10. Maeve #2
The fast fuck. Tail cinched. Hard driving. The load building behind the ring while his body produces more. Then the release—the tail unwinding, the flood, the heat hitting my insides with a force that makes my belly tighten and my walls clench and my body pull everything in.
His palm finds my stomach. Presses.
“Keep it inside.”
Three words. More than “eat.” More than “good.” The most complex sentence his feral brain has produced, directed at my body through the flat of his palm.
I keep it inside. Not because he told me to.
Because my body has already decided to. The walls clenching, the muscles contracting, everything below my navel working to hold the heat where it is.
Somewhere under the awareness, the old watchfulness clocks it: my body is cooperating. It doesn’t have a follow-up for that.
He feeds me after every fast fuck.
His fingers at my mouth while his cock softens inside me.
Meat. Warm, still carrying the smoke smell of whatever fire he cooked it over, and my mouth waters before my teeth even close on it.
His thumb pushing the piece past my lips when I’m too slow to take it.
I chew on the good side. His cum pools in my belly, thick and hot, and the food goes down on top of it.
Two kinds of full. My body taking both on its own.
“More.”
I shake my head.
It’s the same argument as the first time. His jaw tightens. His hand stays where it is, food between his fingers, crimson knuckles radiating heat against my lips. Insisting.
I take it. He settles.
His cock gives one slow, idle flex inside me.
Not the driving rhythm—just a pulse. A reminder that he’s there.
His tip presses against the front wall in a lazy roll, and the sensation that sends through my pelvis is—I don’t know what it is.
Not pain, not the almost-pleasure of the knot sessions—something in between. Something that makes my belly tighten.
I breathe through it. He feeds me another piece.
He fucks me again before the food is fully down.
No warning. His cock hardens inside me between one breath and the next—the prehensile flex snapping from drowsy to driven, his cock thickening against my walls. The tail cinches around his base. He drives in.
I grunt. The sound shoved out of me by the thrust. My ribs press into the furs. His hips snap against my ass and the impact jolts through my pelvis, my spine, my teeth.
Again. Already.
The camp ran a schedule. Work, eat, sleep. The schedule was brutal, but it was a schedule. I could count the hours between shifts. Could brace for the whistle. This has no whistle. His body decides when the lull ends.
He drives in harder. The tail grips. His balls, fuller than before, already rebuilding the load.
The swollen weight of them pressed against me with every stroke.
The sound is obscene. Wet. His cock driving into what’s already full of him, the cum from the last round pushed deeper by the force of this one.
“Keep it inside.”
The words grunt against the top of my head, his mouth on my hair, the command landing in my body while his cock hits the end of me.
I can’t keep it inside. My body’s already doing it without me. My body decided three fucks ago that his cum was something it wanted to keep.
The camp-brain flares: your body is cooperating with the thing inside you.
I want to be angrier about that than I am.
I try, for a second, to conjure the old fury, the one that got me through the work line and empty ration days.
It doesn’t come. What comes instead is the quiet, ugly relief of a body finally being given enough, and relief was never supposed to feel like betrayal, and it does anyway.
He comes. The tail releases. The flood—massive, cramping, hitting my belly so hard my abs lock. His palm lands there again. Presses down.
His palm. My belly. Warmth pressing in from both sides.
His cock softens inside me. His hand stays on my abdomen, and the starved ache in my bones goes quieter than it’s been in months.
The hunger isn’t screaming anymore. It’s not even talking.
It’s—listening. The way I used to listen in the barracks at night, straining to hear the humming woman three bunks down.
He’s keeping me alive.
Not the way the camp kept me alive. The camp fed me enough to stand. Just enough to produce value, nothing more.
I watched what happened to workers who stopped producing value. Saw the empty bunk the next morning, the mattress gone before breakfast, no one saying a name out loud. You learned not to ask. You learned the silence where a name used to be.
He’s feeding me past value. Past survival. The food is more than enough. Whatever the cum is doing, I can’t name it. But my ribs hurt less. My shoulder grinds quieter. The bone-deep cold that’s lived in me for months is thinner after every flood.
His gold-dark eyes find mine. He checks whatever he checks when he looks at me—the thing I can’t name, the thing that tightens his jaw when the answer isn’t good enough yet.
I don’t lean toward him.
I hate that he’s checking. Hate that I care whether the answer’s good enough. The old fear calls this weakness, and weakness was the fastest way to get noticed, and getting noticed never went anywhere good. I press my mouth shut against all of it.
But when his hand shifts on my belly, my breath catches.
And I don’t pull away.