Chapter 5: The Breeder’s Feed

Scene 1: Wiped Clean

The morning sun poured through the bedroom windows in a soft, golden spill, tracing the lines of Sandy’s bare legs where they tangled in the sheets. She stirred slowly, stretching one arm across the mattress, fingers brushing warm skin that had already begun to cool. Chris was gone — or at least not beside her — and she barely noticed.

There was no nausea when she sat up. No ache in her breasts. No heaviness in her abdomen. Nothing to hint at what her body had carried, what had been growing inside her just days ago. And yet, as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, there was something she couldn’t name — a faint, persistent absence, like waking up from a vivid dream and knowing it mattered even if you couldn’t recall why.

She padded into the bathroom, still naked, her thighs still sticky from the night before. The mirror caught her reflection as she brushed her teeth: skin flushed, hair tangled, her nipples unexpectedly stiff in the cool air. She paused, frowning, the toothbrush idle in her mouth. Her chest felt sensitive. Not sore — not exactly — just ... aware.

She rinsed and spat and stared at herself a moment longer, trying to shake the feeling that something had changed, or was about to.

But she said nothing.

Because she remembered nothing.

⸻

Chris stood at the hallway corner, watching through a sliver of doorframe. He had already checked the logs that morning. The Program had worked perfectly. Not only had Sandy’s memories of the pregnancy been fully suppressed, but the behavioral layer he’d embedded had also taken hold: her craving for risky sex, once so raw and primal, was now buried beneath layers of hesitation, self-doubt, and a faint, irrational fear.

She would still feel the pull — still respond to the scent of bare skin and the stretch of being filled — but now, it would come with guilt. With resistance. The desire was there, humming in her bones, but caged. She’d need someone else to open the gate.

And Chris had made sure someone would.

He had also erased every trace of her pregnancy from the memories of her lovers. Marcus, Trent, and Alex now moved through their days without the faintest clue what Sandy had carried — or what Chris had taken from her.

Each of them had been lightly adjusted. Nothing visible. Just enough of a nudge. A bit more confidence. A bit more forwardness. A sense of inevitability when it came to her body. If she hesitated, they’d coax her. If she resisted faintly, they’d persist. If she said no too quietly, they might not hear her.

And in those narrow gray zones, Chris had built his next experiment.

⸻

Later that morning, Sandy paused in front of her closet, halfway into a soft, oversized sweater. Her tank top clung tightly to her skin, her nipples showing faintly through the fabric. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and hesitated.

Something about the image made her flush. Her fingers rose to brush across the swell of her chest, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

Then she tugged the sweater into place and turned away, her pulse still quick.

⸻

Lunch with Trent started as casually as ever — a half-finished sandwich, an open bottle of wine, a playlist humming in the background — until he pressed her against the wall without warning, kissing her deeply, hands already sliding beneath her waistband.

“Trent—” she laughed, pushing gently at his chest. “Give me a second, will you?”

He grinned, already nibbling her neck. “You smell too good.”

She tried to move, but he kept her pinned lightly between his hips and the countertop.

“Been thinking about this since yesterday,” he murmured, his hand palming her ass as he fished something from his back pocket. “Brought a condom ... unless you’d rather not.”

She froze.

The words triggered something in her — not a memory, but a pulse of fear. Or guilt. Or maybe longing.

“I think we should,” she said quietly. “It’s safer.”

Trent nodded, slowly ... but didn’t unwrap it.

Instead, he eased her leggings down, kissed the small of her back, and added, “Last time felt amazing, though. You came so hard.”

Her heart thudded. “Trent ... no, really.”

“I’ll pull out,” he whispered.

She hesitated. A breath caught in her throat.

“Please just put it on,” she said, softer now, but not firmer. She didn’t push him. Didn’t move. Just waited.

Trent took her silence as consent.

He entered her in one smooth motion, and she gasped, her hands bracing against the kitchen counter.

At first, she didn’t say anything. The shock of being filled raw overtook everything — the pressure, the stretch, the heat. Her moans escaped before she could catch them. And he didn’t stop. He fucked her deeper with every thrust, slow and strong and utterly committed.

“God ... you feel so good,” she gasped, her voice cracking with tension. “But—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Because part of her didn’t want to.

Her breath came faster. Her body began to tremble. And as the pace shifted, as Trent’s grip tightened and his thrusts lost their rhythm, she felt it — the telltale signs, the way his hips stuttered, the low grunt building in his chest.

That’s when the fear returned.

“No—Trent—” she said quickly, panic rising. “Don’t ... please, don’t cum in me. I’m not safe!”

He didn’t answer.

Her hands clenched the counter.

“Trent—pull out, you said you would—please—”

His cock pulsed inside her.

“Not in me,” she cried, her voice breaking. “Please, don’t cum—!”

But it was too late.

He groaned into her shoulder as he emptied himself deep inside her, flood after flood of heat spilling into her unprotected cunt.

And she came anyway.

Harder than she expected. Harder than she wanted to.

Her orgasm ripped through her in helpless waves, shaking her legs, punching the air from her lungs. She sobbed into the counter, torn between horror and ecstasy, her body gripping him like it had been waiting for this exact betrayal.

⸻

Afterward, she lay on the couch, eyes unfocused, the warmth of his cum slowly dripping out of her as Trent kissed her shoulder, murmuring something about how good she felt.

She didn’t respond right away.

Eventually, she turned her head and said, “You said you’d pull out.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t hear you say it again.”

“I said it,” she muttered, but without bite.

He smiled and kissed her again.

And though she frowned, though her words tried to carry weight, her eyes betrayed her.

She wasn’t angry.

Not really.

⸻

Chris watched the footage alone that evening.

He slowed the moment her voice cracked — when her body said no but her hips kept rising.

He watched her face contort as pleasure and panic collided. He saw her bite her lip, her legs shake, her cunt flood with both resistance and release.

He closed the laptop with a quiet sigh of satisfaction.

The hesitation was working.

The denial. The tension. The slow erosion of her resolve.

She was no longer addicted to the risk.

She was haunted by it.

And that made her more his than ever.

Scene 2: Setting the Channel

Chris sat alone in the study, bathed in the quiet hum of machines and the soft, shifting light of six monitors arranged in a gentle arc across his desk. Outside, twilight bled into the horizon, but he barely noticed. Inside, it was all glow — cool blues, sharp whites, the flicker of overlays updating in real time. He leaned back in his chair, one hand lazily spinning the trackball under his palm, watching as the program sorted through the day’s data like a meticulous voyeur.

On the center screen, Sandy’s feed played in silence.

She was curled up on the couch, unaware of the camera hidden behind the bookshelf. A blanket over her lap, a tablet in her hands, her sweater loose around her shoulders. Her hair was still mussed from earlier, and there was a faint, dried pink between her thighs that she hadn’t noticed yet — or maybe hadn’t bothered to clean.