Chapter 24: Kim’s Wedding

My time with my official family, Susan and our six children, carried on as usual, even as I maneuvered the new dynamic with Kim and Francesca. In our sprawling country estate, set on vast private grounds just outside a historic university town, Susan thrived in her role as the devoted housewife. Once an ambitious academic with a promising career, motherhood had consumed her entirely, shifting her focus to nurturing our children. She poured every ounce of her intellect and energy into shaping their lives, turning our home into a lively hub of activity, filled with constant chatter and playful chaos.

Our six children, three sets of twins, all toddlers, kept her endlessly busy. The house was a whirlwind of energy, with little feet racing across polished hardwood floors, their laughter ringing through the high-ceilinged rooms. Toys were scattered across the grand drawing rooms and airy nurseries, while the extensive gardens, with their rolling lawns, walled play area, and meandering woodland paths, became their personal kingdom. Her days revolved around nursery runs, endless playdates, and carefully planned family outings. She handled it all with an almost effortless grace. No matter the challenges of managing such a large household, she remained unfazed, her unwavering positivity and boundless energy keeping everything in perfect order.

While our sex life remained as breathtaking as ever, Susan seemed perfectly content with our intimacy happening once a week or even less, fully immersed in the simple pleasures of family life. When we did come together, it was always an experience, her body still as stunning as ever, those massive, heavy tits pressing against me as she rode me with a slow, practiced rhythm. She knew exactly how to squeeze every drop of pleasure from me, her soft curves molding to my body, her full breasts bouncing hypnotically with every thrust.

But she had no desire to keep up with my relentless appetite, her focus on motherhood and the home leaving little energy for indulging me more often. Our “don’t ask, don’t tell” arrangement suited us both, giving me the freedom I needed to satisfy my insatiable sexual cravings elsewhere. And boy, did I take advantage of that freedom!

In Paris, Kim worked as a live-in nanny, looking after Francesca’s young twins, who, unbeknownst to Francesca’s husband, were actually my children. This arrangement allowed Francesca to focus on her pregnancy with another set of twins, carrying yet more of my offspring beneath her elegant, swelling belly.

When Kim’s own twin pregnancy became undeniable just a short time later, Francesca deftly convinced her husband that keeping Kim on hand to care for all four babies would be an invaluable advantage. With her usual charm and calculated persuasion, she framed it as the perfect solution, ensuring that my growing brood remained right under their roof.

Despite their expanding bellies, our meetups didn’t slow down. Every other week, Francesca and Kim made their way to London, staying in the luxurious penthouse Francesca had rented, a sleek, modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It became our private escape, a place where we could indulge without restraint.

One night, I arrived to find them already waiting, lounging on the enormous bed. The eighteen-year-old Kim lay stretched out in nothing but a sheer robe that barely clung to her curves, her smooth, dark-brown skin beautiful against the pristine white sheets. Her full lips curled into a playful smile, dark eyes filled with desire as she slowly parted her thin thighs, revealing her cute little pussy lips between them. Francesca knelt beside her, her impossibly long legs folded beneath her, her fair, porcelain skin almost glowing in contrast. Even heavily pregnant, she still carried the effortless grace of a supermodel, her platinum-blonde hair cascading in waves over her shoulders, framing a face that graced so many magazine covers.

Their tits were always a sight to behold, massive, firm, and looking almost too large for their frames, heavy with the fullness of pregnancy. Kim’s were dark and perfectly round, her skin smooth and flawless, her nipples a deep chocolate brown, stiff and adorned with that irresistible youthful puffiness that made them stand out even more. Francesca’s were pale and impossibly perky, high on her chest despite their size, her soft pink nipples growing darker and fuller with each passing week, swollen from both pregnancy and constant attention.

Francesca was bent forward, her long, elegant fingers gliding down Kim’s smooth stomach, tracing the gentle curve of her swollen belly before lowering her mouth to the younger girl’s perky, milk-heavy tits. Her lips wrapped around a stiff, dark nipple, sucking with slow, deliberate pressure, making the teen moan and arch her back, her delicate fingers threading through Francesca’s golden waves.

I shrugged off my jacket, my fingers already working at my belt, the sight before me making every movement urgent. My cock strained against my trousers, aching to be freed as I stepped closer, unzipping and letting the fabric fall away. My shirt hit the floor as I reached for Francesca’s slim hips, grabbing her and pulling her up onto all fours, her toned ass lifting invitingly before me. She gasped as I ran a hand over the smooth curve, kneading the firm flesh before sliding two fingers into her slick, needy pussy. She shuddered at the touch, her body already soaked and ready, her breath coming in short, desperate whimpers against Kim’s sensitive, heaving tits.

“Already dripping for me,” I murmured, gripping her thighs and lining myself up. I pushed inside her in one deep stroke, feeling her stretch around me, her walls gripping me tight. She moaned against Kim’s skin, her body shuddering as I filled her completely.

Kim let out a breathless giggle, watching us through hooded eyes, her fingers teasing her own soaked slit. “Fuck, she loves it,” she whispered, rolling a nipple between her fingers, her thick dark hair spilling over her shoulders.

I thrust harder, making Francesca’s tits swing beneath her, her soft whimpers muffled against Kim’s body. I reached forward, grabbing handfuls of her pale, bouncing tits, squeezing them as I drove into her, her moans turning to desperate cries. Kim, eyes glazed with lust, spread her legs wider, her tiny frame writhing against the sheets.

“Come here,” I ordered, pulling Francesca back against my chest, my cock still buried inside her. Kim crawled up, her young, eager body pressing against Francesca’s, her lips parting as she leaned in to kiss her. Their tongues met in a slow, teasing dance, their swollen tits pressing together as I fucked Francesca deeper, making her moan into Kim’s mouth.

Kim pulled back, licking her lips. “I want you next,” she whispered, rolling onto her back, one knee bent, her cunt already glistening with arousal in that impossibly wide gap between her skinny thighs.

I groaned at the sight, gripping Francesca’s hips harder as I pounded into her one last time, feeling her body seize around me. Her cries filled the room, her nails digging into the sheets as she came, her walls pulsing, gripping my cock in desperate waves. Her breath hitched, her body trembling, her pregnant belly pressing into the mattress as she collapsed forward, her arms barely holding her up. I steadied her, careful not to lean too hard against the swollen curve of her belly, running a hand over the taut skin stretched over the twins growing inside her.

I pulled out just in time to turn to Kim, her long, skinny legs already spread for me, her belly not as big yet but still unmistakably carrying my seed. I positioned myself between them, guiding her knees higher, making sure not to press too hard against her rounding stomach.

Her breath hitched as I pushed inside, her tight, velvet heat clamping around me, a perfect fit despite the growing fullness of her body. Her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting in a silent gasp as I buried myself to the hilt, her tiny frame quivering beneath me. Her massive, milk-heavy tits bounced wildly with every thrust, their dark nipples standing out against the sheen of sweat covering her brown, Indian skin. Even through her dark complexion, I saw her flushing deep with arousal, her slim hands gripping my shoulders as I drove into her, careful but relentless, feeling her tighten around me with every desperate moan.

Francesca, still catching her breath, tilted her head and pressed her lips against Kim’s neck, trailing slow, heated kisses along her smooth skin. Her hands slid down, cupping Kim’s swollen, oversensitive nipples, rolling them between her fingers. Kim moaned, her legs tightening around my waist, urging me deeper, her cunt gripping me with desperate need.

The rhythmic slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, mixing with their gasps and moans, a symphony of pleasure that only fueled my hunger. They were mine, both of them, their swollen bellies proof of it, their perfect, overstretched bodies carrying the next wave of my legacy. Watching Kim writhing beneath me, her slim frame barely able to contain the fullness inside her, while Francesca lay spent beside us, her pale body flushed and glowing with the same undeniable mark of ownership, sent a surge of pride through me.

I drove into Kim harder, savoring the way her tight, pregnant body clung to me, her legs trembling as pleasure overtook her. Francesca, still catching her breath, watched with a satisfied smirk, her hand drifting down to her own soaked cunt, unable to resist the sight. My grip tightened on Kim’s hips as she cried out, her cunt spasming around me, milking me for everything I had. I held nothing back, my release surging through me as I filled her completely, claiming her once again.

Even as their bellies swelled, they were still perfect, still mine, and nothing would ever satisfy me more.

After both had given birth, their bodies snapped back in no time, their youth and disciplined workout routines ensuring that not a trace of their pregnancies remained, aside from the children they’d borne for me. Kim’s taut, dark skin regained its smooth perfection, her lithe frame once again slender but still blessed with those oversized, gravity-defying tits. Francesca, ever the flawless supermodel, wasted no time reclaiming her sculpted elegance, her pale, statuesque body effortlessly slipping back into the high-fashion world of her London life.

With her return to professional commitments, Francesca made London her primary base once more. Her husband, ever the dutiful fool, accepted her request to have Kim accompany her on these frequent visits, even if it meant hiring yet another babysitter to tend to their growing brood of six in her absence. He had no real say in the matter. His own disgrace, a never quite buried scandal involving two barely legal American teens in an English hotel years prior, left him without a leg to stand on. She barely had to push, and he conceded without a fight.

Through it all, an unexpected bond flourished between Kim and Francesca. What had begun as shared pleasure and a convenient arrangement deepened into something more, a connection neither of them had anticipated. Watching it unfold brought a new warmth into our lives, a layer of intimacy that reshaped our dynamic in ways none of us had foreseen.

Kim, with her almost virginal innocence, brought a carefree, youthful energy that was impossible to resist. Her boundless affection for both Francesca and me was infectious, her bright laughter and naive enthusiasm cutting through any tension that might arise from the complexity of our relationship. Yet beneath that sweet, unguarded exterior lay a shockingly wicked side, one that burned with insatiable curiosity and an eagerness to explore the darkest, most depraved corners of pleasure. With her captivating sexuality radiating from every pore, she had a way of turning even the most sinful indulgence into a playful adventure. Her youthful hunger, combined with Francesca’s refined, sensual dominance, pushed our already intense sex life into realms I had never imagined, a constant cycle of exploration, corruption, and mind-shattering release.

Yet, in the midst of this whirlwind of lust and indulgence, there was something deeper, an overwhelming sense of love that bound us together. We navigated the delicate balance of desire, loyalty, and friendship, never certain of what the future held, but utterly consumed by the moments we shared, surrendering to the intoxicating bliss of our ever-evolving connection.

Both girls clicked effortlessly, their bisexual sides fully awakened, no longer just an afterthought but a central force in their relationship. They had become so inseparably close that they rarely visited me alone anymore. I had to accept that when I wasn’t around, they were indulging in powerful, passionate sessions together, exploring each other in ways only they could. While sex with Kim and Francesca individually was always incredible, nothing compared to the moments when I had them together, when I could sit back and witness the raw, uninhibited connection between my two lovers.

Sometimes, I would simply watch, savoring the sight of these two busty bombshells tangled in each other, their massive tits mashed together in pure, desperate hunger. The contrast between them was always breathtaking: Francesca’s towering, pale supermodel elegance, her impossibly long legs wrapping around Kim’s petite, dark-brown Indian frame, her delicate hands roaming over Kim’s tight curves, caressing every inch of her youthful, eager body. But beyond the physical contrast, what truly mesmerized me was the way they melted into each other, the way Francesca’s lips found Kim’s in slow, deep kisses, the way Kim clung to her, small fingers gripping her soft blonde waves as their bodies moved in perfect rhythm.

They both found immense pleasure in sex with me, but what they had together was something deeper than mere companionship. Francesca had never looked more radiant, more alive. There was a spark in her eyes, a lightness in her movements that I had never seen before. She radiated happiness and love, and it only amplified her ethereal beauty, giving her modeling career an effortless resurgence. And Kim, with her ever-playful spirit, infused our dynamic with an intoxicating energy, her laughter and insatiable curiosity making every encounter fresh, every moment electric.

As their relationship and our triangular love deepened, the question of exclusivity and boundaries naturally surfaced, becoming a topic of discussion we could no longer ignore.

Kim remained steadfast in her promise, vowing to accept no cock but mine, her devotion unwavering. It wasn’t long before Francesca followed suit, making the conscious choice to spend all her nights away from her husband, a shift that was far less drastic than it sounded. Their marriage had long since cooled, their intimacy dwindling to almost nothing. She had convinced him years ago that she needed her own bedroom, and he had hardly put up a fight. The fact that Kim’s nanny quarters had direct access to Francesca’s room only made their growing affection easier to nurture, hidden in plain sight without raising suspicion.

Francesca also made it clear that, despite the wild thrill of our recent gang-bang fulfilling her deepest fantasies, it had been a one-time indulgence. She had savored every depraved second of it, but she had no desire to repeat the experience. What truly mattered to her was the love and connection she shared with Kim and me. That was why she had joined Kim in her vow to have no other dick inside her but mine.

They made it clear that their happiness was paramount, and all they wanted from me was to nurture our mutual joy. They wanted me to love them passionately, whether together or separately, to crave them as they craved me. But they also made it explicitly clear that their commitment to me came without any restrictions on my own desires. They wanted me to take other women, to fuck them without hesitation, to spread my seed far and wide. It wasn’t just acceptance, it was encouragement, a deep, primal pride in my virility that made them ache with arousal.

They both confessed that nothing turned them on more than watching me explode inside another conquest, watching another woman submit to my cock, surrendering to the sheer force of my dominance. The thought of me breeding them, pumping them full of my cum, impregnating them, drove Kim and Francesca wild. They relished the knowledge that while other women got to feel the overwhelming ecstasy of my cock claiming them, it was they who truly owned me, the ones I returned to, the ones who had my deepest devotion. And with every new woman I conquered, every lesser man I humiliated in the process, they basked in the knowledge that they belonged to the man who took whatever he wanted, and that no one else could compare.

It wasn’t just about pride in my dominance, it was as if they were the ones putting these men and their women in their place. Every time I bred another man’s girl, every time I filled her with my seed and left her moaning in surrender, it was their victory as much as mine. They saw me as their weapon, their instrument of conquest, forcing others into submission by making their women bear my legacy instead of some pathetic, unworthy fool’s.

With every fresh conquest, every swollen belly that carried my mark, they knew they were the ones truly in control. These sluts had to give birth to their man’s babies, their clueless husbands had to raise them as their own, the ultimate act of domination.

The warmth of this arrangement filled me with a deep, unshakable contentment. Knowing that my two best friends had found true happiness in our unconventional dynamic only strengthened our bond. And I had to admit: there was something exhilarating about holding exclusive sway over two extraordinary women, each remarkable in her own right. Their willingness to share their lives, their love, and their bodies created a connection that transcended anything traditional, a sense of belonging and fulfillment that few could ever understand.

I wasn’t entirely surprised when both girls turned up in London wearing matching rings. They had taken the final step, sealing their devotion to one another in a formal vow, a promise of eternal love and fidelity ... with the explicit understanding that this commitment included me, and only me.

When they explained the meaning behind their rings, the depth of their love, their unshakable loyalty, I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t hold back my tears of joy. Their love for each other, their devotion to me, the unbreakable bond we had built, it meant more to me than anything else, far beyond the intoxicating thrill of our passionate nights together.

What we had extended beyond the raw hunger, beyond the carnal bliss of our shared nights, beyond the euphoria of witnessing each other’s pleasure, the erotic beauty of two perfect bodies intertwined in passionate coupling, the exquisite sensation of taking turns penetrating two insatiable, athletic forms. While most men would have given anything just for a single night with them, I knew the truth: these wild, uninhibited sessions were merely the icing on the cake. The real treasure, the true joy, was the love we shared, a love that wasn’t just physical but something far deeper, something eternal.

I knew I had to show them how much I valued not only their friendship but the depth of our connection, both emotional and physical. The thrill of having two stunningly beautiful women share not just my bed but my life, devoting their loyalty to me exclusively, even if that was a one-sided commitment, was an exhilarating privilege that most men could only dream of.

That’s why I arranged a semi-formal wedding for them, a celebration so extravagant it could rival the most lavish events in London. I spared no expense, disregarding any societal conventions about their same-sex union or the unusual reality that both of them also loved me. There was, of course, the small matter that Francesca and I were already legally married. That we all had children together. That, on paper, our tangled web of devotion defied every traditional definition of a relationship. But none of that mattered. This day wasn’t about the complications. It was about us, about the love we had built, about honoring the bond that had become the very foundation of our lives.

For obvious reasons, the first person I presented this plan to was my assistant (and lover) Angela, the one who orchestrated all my conquests, the one who had known Francesca long before I ever met her, and the one who had quietly witnessed the intricate evolution of our tangled sex life over the years. Angela was more than just an organizer; she was my confidante, the one person I could trust to keep everything discreet and, more importantly, to truly understand what this was all about.

With Angela’s impeccable planning, we created a breathtaking celebration, surrounded by our most trusted clients and closest friends. Well-connected in the LGBTQ+ circles, she had a vast network of artists, designers, and creatives who not only appreciated the beauty of unconventional love but also understood the necessity of discretion. It was a carefully curated guest list, one that ensured every attendee was someone who either lived outside the constraints of societal norms themselves or had the maturity to respect those who did.

As a result, no one batted an eye at the complexities of our arrangement. Even those who were fully aware that Francesca and I were both legally married, each with children and separate family obligations, carried no judgment. They understood that unconventional relationships required a level of careful management, that secrecy was not about shame but about protection, about ensuring that love, in all its forms, could thrive without interference. In this circle, no one questioned, no one gossiped. Here, discretion wasn’t just expected; it was sacred.

As you would expect from Angela, the ceremony was breathtakingly romantic. The venue overflowed with fresh roses, their scent mingling with the soft strains of live music performed by renowned gay musicians. The church itself was a masterpiece, an elegant, timeless space where tradition met the scandalous, where love in its rawest, most unconventional form was about to be celebrated. Both brides looked nothing short of divine.

Francesca, the world’s most celebrated fashion model, carried herself with an effortless grace that seemed almost surreal, her beauty so ethereal it felt like reality bent around her. Her platinum-blonde hair cascaded in soft waves, framing a face that had graced the covers of every major magazine. Next to her, Kim was no less mesmerizing, petite yet impossibly curvaceous, her exotic, youthful Indian beauty amplified by the way her tight, hourglass figure defied logic. Her oversized tits and impossibly slim waist gave her a hyper-feminine allure, and despite being shorter than Francesca, her long, sculpted legs gave her a striking presence that could hold its own next to the supermodel.

As they walked down the aisle, their smiles radiated a pure, intoxicating joy that momentarily distracted from the fact that their wedding dresses barely contained the sheer eroticism of their bodies. Almost. The plunging necklines framed their deep, impossible cleavages, the daring cuts of their dresses dipping so low it was almost scandalous, exposing the full, heavy curves of their tits nearly down to their toned stomachs. The sheer audacity of it made it impossible to look away. Most of the men in the congregation attempted to keep their eyes respectfully forward, but it was a losing battle. Their gazes flickered downward, drawn by the overwhelming temptation of those massive, perfectly lifted tits, pushed together in a way that made their deep valley of cleavage seem endless, barely contained by the delicate lace that strained to hold them in place.

And when they reached the front, turning to face each other, their backs fully exposed by the daring low-cut designs of their dresses, the struggle for composure among the men only deepened. Their perfectly sculpted bubble butts, tight and round, formed deep, mesmerizing creases that rivaled the valleys of their cleavage. Every subtle shift of weight sent a ripple through their toned glutes, a silent confirmation that beneath their flawless, feminine curves, there wasn’t a single ounce of excess, just pure, athletic perfection. The sight was almost cruel in its sexiness, a temptation so potent it was hard to believe it wasn’t staged for the sole purpose of making every man in the room painfully aware of what they could never have.

The atmosphere was electric as Kim and Francesca exchanged vows of eternal love before an audience filled with well-wishers. I stood beside them, holding their hands as I placed the rings on their fingers. These custom-made bands, designed to symbolize their same-sex union, featured three diamonds, one for each of us, acknowledging my presence as a cherished third. The rings were crafted in a style and color so similar to my own wedding band that, to the casual observer, I could have easily passed as the husband of either of them.

After their kiss sealed their promises, I was treated to a long, lingering kiss from both of them. First from the youthful Kim, her playful spirit reflected in the way her lips teased mine, overflowing with sensuality, and then from the elegant Francesca, whose refined beauty was magnetic, her kiss deep and possessive. The passion in those moments made it clear that I was not just a spectator in this union but very much a part of it, even if unspoken.

Our unique love triangle was embraced by everyone in attendance. The crème de la crème of the London fashion world, known for their discretion, acknowledged the sincerity of our arrangement with quiet understanding. There was no judgment, no scandal, only an awareness of the thrilling dynamic we shared, unspoken yet entirely accepted.

As we stood together, Angela, Kim, Francesca, and I all had tears of joy in our eyes, swept up in the significance of the moment. When the newlyweds descended the steps of the podium after saying their vows, we were enveloped in the love and support of our friends. I proudly held their hands, rewarded with affectionate smiles and soft, lingering kisses from both women. As the congregation lined up to offer their congratulations, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude and happiness, knowing that this was not just a union of two souls but a celebration of love in all its forms, one we would cherish forever.

The wedding party was nothing short of spectacular, a celebration overflowing with joy and unrestrained exuberance. As the night wore on, Francesca and Kim danced ecstatically, their laughter ringing through the grand venue. They twirled and spun together, radiant in their happiness, their movements filled with a lightness that captivated everyone around them. Every step, every playful sway of their hips exuded pure bliss, completely immersed in the love and acceptance surrounding them. I joined them on the dance floor, caught up in their joy as we moved to the pulsating beats of one of London’s top DJs.

The atmosphere was vibrant, with nonjudgmental couples filling the space, lost in their own moments of passion. Some shared tender kisses, while others indulged in playful, teasing displays of affection. It was a mesmerizing sight, same-sex couples locked in deep, uninhibited kisses on the dance floor, their love and connection a living testament to the evening’s true theme: celebration, acceptance, and the freedom to love without restraint.

The food and drinks were nothing short of exquisite, each dish and cocktail meticulously curated to provide an unforgettable culinary experience. The service, handled by an all-LGBT staff, ensured a level of warmth and discretion that made every guest feel not just welcomed but truly appreciated. They were a striking, eclectic mix of personalities and styles, each bringing their own unique flair to the celebration. Some of the waitstaff sported vibrant, neon-colored hair, their piercings catching the light as they moved gracefully through the room. Others carried an effortlessly androgynous charm, their tailored suits or stylish, gender-fluid outfits blending elegance with individuality.

Among them were striking drag queens in towering heels and dazzling makeup, balancing trays of champagne with the same grace they carried on stage. A few waiters exuded a rugged, alternative appeal, their tattooed arms flexing as they poured drinks, while some of the hostesses embraced a chic, high-fashion aesthetic, their sharp cheekbones and confident smiles giving them an air of effortless sophistication.

Cross-dressers in impeccably styled gowns moved through the crowd with poise, their presence seamlessly fitting into the opulent atmosphere. The bartenders, skilled mixologists with playful smirks, effortlessly spun bottles in the air, crafting cocktails with an artistry that was almost hypnotic to watch. Each of them carried an energy that was magnetic, a sense of freedom and self-expression that only added to the night’s magic.

It wasn’t just about service, it was about presence, about making every guest feel like they had stepped into a world where identity and love were celebrated without question, where individuality was not just accepted but revered. This was the kind of celebration that could only happen in London, one of the most tolerant cities in the world, rivaling places like New York or San Francisco in its embrace of diversity, yet with the added European nonchalance toward sex and pleasure.