with accents of gold and cobalt, nestled between palm groves and flowering hedges. Their roofs were shaded with broad canopies, their windows open, hammocks swaying, loungers facing the sea.As the ship slowed its approach, its hull cutting a wide, lazy crescent across the surf, the crew snapped to position—not with the rigid professionalism of duty, but with the quiet awe of people preparing to deliver something precious.The Aphrodite’s Mercy came to a halt just offshore, its anchor dropping with a low thud that rippled through the decks like the exhale of a satisfied lover. A moment later, the gangway began to descend—its mechanisms unfolding down from the main deck toward the pristine, ivory-bright dock that waited to receive it.The assembled crew stood at full attention, dressed immaculate in pressed whites, but none of them spoke. They watched.And then the first heel touched the gangway.She moved slowly. Not from weakness, but from sheer mass. Her sundress was thin and open at the sides, offering no effort to conceal her stomach—round, high, hard. The fabric clung to her hips like a second skin, her br@@sts heavy and leaking through the lace of her bra. Her hand rubbed instinctively over her belly’s curve, and she waddled—a slow, sensual roll of hips, every step echoing with liquid sloshing from deep within.And then came the rest. The women emerged in pairs, in trios, in a procession. Some leaned on each other, laughing softly, whispering breathless things as they adjusted the straps of dresses that no longer fit. Others cradled bellies that bounced with life beneath translucent wraps, nipples dark and swollen, some leaking, some already dripping milk down their thighs. Their stomachs came in all shapes and sizes—wide and low, high and tight, veiny and flushed—but all of them were huge.Nicole was to be thanked for all that.A dark-haired woman in a two-piece bikini strutted forward proudly, her belly swaying with every step, fingers laced behind her head as if daring the crew to stare. One woman was barefoot, wearing only Nicole’s shirt, now tied off above the curve of her womb, the front buttons missing entirely. Another was too round to manage the walk upright—she came in a wheelchair, pushed by a fellow guest, legs parted, belly bouncing between her knees, moaning with every subtle bump.The elderly woman appeared near the end of the line—glowing, grinning, her hips rocking side to side under the weight of a belly that shouldn't have been possible for her age. Her skin was taut and veined, her bikini now barely clinging to her frame, and as she passed the crew, she waved like royalty.And still, more came. Women of every shape, flushed and dripping, some with semen still drying on their thighs, some with twins, triplets—more—pushing against their wombs, eager to be born. Their bodies moved with the heavy grace of fertility overwhelmed, stretched and conquered. The dock was becoming full of them now, the walkway a parade of purpose, of women whose wombs had become territory, claimed by one woman and filled to the brink.And then—she arrived. The ship shuddered slightly, as though even the hull knew she was coming.Nicole stepped onto the gangway. She didn’t need fanfare. Her body radiated with an obscene presence, every muscle rolling beneath her skin like liquid marble, her shoulders impossibly wide, her cock hanging heavy and proud down her thigh, veined and bobbing with every step like it remembered the hundreds of wombs it had filled and wasn’t close to done.Behind her came Jessica and Margaret. Jessica walked slow, clutching her belly with both hands. It was vast—twice the size it had been when she’d arrived on the ship. Her br@@sts leaked softly through a thin linen tunic, nipples dark and swollen. Her face was glowing, mouth open in a half-laughing pant, her body practically rolling with every step. Her feet were bare. She didn’t care.Margaret walked beside her, resplendent in nothing more than a sarong and a knowing smirk. Her belly sat low and full, so taut it looked like a single groan from Nicole could tip her into labor. Her skin gleamed with oil, and she moved like a queen long past shame—long past doubt. Her hand never left her stomach. It pulsed beneath her fingers with kicks that drew shudders of delight.And beside them—Ethan. He walked slowly, carefully. His eyes were wide, haunted like he’d seen more than any man should. He kept his gaze low, glued to the wood of the gangway, cheeks red and jaw clenched. And behind those eyes? He was hard.Nicole didn’t even look at him. She just reached one massive arm around Jessica’s waist, pulled her gently into her side, and kissed her temple. The way Jessica melted into it sent a ripple of jealous moans down the dock. Margaret rolled her eyes, but her hand dropped to her own belly, rubbing slow, indulgent circles as she walked—half possessive, half inviting.And then they saw her. The island’s inhabitants—not tourists, not guests, but the women who lived and thrived in that sun-soaked paradise—stepped out from their villas and pathways, from shaded terraces and high, draped balconies. And they froze. Every one of them. Dozens—hundreds—of women. Young and old. Lithe and lush. Some curvy, some cut. All vibrant. All ripe.Nicole stepped onto the dock like a stage, the sea breeze rolling over her skin. Her cock swayed, heavy, half-hard and hungry again. Her pecs glistened, her abs rippled, and her thighs shook the planks beneath her. Behind her, Jessica giggled softly—already cupping one side of her belly where a foot kicked, and Margaret just smirked, proud and unbothered, her belly visibly shifting with life.The island women gasped. Several clutched their stomachs reflexively, as if they could feel their wombs tighten at the sight of her. Others pressed thighs together, some staggered, breathless, mouths open. One woman—bronzed, toned, mid-thirties—let out a soft, involuntary whimper and dropped her basket of fruit onto the sand.And still Nicole said nothing. She just looked. Her gaze moved slow, encompassing, across the sun-kissed bodies of the island women frozen in reverent silence. Across the bulging, leaking, moaning cluster of cruise ship passengers behind her. Across Jessica, still clinging to her side with a dazed, glowing smile, and Margaret, smirking like she knew exactly what was about to happen.Nicole’s cock twitched again—thick and alive with weight—bobbing once at thigh height, smeared with the faintest sheen of moisture, already stirring everyone into dripping readiness.And then—finally—she spoke. “Settle in,” she said to her crowd, voice like heat rolling off a canyon wall. “Stretch out. Get to know the place.” A pause. A glint in her eye. “Get to know the locals.”A murmur of breathless laughter rippled through the pregnant women from the ship, eager and unsteady as they reached for one another, already swaying toward the barefoot islanders who hadn't stopped staring. One of them—bare-bellied and still leaking—stumbled toward a wide-hipped woman in woven linen and grabbed her hand. Another leaned against a tree, moaning as she was greeted by curious fingers on her belly.Nicole turned from them, slow, deliberate, cock swinging with each step like it had a mind of its own, thick and waiting.“I’m off,” she said over her shoulder, not even glancing back, “to get some breakfast.”And with that, she veered—directly toward the nearest woman. An islander, tall and strong, with thick thighs and br@@sts bare to the sun, adorned in shells and beads and nothing else. Her mouth opened in stunned awe as Nicole approached.Nicole reached out—broad hand sliding up the woman's ribcage, over her breast, fingers teasing the nipple, slow and possessive. Then:“You’ll do.”'
User: How mich pregnancy is in it
User: How mich pregnancy is in it
Assistant: