Master PC: Breeding Edition
Copyright© 2025 by North Point
Chapter 3: Willing Vessel
Mind Control Sex Story: Chapter 3: Willing Vessel - She thinks it’s just a kink. He knows it’s much more. When Chris secretly makes his wife fertile again, her reckless craving for unprotected sex spirals into obsession. Now pregnant — and loving it — Sandy has no idea the clock is already ticking. Because for Chris, the real thrill isn’t fatherhood… it’s the risk.
Caution: This Mind Control Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mind Control Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Cuckold Sharing Slut Wife Wife Watching Cream Pie Exhibitionism Oral Sex Pregnancy Safe Sex Body Modification Public Sex Transformation
Scene 1: The Waiting Game
The mornings told her first.
Not with panic. Not with some sudden, unmistakable shift — but in smaller, stranger ways that only her body seemed to understand. She didn’t need a test. Not yet. Not when she was already waking up groggy and queasy, pushing her breakfast aside after only a few bites, wrinkling her nose at the scent of Chris’s coffee like it had turned against her overnight. She stopped drinking it entirely. Switched to herbal tea — ginger, peppermint, whatever calmed her stomach — and began holding the mug with both hands every morning like it grounded her, like it could anchor her to something solid while everything inside her softened and swelled.
Her body wasn’t asking for attention. It was simply changing. And she didn’t need a confirmation to know what that meant. Not yet. Not while she could still pretend — gently, privately — that it might be something else.
⸻
The first real shift came in her clothes.
Her bras, once routine, started to feel unbearable halfway through the day. The underwire dug in too sharply. The cups felt wrong. And her nipples — tender, reactive, flushed — became too sensitive for even the softest cotton. So she stopped wearing one. At home, she let herself move freely, fabric brushing against her in ways that made her shiver or sigh or pause in her steps. It wasn’t pain. Not quite. Just ... intensity.
One night, Chris passed by the bathroom and slowed in the doorway. Sandy stood naked in front of the mirror, bare feet on cool tile, her hair pushed back, her expression calm but focused as she examined her reflection. Her hands were cupped around her breasts, lifting them gently, her thumbs brushing over the swollen tips like she was testing her own nerves.
“I think they’re growing,” she said, her voice quiet, detached, as if she were stating a fact about the weather. “Or maybe I’m just imagining it.”
Chris didn’t move. He leaned on the doorframe, watching her through the mirror.
“You’re not imagining it,” he said.
⸻
They still had sex every night, but it wasn’t about satisfying a hunger anymore. It was about something deeper, quieter — an anchor in the middle of her growing uncertainty. Chris moved slowly inside her, unhurried, no games, no roleplay. Just the steady rhythm of skin on skin, of breath shared in the dark, of their bodies seeking reassurance in one another. Sandy clung to him like he was the only steady thing in a world she couldn’t predict anymore — arms tight around his shoulders, hips rolling lazily beneath him, lips brushing his ear not to seduce, but to confess.
Her dirty talk had evolved with her symptoms, becoming something darker, richer, messier. It wasn’t about teasing anymore — it was about truth.
“Breed me,” she whispered into his neck, voice cracking from need and belief. “Make me pregnant again. Fill me until I can’t hold anything else. Push it so deep I’m leaking for days.”
Chris never pushed her away. Never questioned her.
He just gave her what she asked for — and answered her in kind.
“Already full and still not satisfied?”
“Think this one will finally stick?”
“Whose cum do you think is doing it — or do you just want it to be all of them?”
She moaned in response, wrapping her legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, chasing the friction with wild, urgent grace. Their bodies tangled in soaked sheets and soft cries, the kind of sex that felt less like an act and more like an offering — one she kept giving without hesitation.
⸻
One morning, as he was brushing his teeth, Chris’s phone buzzed with a text.
He wiped his hands dry and unlocked it, expecting a grocery request or a calendar ping. Instead, he found a photo.
Sandy. Kneeling on their bed. Hair loose, lips parted, legs tucked beneath her. Her shirt had been pulled up to reveal her chest — her breasts flushed, nipples dark and hard — and just beneath them, a faint softness was beginning to curve along her lower abdomen. It wasn’t a bump. Not yet. But it was becoming.
Alongside the image were two short lines:
Still think I’m glowing? Or am I just full of other men’s cum?
Chris stared at the screen, his breath catching.
He typed back slowly, deliberately.
Both.
Scene 2: Daily Creampies, Daily Chaos
Before the symptoms. Before the aching breasts and skipped meals. Before she ever whispered, “I think it’s happening again”...
Sandy had weeks.
Weeks of reckless abandon and raw sex. Of orgasms without consequence. Of cum-stained sheets and bodies entwined. Of opening herself to whatever — and whoever — wanted to fill her.
Chris had planted the seed of the idea. The rules. The boundaries.
But what bloomed inside her during those weeks ... was entirely hers.
⸻
It didn’t start as a plan. Not at first.
But routines form easily when desire becomes habit — and Sandy had no shortage of that.
Marcus on Mondays. Alex on Wednesdays. Trent ... whenever she needed something unfiltered. And Chris? Always. Every night. His cock was her punctuation mark — the closing bracket, the daily refill, the boundary eraser.
⸻
Marcus was all heat and force. Every time they saw each other, it felt like a fight in progress — one neither of them wanted to win. When he came to her place, he didn’t bring flowers or a bottle of wine. He brought friction.
That Monday, she greeted him at the door in nothing but a robe — loose, short, already gaping open when she moved. Her body was on full display. Her skin glowed with a fresh shower, and her hair was still damp, clinging to her collarbone. She didn’t even greet him with words. Just a look, slow and knowing, before turning away and walking inside.
Marcus shut the door hard behind him and followed with his jacket half-off, eyes locked on the bare swell of her ass as it shifted beneath the robe.
“No talking?” he asked, voice already rough.
Sandy smiled but didn’t turn around. “Your mouth’s better used somewhere else.”
The belt slipped from her waist with a flick of her wrist.
He took her on the hallway floor — fast, urgent, both of them barely breathing between gasps and curses. The carpet scratched at her back, and the chill of it made her arch harder into his heat. He was inside her within seconds, his cock already soaked from how wet she’d been before he even touched her. Her thighs locked around him like she was trying to trap him in her.
“Breed me, Marcus,” she panted, biting his shoulder. “I want it deep. Give me your fucking cum.”
“You’re insane,” he groaned, thrusting harder. “You’re gonna get knocked up like this.”
“That’s the idea,” she gasped, rolling her hips, letting the slap of their bodies echo down the hall.
He came with a growl and a hard, punishing grip on her hips.
She came again just from the feeling of him flooding her, thick and hot.
They stayed tangled for minutes, sweat cooling between them. When he finally pulled out, his cum ran freely from her — a slow trickle soaking into the carpet beneath her ass.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, catching his breath. “You’re gonna get us both in trouble.”
She grinned as she stretched her arms over her head, hips still open, pussy still dripping.
“I’ll take the blame.”
⸻
Alex was the opposite. Tender. Hesitant. Still treating it like courtship.
He brought flowers that week — again. Daisies. A little wilted from the heat, but sweet. He knocked politely, smiled softly, kissed her cheek like a real date.
She pulled him inside with one hand and held the other at the base of his cock five minutes later.
Sandy always led with kindness when it came to Alex — but she fucked him with quiet authority. She’d tug him down onto the bed with her, wrap his hands around her waist, guide his cock into her soaked cunt with her breath already catching in her throat.
Dinner could wait.
They kissed slowly. Undressed each other like it mattered.
When he entered her, it was careful — reverent even.
But when he started to get close — as always — he pulled back.
And as always, Sandy stopped him with both hands on his hips.
“Stay.”
His eyes searched hers, uncertain. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She arched her back and pulled him deeper with her thighs. “Stay.”
Alex obeyed, but his voice trembled. “I just ... I feel like I shouldn’t. Like I’m crossing a line.”
She smiled, even as she clenched around him. “So cross it.”
She held his body as he emptied himself into her, and whispered into his ear as he trembled against her chest.
“You feel guilty every time,” she said, softly. “And you always come back.”
Later, as she lay stretched across the bed with her legs still parted, she felt his cum slipping out of her slowly, warm between her cheeks.
She didn’t wipe it away. She let it cool against her skin.
Alex came back to check on her while buttoning his shirt.
“I just...” he started, uncertain again.
Sandy rolled onto her side, one knee pulled up lazily. “Don’t worry. I’m good at making messes.”
⸻
Trent never apologized. Never second-guessed.
His texts were always the same: “You home?” And whenever he arrived, he was already half-hard in his sweats.
That Thursday, she let him in wearing gym shorts and a cropped tank top — no underwear beneath either.
She claimed she had just finished a workout.
Sweaty, flushed, glowing.
She walked past him into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge, bent over just enough for her ass to show.
He didn’t make it to the couch.
He took her from behind at the counter, one hand gripping the back of her neck, the other sliding up under her top to grope her breast as he fucked her slow and deep.
“You’re not even pretending anymore,” he grunted, breath hot on her shoulder.
Sandy moaned. “What’s the point? You always finish inside anyway.”
He slammed into her harder.
“You don’t even ask,” she added, taunting now. “You just shove it in and dump your load.”
“Would you say no if I did?”
“No,” she hissed. “But I like that you don’t bother.”
She came fast — loud and breathless — and seconds later, he followed, burying himself to the hilt and groaning as he flooded her pussy with a raw, pulsing load.
She bent forward over the counter, panting.
After he left, she stayed like that — the cum still leaking — until the chill of the countertop made her shiver.
Then she used two fingers to scoop some out ... and licked them clean.
⸻
Chris watched it all.
The video logs from hidden cameras. The motion alerts. The detailed biometric feedback from The Program: heart rate spikes, vaginal saturation levels, hormone surges, temperature shifts.
He watched the way her body reacted not just during sex, but after — how she sat with the mess inside her, how she moved differently, slower, more deliberately. How she sometimes walked around with his rivals’ cum still drying between her legs. How she took pride in it.
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