The heat inside her was unbearable.
With a wet, final slurp, Milo vanished past her lips — not the ones on her face, but the ones that pulsed with purpose between her thighs.
Alive.
Her womb wasn’t just flesh. It was a world—a moist, pulsing dimension of folds and warmth, shifting constantly. The moment he passed her threshold, gravity betrayed him. He fell inward, downward, upward — every direction all at once. Walls pressed and released, thick with lubricant, muscles squeezing him in slow, affectionate spasms.
She sighed far above the clouds. From outside, one could only hear a contented groan — the kind a woman makes when sliding something long-anticipated into her depths.
Inside, Milo screamed. But the womb drank the sound like wine.
The air was thick. Every breath coated his throat in pheromone-soaked humidity. He could barely move, slick walls kneading him, kneading with him, pulling him deeper as if her very core refused to let him exist as he was.
“I can feel you squirming, little man…”
Her voice echoed inside his skull, like she was speaking directly into his blood.
“You’ll soften soon. Your bones don’t belong in here. Let go… Melt for me.”
Her womb clenched — a full-body squeeze that crushed every inch of him with unbearable pressure, not to break him, but to reshape him.
Milo whimpered. His legs went numb first.
The walls pulsed again. And again.
With each contraction, his form slackened, shrunk, melted, his identity blurring as her insides worked him down into a more suitable shape — one that belonged to her, inside her.
Far above, the titaness shuddered, placing one hand over her lower belly as it began to swell, glowing faintly from within.
She stroked her monstrous shaft with her other hand — lazy, long pumps that sent quakes through the Earth.
“You’re becoming something better,” she moaned.
“A part of me. A seedling. You’re not prey, darling. You’re my womb-thing now.”
Inside, Milo could feel himself losing… name. Purpose. He didn’t remember his job. His home. His body was gooey, embryonic. Not gone — remade.
The pulsing tunnel of her womb churned, whispering things in a language of heartbeat and hunger.
And then, another presence joined him.
He wasn’t alone.
Another body — half-melted, twitching, faceless — pressed against him in the fluid dark, moaning soundlessly. And another. And another. Others she had taken. They weren’t dead. They were waiting. Growing.
Part of her ever-swelling pregnancy.
“Soon,” her voice cooed.
“I’ll push you all out. A new breed. Made in my image.”
And as her orgasm tore through the sky like thunder, painting the clouds with unnatural light, Milo was held in her womb — helpless, unborn, and never truly leaving her again.