The World Only Easter Egg

I found myself in Mariah’s private studio, coffee in hand, watching the diva’s empire come alive around me. The room buzzed with quiet precision — technicians darted between racks of gear, engineers calibrated consoles glowing like alien machinery, and someone carried in a tray of warm tea that smelled faintly of honey and citrus. Every movement was smooth, practiced, the kind of organized chaos that only comes from people who’ve done this a thousand times.

I leaned against the edge of the soundboard, watching the choreography unfold.

“Didn’t even need to touch the console this time,” I muttered to myself. “Mariah’s got her own professional army.”

And she did. Every piece of equipment gleamed. Every voice that echoed in the room spoke with experience. If my studio back at Meteor was a workshop of creators, this place was a temple of perfection.

Monica approached, clipboard in hand, wearing the same look of authority I usually saw in Sabine when she was about to run through a logistics plan. She had that energy — the kind of woman who could command an entire building with just a look.

“Mariah Kari Incorporated,” she said with a little smirk of pride.

“She’s her own label, her own management, her own security. Everything you see here? Built from her pocket.”

I took a sip of my coffee and chuckled. “Of course she is. Queen Mariah doesn’t share the throne… Right.”

That earned me a small laugh. Monica nodded, scanning the studio as her staff flitted around. “And the best part? Everyone here’s a woman… Every engineer, assistant, even the security.”

That caught my attention. I glanced around again, noticing it properly this time — not a single man in sight. From the tech staff in cargo jeans to the bodyguards at the door, all of them were women.

“Interesting,” I murmured, more to myself than her. “This world really is overflowing with women. It’s like the universe overcorrected after my old one burned itself out.”

Monica gave me a puzzled look, clearly not catching the “old world” part, but she didn’t press. Probably figured it was one of those weird artist metaphors.

I took another sip of coffee, the warmth grounding me as the studio’s ambient hum filled the air. For a moment, I just stood there, enjoying the rare sight of something working perfectly without my interference.

Mariah entered a few minutes later like a star stepping onto her own stage — because, well, she was.

She wore a simple black tank, dark jeans, and a pair of oversized headphones that looked almost too heavy for her head but somehow didn’t break her elegance. The lights reflected off her skin just right, soft and golden, and she gave me a teasing wave through the glass booth.

“You sure you’re not joining in, Sael?” she called, voice carrying that playfully dangerous tone that said I could flirt or I could sing, maybe both.

I leaned back against the console, smirking. “It’s all, yours Mariah.”

“Alright~” Her laugh echoed faintly through the booth’s mic before she turned to the music stand.

Then, just like that, the show began. The instrumental of Emotion filled the room — soft piano, a heartbeat of percussion, then her voice. It was clean, practiced, smooth… maybe too smooth.

I didn’t move. Just watched. Listened. Observed.

Her team was enthralled. Every note out of her mouth seemed perfect to them. The sound engineer’s face said, this is gold. Monica stood with her arms crossed, proud. Even the assistants peeked around the sound booth door just to hear better.

And yet, as I listened, a small frown crept up on me.

It was beautiful — objectively flawless — but something was missing. The rawness. The jagged edge that makes a voice human. It was all shine and no soul.

Monica glanced at me, noticing my silence. “She’s amazing, right?” she said, expecting me to nod like everyone else.

“She’s a diva for real…,” I replied quietly.

That made her smile — until I added, “But even a diva need direction.”

Her eyebrows lifted just a bit, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

The first verse ended. The track stopped. Everyone seemed satisfied. Everyone except me. I set my coffee down on the console and pressed the intercom button.

“Mariah,” I said into the mic, my tone calm but cutting enough to slice through the silence. “You’re holding back.”

The whole room froze. The technician’s hand hovered mid-air. An assistant’s notepad fell to the floor. Even the air conditioner seemed to stop for a moment, unsure if it was supposed to keep working under this tension.

Inside the booth, Mariah blinked, genuinely taken aback. Then she tilted her head, one hand resting on her hip. “Excuse me?”

I met her gaze through the glass, unflinching.

“You’re singing too safe,” I said. “I didn’t write the song for comfort… I wrote it for your fire vocals… make use of that...”

A couple of staff members exchanged looks that screamed this man has a death wish.

Monica muttered under her breath, “Oh, he’s brave... He’s either brave or suicidal.”

Mariah narrowed her eyes, the corner of her lips twitching upward. “You think I’m playing it safe?”

“I think,” I said slowly, “you’ve spent too long trying to sound perfect when the world fell in love with your imperfections….”

She stared at me for a moment — then that smirk fully formed. A mix of challenge and curiosity. “Alright, Tell me what you hear.”

I leaned slightly closer to the mic, voice low and deliberate. “Let it crack. Don’t smooth it. Let the note tear through — like it’s breaking something inside you.”

She stared through the glass at me for a few seconds longer, weighing my words like a queen deciding if she’d humor a jester. Then she nodded once. “You’ve got guts, boy.”

“And ears, too,” I replied.

That earned a few nervous chuckles around the room. The tension eased slightly, but every eye stayed on her.

Mariah took a deep breath, adjusted her headphones, and motioned for the engineer to restart the track.

This time, I didn’t speak. I just listened.

The music swelled again — same melody, same arrangement. But then her voice came in, and it wasn’t the same at all.

It was raw. Cracked at the edges. Vulnerable and fierce at once. Like every heartbreak she’d ever lived through was bleeding into the mic.

Every line hit deeper, the sound trembling with emotion that couldn’t be faked.

Monica’s clipboard slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor. No one said a word.

By the time the final chorus hit, I could feel the hair on my arms standing on end.

When the track faded, silence followed — the good kind, the stunned kind.

Mariah looked up through the glass, chest rising and falling, and flashed me a small, satisfied smile. “That what you meant?”

I smiled back, hands in my pockets. “Exactly.”

She stepped out of the booth to a wave of quiet awe from her team. Monica was shaking her head, muttering something like I don’t believe it.

I picked up my coffee again, now lukewarm, and took a sip as if nothing monumental had just happened. “Told you,” I said casually to no one in particular, “even gods need direction.”

Monica exhaled, half-laughing, half-incredulous. “You just told Mariah Kari how to sing… and she listened.”

I shrugged. “She’s smart. She knows when someone’s trying to polish her shine, not dim it.”

Mariah laughed, still breathless from the performance. “You really are something, Sael.”

I tilted my head, smirking. “I get that a lot.”

And as she walked past me to replay the recording, humming to herself, I thought — not for the first time — that it wasn’t the fame, or the noise, or even the music that made me love this world.

It was moments like this.

Where art was real again.

Where someone, even a goddess, could bleed through a song and remember what it felt like to feel.

The studio was already humming with electricity when we began the second take of Emotion.

Again, Mariah stood barefoot in the booth now, her heels discarded somewhere by the door. She adjusted her stance, closed her eyes, and let the first note escape her lips.

And just like that — the air shifted.

It wasn’t even the sound at first, it was the feeling. Her voice sliced through the quiet like lightning through silk — sharp, blinding, alive. Every ounce of her diva façade melted away, and what came out was pure vulnerability wrapped in gold.

I nodded from behind the console, barely breathing. “There,” I said softly into the mic. “That’s it.”

The room didn’t move. Even the blinking LEDs on the mixer seemed to pause in reverence.

The sound engineer — an older woman with graying hair tied in a bun — just stared at the screen, her mouth slightly open.

“I haven’t heard her like this in years…” she whispered, voice trembling a little.

Monica, standing beside her, muttered in disbelief, “This kid’s insane…. He’s training her.”

I pretended not to hear. My finger hovered over the console’s talk button as I gave quiet instructions through the intercom. “Hold that vowel… there. No, softer. Lift your chest when you hit the bridge. Think heartbreak, not perfection.”

Mariah didn’t argue. She didn’t even roll her eyes, which I took as a major win.

She listened.

Each word I gave her was followed, not fought. Each adjustment brought her closer to something that sounded almost divine.

When she hit the final note — that trembling, raw, impossible high — everyone in the studio just stared.

And then it hit me again, that weird sense of déjà vu. Back on my old Earth, this same woman was one of the world’s greatest singers — a legend who had forgotten, later in life, what her voice could do when stripped of ego.

Now, here she was again. Same name. Same tone. A chance to rewrite her story.

“Alright,” I said finally, leaning back in my chair. “That’s enough. Let’s move on.”

She removed her headphones slowly, still breathing hard, and looked at me through the glass with a mix of pride and disbelief. “You don’t even want to listen back?”

I smiled faintly. “Later. Let’s make more magic first.”

We jumped right into Fantasy.

The mood shifted. The room lightened, tension melting into rhythm.

“This one’s different,” I told her. “Not heartbreak — heat. Seduction. Smile when you sing it.”

Mariah gave me a teasing smirk, hands on her hips. “You really like being bossy, huh?”

I grinned. “Only when it works.”

The track started — playful drums, a bassline with that jazzy bounce, little synth bells dancing on top. My kind of sound.

Mariah began to move as she sang, swaying slightly, her hand tracing invisible shapes in the air. Her tone changed instantly — sultry, flirty, alive.

Every syllable sparkled.

Behind her, the backup vocalists exchanged looks that said holy hell, this is it. Even Monica, usually stone-faced and professional, forgot to take notes.

It wasn’t just a recording anymore — it was a performance.

Her voice filled the booth, wrapped around the beat, flirting with the melody. Every now and then she’d throw me a glance through the glass — playful, challenging, like she was testing if I could handle the fire I’d ignited.

And I just stood there, letting it happen, trying not to look too smug.

By the time the last chorus hit, the entire studio had transformed. The staff were clapping, the engineer was smiling ear to ear, and even I had to admit the energy was contagious.

“Alright,” I said, holding up a hand. “We’re not clapping yet.”

They all paused.

“We’re mixing.”

The laughter that followed filled the room — warm, genuine, human. The kind of sound that tells you everyone’s heart is in sync.

Monica shot me a look that said you’re an infuriating genius, but even she was smiling now.

The next hour blurred into motion.

It was like time didn’t exist — just music, light, and that strange rush of creation.

I moved from console to monitor to mixer, tweaking live settings as we recorded. Reverb. EQ. Layered harmonies. I even suggested a few spontaneous backgrounds runs for the backup singers — ideas that popped up in my head and somehow fit perfectly the moment they were sung.

Mariah, energized by the flow, followed every cue instinctively.

“Pull the mic closer. Let it breathe.”

“Hold that note, don’t rush it.”

“Good. Now smile when you say baby. There. That’s it.”

The whole team fell into rhythm. It wasn’t me commanding — it was me conducting, like some invisible thread tied all of us to the same beat.

At one point, I glanced up and caught Monica leaning against the console, watching in disbelief. “It’s like he’s conducting the air itself,” she whispered to one of the sound techs.

The woman just nodded wordlessly, her eyes still glued to the monitors.

By the time we played back the final cut, silence took over again.

No one dared to speak during that first playback.

Mariah’s voice — pure and rich and filled with emotion — danced across the speakers. It was soft one moment, explosive the next. The kind of track that gives you goosebumps even when you’ve already heard it twenty times.

And then, when it ended… thunder.

The room erupted in applause. Cheering, whistling, even one of the engineers let out a shout.

I let it go for a moment — just enough for everyone to let it out — before I raised my hand again.

“Save both versions,” I said calmly. “Raw and final.”

The applause faded into focused silence again. Professionalism reasserted itself.

Mariah stepped out of the booth, glowing — not from makeup or lights, but from that rare artist’s high you only get when you know you’ve done something that’ll last forever.

She walked right up to me, ignoring everyone else, her eyes still shimmering with adrenaline.

“You…” she said softly, almost in awe. “You just made me remember why I started singing.”

I smiled. “Good. Then my job’s done.”

She blinked, then laughed — that same carefree laugh that had made her a legend in another lifetime. “You’re impossible.”

“I prefer efficient,” I said, sitting back in the chair again.

Monica stepped forward, eyes scanning the console readouts as though she needed to confirm that what she’d just witnessed actually existed in data form.

“This,” she said slowly, “isn’t just good. It’s world-changing. When these two tracks drop…”

“They’ll break everything,” I finished for her.

Mariah placed a hand over her chest, smiling softly as she looked toward the booth where she’d just sung her soul out. “You’re right. I can feel it already.”

For a while, no one moved. The air was still humming with the echo of her last note.

And then I caught Monica glancing at me, her professional mask slipping just a little. “You’re going to ruin this industry, Sael VT.”

I raised my cup of now-cold coffee in a mock toast. “Good. It needed ruining.”

The final, shimmering note of “Fantasy” faded into the hushed embrace of the studio’s acoustic panels. For a heartbeat, there was only the soft, electric hum of idle equipment and the held breath of a dozen people.

Then, Monica, broke the silence with a clap of her hands that was more like a gunshot.

“That’s a wrap! Somebody gets the goddamn champagne in here, now!” she declared, her voice a mix of exhaustion and unadulterated triumph. She looked around the room, her eyes glistening.

“This isn’t just a recording, people. What we just did… that’s history.”

The dam broke. A cheer erupted from the backup singers, a cascade of relieved laughter and joyful hugs. Even the two stone-faced security guards posted by the door cracked smiles, peeking into the sacred space of the control room to offer nods of respect to the woman at the center of it all.

Mariah let out a laugh that was pure, crystalline joy, ringing through the studio like one of her own legendary high notes. She fanned her face with a hand, pretending to swoon against the vintage Neve console.

“Did you all hear him?” she announced to the room, her eyes sparkling as she pointed a perfectly manicured finger through the glass at Sael, still seated in the producer’s chair.

“He scolded me. Actually, scolded me! ‘Stop oversinging, Mariah. Simplify it. Feel it, don’t fight it.’” She imitated my calm, steady tone, sending another wave of laughter through her team.

“And you know what, ladies? It worked! The little genius bullied me into giving a better performance.”

From the control room, I chuckled, sinking back into the plush leather chair that still held the residual warmth of a long day’s work. I ran a hand through my hair.

“Hey now, let’s not start a rumor mill,” I called back, my voice cutting through the intercom with easy familiarity.

“Don’t go telling the world I bullied a living legend…. My reputation can’t handle it.”

Monica grinned, popping the cork on a magnum of expensive-looking bubbly with a satisfying "POP!" that made everyone jump and then cheer louder.

“Too late, kid,” she said, handing flutes to her assistants.

“That anecdote is gold. It’s going in the memoir. ‘The day the seventeen-year-old producer told Mariah Kari to shut up and sing.’” She winked at him. “Chapter twelve.”

As the celebration swelled around me—the clinking of glasses, the effervescent fizz of champagne, the easy, post-success banter—I found a quiet corner within the storm. My body was in the room, accepting a glass I wouldn’t really drink, but my mind was already back in the data.

The studio console was a landscape of blinking lights and digital readouts. I cued up the playback, not for the room, but for me.

On the massive main display, the waveforms for both “Emotion” and “Fantasy” materialized. They weren’t just sound files; they were topographical maps of feeling; constellations of musical genius I’d merely had the privilege of shepherding into this world.

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and closed my eyes as the first chords of “Emotion” washed over me. I listened not as a producer, but as a fan.

As the kid who’d had this on a scratched CD until it wouldn’t play anymore. The vocals were pristine, vulnerable, a raw nerve set to music. Then, the seamless crossfade into the upbeat, dreamlike rhythm of “Fantasy.”

It was perfect. More than perfect. It was…

They’ll top every chart. Obviously, I thought, a calm certainty settling in my bones. The metrics would be insane. But more than that… they’ll remind this world what real music sounds like. Something made with soul, not just algorithms.

Sunday talked to me secretly, just when I thought of her.

‘«Projected metrics confirm your assessment,» Sunday’s voice intoned, cool and precise. «Both tracks will achieve 1.2 billion streams across major platforms within 72 hours of release. Social media engagement will break all previous records. Cultural penetration will be immediate and significant.»’ Sunday said.

I smiled inwardly. ‘And the chaos that follows? The Industry fallout?’

‘«Seismic,»’ Sunday replied without hesitation.

‘«Prepare for imitation. Expect a 400% increase in demo submissions to Meteor Studio by the end of the week. Rival labels will attempt to deconstruct the harmonic sequences. They will fail.»’

My smirk widened. I took a sip of the champagne. It was dry and crisp, bursting with tiny bubbles on my tongue.

The celebration eventually began to wind down. The champagne flutes were collected, coats were fetched, and the goodnights started. The mansion, a monument to opulent success, began to settle into a post-historic-event quiet.

Mariah hugged her manager, her singers, her security—a queen thanking her court. Then she turned to Sael, who was quietly shutting down the console, his work truly complete.

She stopped before him, the electric energy around her softening into something more profound, more real. The diva persona melted away, leaving just a profoundly moved artist in its place.

“Sael,” she began, her voice quieter now, devoid of its performative power.

“I don’t say this often… to anyone. But thank you.” She placed a hand on his arm.

“You didn’t just give me two incredible songs. You…” she searched for the words, her eyes glimmering under the soft studio lights.

“You gave me a pulse again. You reminded me why I started doing this.”

I looked up, meeting her gaze. I didn’t blush or shy away from the praise. I simply absorbed it, acknowledged it, and gave her the honesty she’d given Me.

“Just promise me one thing,” he said, his voice low.

“Promise me you’ll sing them out there, on every stage, like they mean something. Because they do.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. She nodded once, a silent pact made between artist and architect. “Always.”

Another empire awakened, Sael thought, a wave of deep satisfaction rolling through him as he looked past her shoulder at the glowing studio monitor. The titles stared back, simple and monumental: EMOTION – FINAL MIXFANTASY – FINAL MIX

****************

The celebrations still hung in the air like shattered crystal when Mariah’s hand closed around my wrist. Her bedroom smelled of gardenias and champagne sweat—a scent that clung to the velvet curtains and gold-leafed mirrors. Staff scattered like startled birds, clearing the space with practiced silence. Only the click of the lock echoed. Thunk.

She turned, eyes dark and liquid as spilled ink.

“Sael.” Just my name—a whisper, a sigh. Her robe slipped from her shoulders, a cascade of crimson silk pooling on the Persian rug.

Moonlight traced the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, illuminating the impossible softness of skin I’d dreamed of touching since the first time I heard her laugh backstage.

“Mmph♥ Chuuu!!“ I met her halfway, my hands already rough on her waist. Her mouth crashed against mine—hot, sweet, tasting of honeyed tea and the raw exhaustion of a performance. I kissed her back harder, sloppy with hunger. Teeth scraped lips. Tongues tangled wet and frantic.

“Schlllp… Nghhhh” Our breath mingled in ragged gasps.

“Slap! slap!” My palm cracked against her ass—a sharp, stinging smack that echoed off the walls.

“Fuck—yes—” She arched into it, a low moan vibrating against my throat.

Her ass filled my hands, heavy and yielding. I squeezed hard enough to bruise, kneading flesh like ripe fruit.

“Squelch. Squelch” My fingers dug into the crease where thigh met cheek, pulling her tighter against my hips. She ground against me, the damp heat of her already soaking through my trousers.

“Been waiting, for that…” she panted, nails raking down my back. “Watching you watch me all day~...”

I spun her against the door, pinning her wrists above her head. Her breasts pressed against my chest, nipples hard as pebbles through the lace of her lingerie. I bit her neck—sharp, possessive—and she cried out, bucking against me.

“I know, baby…. Tell me,” I growled, grinding my cock against her belly. “What you want.”

Her laugh was breathless, wild. “Everything.”

I dropped to my knees. The rug scratched my skin, but I barely felt it. My mouth found the inside of her thigh—sucking, biting, leaving purple blooms.

“Schhhk.” Her scent flooded me: musk and salt and something floral, deeper, intoxicating. Her fingers twisted in my hair, tugging hard as I dragged her panties aside.

There. Pulsing, glistening, swollen folds parted like a wet flower.

“Schlllurp. Slurp!? Suck…” I licked her slow—one long, flat stroke from asshole to clit.

“Ah… Aahhh… Aaahhh♥” She screamed.

Her hips jerked, smearing slickness across my chin. I gripped her thighs, holding her open as I feasted. Tongue plunging deep. Glurk. Sucking her clit till her legs shook. Pop. She tasted like summer rain and sin.

“Don’t stop—oh god—Sael—”

I fucked her with my tongue, relentless. Her moans climbed higher, tighter—a trembling scale about to snap. When my fingers replaced my mouth, thrusting deep inside her, she shattered.

A guttural sob ripped from her throat. Splorch. Wetness gushed over my knuckles.

I rose, wiping her essence from my mouth. Her eyes were glazed, wrecked. Beautiful.

She reached for my belt buckle. Metal clinked. Zipper rasped. Sssskkrt.

Her hand wrapped around my cock—thick, dripping—and stroked once. Slow. Deliberate.

“Now,” she whispered, guiding me to her entrance. “Fuck me.”

“Thwuuump.” I pushed in.

Her body swallowed me whole—tight, scorching velvet. We moved. A frantic rhythm of slapping skin and gasping curses. Smack-smack-smack. Her nails drew blood on my shoulders. Each thrust deeper, harder. The bedposts rattled. Clank. Clank.

"Ooh-Ooooohhhhhh~♥♥" Her cries became shrieks. Mine—raw, animal grunts.

“Squeeelch. SQUIRT!! SQUIRT!!“ When she came again, her cunt clenched like a fist. I followed, spilling into her with a roar that shook the chandelier. The slick heat of her clamped around me, pulsing in desperate waves.

“Squeeeeeeesh.” Her cunt milked my cock, drawing me deeper into that molten core until—crunnch. A sickening, wet pop echoed through the room. Her eyes flew wide, pupils swallowing the ink-dark irises. Not pain—ecstasy. A guttural screech tore from her throat, high and keening like a wounded animal finding salvation.

“YEEEEESSSS! FUCK ME IN THE WOMB! BREAK ME!”

Her cervix gave way like overripe fruit yielding to pressure. Splort. Suddenly, I was buried to the root inside her very core, my swollen tip nudging the spongy, unfamiliar walls of her uterus. The sensation was obscene—tight yet yielding, impossibly intimate.

“glorp-glug-glug,” Her inner muscles convulsed in rhythmic spasms around the invading girth, as if her body was trying to swallow me whole.

“Feel it?” I growled, grinding my hips in slow, deliberate circles. Her womb clenched around the head of my cock like a wet, sucking kiss. “Schllllrp. Feel how deep I own you now?”

Mariah’s head thrashed against the door, her moans escalating into breathless, fractured sobs.

“Deeper! Gods, Sael, deeper! It’s—nnngh—it’s burning!”

Her nails carved fresh furrows down my back, drawing beads of blood that mingled with the sweat slicking our skin. She arched violently, forcing my cock impossibly deeper into that sacred cavity.

“Thwump-thud.” The door shuddered with every thrust.

I withdrew almost entirely—her inner walls clinging with wet, slurping protest—gluuuuck—then slammed back up into her womb with piston-force. WHAM. Her scream shattered the air.

“FUCK! YES! RIP ME APART!” Her thighs trembled, slick with her own juices and the thick smear of precum leaking from where we joined. The scent of sex—musky, metallic, ripe—hung thick as fog.

“Your womb’s fucking begging for my seed,” I snarled, pistoning into her with brutal, jackhammer strokes.

“Thud-thud-THUD.” Each impact drove a choked gasp from her lungs. Her eyes rolled back, whites showing, saliva slicking her chin. “I’m Gonna breed your pussy, Mariah. I’m gonna pump you so full—”

“DO IT!” she shrieked, her voice raw. Her hands scrabbled at my ass, pulling me harder, deeper.

“Breed me! Breed my fucking soul!”

The bedframe groaned as I pinned her harder against the door, angling my thrusts upward, grinding the crown of my cock against the velvety ceiling of her womb.

“Skreeeech. FSSSSSSHHHHH~” The friction was electric—a white-hot current searing up my spine. Her cunt wept, a constant stream of slickness dripping down her thighs to pool on the rug below.

“Drip-drip-splat.”

Her orgasm hit like a tsunami. Her womb contracted violently around me, a wet, vice-like suction.

“GLORP-GULP-GASP.” Her entire body bowed off the door, suspended only by the iron grip of my hands on her hips. A primal, guttural wail tore from her throat—long, ragged, dissolving into breathless whimpers.

“Sael…Sael…inside…stay…”

I felt my own climax cresting—a molten pressure building at the base of my spine. With a final, savage roar, I buried myself to the hilt and erupted. Hot, thick jets of cum pulsed directly into her womb.

“Spluuurt-glug-sploosh.” Each spurt triggered another convulsive clench from her depths, milking me dry. Squeeeeeze. Her womb flooded, warm and heavy.

We collapsed against the shuddering door in a heap of tangled limbs, panting, dripping, the air thick with the smell of sex and exertion. Her fingers traced the raw welts on my back as her womb still fluttered weakly around my softening cock, a final, wet sigh. Fwub-fwub.

The thick, wet heat of her core dragged at my length as I withdrew—slowly, agonizingly slow. My shaft, slick with our intermingled fluids and my hot seed, glistened under the dim light, peeling free from her impossibly deep, gripping embrace.

The sudden break of suction was startling: Pop. It was an obscenely loud sound in the charged quiet, like a cork wrenched from a bottle of expensive champagne.

Mariah gasped, the air catching in her throat, the sharp intake of breath hitching into a raw whimper. I watched, momentarily fascinated, as the taut, distended arc just below her navel—the sign of my full penetration—vanished instantly, her stomach flattening back into smooth, sweat-sheened skin.

A heavy, liquid gurgle followed, visceral and low—glug-gurgle-glug—as her depths, no longer plugged by my thickness, released a surge of our combined fluids. It seeped out of her stretched, flushed cunt entrance, dripping down her inner thighs in thick, pearly rivulets. The residue splattered onto the already soaked rug:

“Drip…drip…splat.”

The primal scent hit me anew—salt, musk, the heady perfume of spent sex, and something deeper, undeniably mine, branding the air itself.

I, stepped back, my softening cock heavy and sticky, still throbbing against my thigh. Mariah slumped against the wood of the door, trembling, her legs splayed wide in total, exhausted surrender. Her cunt pulsed weakly, a raw, gaping pink flower glistening under the haze of the moonlight filtering through the window. Her chest heaved; sweat plastered dark strands of hair to her temples. She was utterly wrecked, beautiful in her ruin.

I gripped my cock roughly at the base, squeezing out a final, thick bead of my spent life. It landed on her flushed thigh, stark white against the dark flush of her skin.

“Suck,” I commanded, my voice gravel, still thick with the aftershocks of our climax. “Clean it, Mariah.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. Her dark, drenched irises met mine—there was no pause, only a feral, desperate hunger rekindling in their depths. Without a word, fueled by pure instinct, she pushed herself forward, wobbling on shaky limbs, and sank to her knees before me. Her mouth parted, warm, hurried breath ghosting over my highly sensitive head.

Then her tongue found me—broad, wet, immediately claiming the mess I had made. She moved with purpose, strong, wet strokes from base to tip, meticulously lapping up the combined residue.

“Mm, mmm… Schlllp…schlllp…” The sound was filthy, intimate, and profoundly possessive.

She took the swollen head into her mouth, sealing her lips, sucking hard enough to hollow her cheeks:

“Gluck-gluck-gluck”. Her eyes never broke contact with mine, burning with defiance and desperate need as she swirled her tongue around the crown, tasting herself, tasting me, before plunging deeper, taking my shaft halfway down her throat. Gluuuurk.

“That’s it, Mariah,” I growled, tangling my fingers firmly in her sweat-dampened hair, guiding her frantic rhythm. “Swallow it all. Every last drop of my seed.”

She moaned around my thick flesh, the vibration sending fresh, delicious sparks up my spine. Her throat convulsed, working reflexively, swallowing eagerly:

“GULP! GULP!! SLLRRRURRPP!“ Her desperate hands gripped my hips, nails biting into the skin as she worked me, sucking with a primal ferocity that bordered on delightful pain.

“Schlorp-pop-glllck”. Spit and slickness coated her chin, dripping onto her heaving breasts.

“Good girl,” Sael murmured, watching her worship what had just brutally violated her deepest core. “Such a perfect, filthy hole.”

Her mouth was a furnace, raw and relentless. My cock throbbed against her tongue—still half-hard, still weeping traces of her slickness mixed with my spend.

“Schlorp-gluck-schlllp.” Her throat worked frantically, tendons straining beneath sweat-slicked skin as she took me deeper, gagging slightly when the head bumped the back wall of her esophagus. Gluuurk.

“Fuck,” I hissed, tightening my grip in her hair. “Sucking it like you were born for this.”

“Fuck~ my Jaw’s... felt raw...” She pulled back just enough to gasp, her lips swollen and glistening with my seed.

“Your size... it’s monstrous...” Her voice was shredded, ruined by the depth.

I thrust shallowly, punishingly, into the wet, hot cavern of her mouth. “You love it… don’t you,”

“Yes.” Her eyes—dark pools of wrecked devotion—flashed up at me. A devastating smile curved her bruised lips.

I yanked myself free with a sharp, wet pop. Her gasp was a sound of acute disappointment. Moonlight caught the thick, glistening string of saliva, bridging her lower lip to my cockhead before it snapped.

“Come here, babe~.” The command cracked like a whip across the silent room.

She obeyed instantly, scrambling onto trembling hands and knees. Her ass was still flushed crimson from my earlier slaps, the curve hypnotic as she braced against the massive floor-to-ceiling bedroom window. Beyond the glass, manicured gardens sprawled under the stars, distant mansion windows glowing like tiny, watchful eyes.

I gripped her hips, my thumbs digging into the stress dimples above her ass. I didn’t wait. No preamble, just the brutal, single-minded drive of my cock seeking her heat again. I lined up and slammed home.

“THWUMP-SQUELCH!”

“Oh GOD! They’ll—nngh—hear! They’ll SEE!” Mariah’s cry shattered the silence—a raw, ragged scream that bounced off the glass.

“Smack-smack-SMACK! “ I drove deeper, my heavy balls slapping repeatedly against her swollen, slick folds. Each impact echoed, loud in the confined space.

“Let them watch,” I growled, pistoning harder. “Let them hear how I ruin their star.”

Her cheek pressed to the cold pane, breath fogging the clear glass. Her ravaged channel clenched violently around me, still stretched wide from earlier, drenching my thighs in fresh lubricant.

“Squiiish-glug.” Below us, a light flickered on in the east wing. Someone was watching.

“Fuck me! Rougher!” Mariah moaned louder, arching her back to take me impossibly deeper, meeting my thrusts with vicious energy.

I obliged. My hand cracked down on her ass—a stinging SLAP!!!! that left a fresh red handprint overlapping the old bruising.

She shrieked, her inner muscles fluttering in a vicious spasm, seizing my cock. Squeeeeeze.

“You’re Slut!!,” I snarled, leaning over her, biting the nape of her neck. “Screaming your violation for the whole estate.”

“YES!” Her voice was pure wreckage and bliss. She reached back, clawing at my thigh. “Fill me! Again! RIGHT HERE!”

I pistoned harder, faster, driving for the edge. The entire window rattled in its frame. Clank-clank-CLANK! Her soaked tits swayed wildly against the glass, leaving smears of sweat and saliva. Below, another light snapped on, closer this time.

“See that?” I growled, drilling my cock up into that tender, abused depth. “They’re all awake. Watching you get split open.”

She sobbed—a broken, ecstatic sound. “Let’sMake them jealous.”

My balls tightened, drawing up into my pelvis. I slammed into her one last time, driving myself to the root as the orgasm ripped through me. Hot, thick cum pulsed violently deep inside her ravaged channel, filling her to overflowing.

“SPLOOSH-GULP-SQUIRT!”

Mariah collapsed against the window, trembling violently, my release already dripping down her inner thighs to pool on the polished hardwood floor. Drip... drip... splat.

Her breasts heaved, and her core was a single, swollen, glistening ruin, weeping our mingled fluids. Her liquid, dark eyes met mine, heavy with exhaustion. "Sael... please... I'm—"

"Full?" I finished, my voice low and dismissive, kneeling between her splayed legs. My thumb traced the puffy, overstuffed lips of her pussy. A thick, wet sound—Squish—as cum and slick seeped around the edges.

"You said that before." I let my fingers slide lower, brushing the tight, furious clench of her asshole—still untouched, knotted tight. "You don't get full until I say you're full... Mariah~"

Her protest died in a gasp. Gripping her ankles, I hauled her legs over my shoulders. Her thighs trembled against my neck, slick with sweat and spent lust. Though her womb had briefly been emptied, flattening her stomach, the ghost of my first flood lingered in the slight swell beneath her navel.

“Glug-gurgle.” Another thick trickle oozed from her pussy and landed on the rug—Splat.

I leaned forward, my cock—still thick, still hungry—sliding through the mess coating her slit.

“Schllorp.” The head nudged her clit, and she jerked violently.

"Please... wait….let me breathe..."

"No."

“THUMP!!! THUMP!! PAHH!! PAHH!!” I drove in. Not into the welcoming, wrecked cunt, swollen and slick as ripe fruit, but lower. Harder.

The blunt crown of my cock pressed against her asshole—that tiny, clenched star of muscle. Dry. Unprepared.

"Sael—!" Her scream tore through the room, pure, raw agony. Her body arched off the rug, spine bowing like a drawn bow. "NO! STOP! IT HURTS—!"

A vile, tearing sound—Riiip—obscene, as fabric yielded, then flesh. I forced myself inside, splitting her open.

“SCHLUCK.” Her asshole swallowed the first brutal inch, the ringed muscle stretching white-hot around my girth. She shrieked, a sound that scraped bone. Her fingernails shredded the silk beneath her.

"Your ass is Tight! Mariah!!," I growled, grinding deeper. Every ridge, every vein of my cock dragged against raw nerve endings.

“Screeeech.” Like tearing velvet, her hole pulsed violently, trying to reject the invasion. Clench-unclench-spasm.

"That’s right baby! Take it… you love my cock!" I held her hips down, pinning her like a captured butterfly.

"AAAHHHH!!!!! I CAN'T—!" Tears streamed down her temples. "YOUR COCK IS TOO MUCH—!"

“SHUT IT! YOU’LL TAKE IT AND LOVE IT! WHAMM!!” I grabbed her hips, silencing her defiance, and slammed home.

“THUMP!! PAHH!! THWUMP. “ Hilted. My balls slapped against her dripping cunt with a sharp Smack.

“Hngh! Hah… hng? H-haah?!” Her scream evaporated into a choked, guttural gasp. Her eyes rolled back, mouth slack. Shock held the room for three seconds.

Then, a low, broken whimper. "Ohhh... gods..."

I pulled back slowly, feeling every ridge of her internal tunnel cling. Gluuuck. Her rim flamed red, swollen, stretched obscenely wide around my shaft, blood mixing with the slickness—Schmear.

Then I thrust. Hard. Deep. “WHAM.”

Her gasp shuddered, turning into a broken, "F-f-fuck..."

Again. THUD. Rougher. Driving her body up the rug.

THUD-THUD-THUD.

A relentless rhythm of violation. Skin slapped skin—crack-crack-crack—her asscheeks reddening with the sharp impacts. Her cries shifted. Agony was bleeding into something else—a raw, breathless keen.

"Nnngh... YES! HARDER!"

Her inner muscles fluttered weakly around my cock buried in her ass—Squeeze-release. She was no longer fighting.

"Hurts... but... burns good..." she slurred, her head lolling. Her hand fumbled between her legs, fingers plunging into her soaked, gaping pussy. Squelch.

I drove my pelvis harder against her ravaged asshole. Skreeee. The friction burned for both of us. Her fingers plunged into her own slick cunt—squelch-schloop—as I hammered her with jackhammer force.

“THUD-THUD-THUD!” The sheets bunched beneath her shoulders with every brutal thrust.

Her body jolted like a rag doll, her legs hooked over my shoulders trembling violently. “SQQUUIIIRRRTT!!! SQUIRT!! “

Sweat dripped from my chin onto her heaving belly, mingling with the pearly streaks of cum still oozing from her pussy.

"Yesss—nngh—fuck my ass!! Ahhh!!!" she sobbed, rubbing frantic circles on her clit. Her other hand clawed at the rug, tearing threads. "Fuck my ass raw! Fill it!"

I leaned forward, driving deeper, grinding my pubic bone against her swollen asshole. Skreeeech. The sound of flesh straining.

"Gonna cum?" I growled, pistoning faster.

“Smack-smack-SMACK!” My balls slapped her dripping slit.

"Close—so close—" Her voice shattered into a high whine. Her asshole clenched like a vice—squeeeeeze—milking me as she scrubbed her clit furiously. "NOW!"

“Ngh♥ Ughh♥ Hnghh♥ Hiiik♥” A guttural scream tore from her throat as her body convulsed.

Her asshole pulsed around my cock in wet, rhythmic spasms—glorp-gulp-glug—while her pussy gushed a fresh flood of fluid onto the rug. Sploosh. She collapsed, limp, eyes glassy.

I didn't slow, didn't stop. My thrusts grew even rougher, chasing my own peak. Her belly began to swell again, visibly distending under the relentless pounding. Glug-gurgle. Cum from her womb seeped out around my shaft, pooling beneath her ass. Drip-splat.

"Look," I snarled, slamming deep. Her belly jiggled—taut, round, inflated like a balloon. "See how full you are?"

Her head lolled. "S’much… hurts…"

Her pussy was a wreck—swollen lips puffy and crimson, gaping open, oozing thick streams of white. Ooze-glurp. Her asshole, stretched impossibly wide around my cock, throbbed angrily. Pulse-pulse.

"You wanted everything," I reminded her, gripping her hips bruisingly. "Take it."

“THWUMP-THWUMP-THWUMP!”

My orgasm hit like a sledgehammer. Hot jets of cum erupted deep in her bowels—SPLOORTCH-GULP-SPLURT!—each spurt making her belly bulge harder.

“Blup-blup-BLUP.” She whimpered, tears leaking from her eyes as her stomach stretched tighter, holding the weight.

I stayed buried, grinding, emptying every drop I had. Squeeeeeze. Her wrecked asshole milked me dry.

When the spasms subsided, I finally pulled out—schluuuuck—and a torrent of cum immediately gushed from her ruined ass.

“GUSH-GLUG. FSSSSSSHHHHH~” Her belly remained inflated, round and tight as a drum. Cum leaked from all three holes—her asshole gaping like a second, bruised mouth, her pussy dripping steadily, her lips slick with spit and spend.

She lay motionless, breathing shallowly, eyes half-lidded and vacant. Utterly fucked senseless.

I traced a finger over her distended belly. Blorp.

"Still breathing, star?"

A faint moan. "Sael…"

Outside, dawn painted the sky pink. The watchers were gone. Only the scent of sex—thick, suffocating, and triumphant—remained.

I decided to upload next week chap as well.... since i'm might not be able to go online for the next week... since i had to go to another state... for some reason... so here you go.. and enjoy...