The Hundred Heirs
Copyright© 2026 by Victoria Kane
Chapter 7: The Carrying
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 7: The Carrying - One woman. One week. One hundred masked men. The Institute demands heirs from the world’s most powerful bloodlines. Victoria Kane is the Vessel they chose. She has other plans. Raw group ritual. Power reversal. Legacy mindfuck. No escape. No mercy.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction FemaleDom Humiliation Group Sex Orgy Interracial Black Male White Male White Female Oriental Male Hispanic Male Indian Male Cream Pie Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy Voyeurism
The men left the compound one by one. Helicopters lifted them back into their old lives. Rotors beat against the thin alpine air; snow swirled in violent spirals around skids. Most flew private jets straight to capitals and boardrooms. Faces composed. Masks discarded. Memories lodged like splinters beneath the skin.
Three lingered in the final wave. The ones who had believed, more than any others, that the week would secure their bloodline.
Dr. Julian Harrow landed in London. Greeted by his private clinic staff with patient files and congratulations on his “conference.” He nodded. Smiled for the nurses. Yet the phantom curve of her cervix pressed against his tongue. In his office he stared at old ultrasound photos from her birth: the girl he delivered now carrying what he had given. His hands shook as he poured a drink he did not taste. The perfect specimen he had fantasised about for twenty-seven years had taken everything and given him nothing he could claim. Every consultation after that day felt hollow. Every newborn he delivered carried her echo. He measured their skulls, listened to their heartbeats, and remembered the kick beneath his palm on her taut belly. The knowledge settled in his bones: his daughter existed. She would never know his name. And he would never stop knowing hers.
Father Matteo Rossi returned to the Vatican. Clerical collar crisp. Greeted by cardinals with questions about his “retreat.” He kissed his ring. Murmured about prayer. Then retreated to his chambers. Kneeling before the crucifix, he felt the taste of her still on his tongue: thick, mingled, sinful. He whispered “mea culpa” until dawn. The words felt hollow. The shepherd had become the lamb. The womb he had once cleansed in ritual now carried the sins he could never confess. Every Mass he celebrated after that night tasted of ash. Every homily on purity rang false. At night he dreamed of gray eyes and green eyes and a strong jawline; children who would grow into power he could never touch. The knowledge burned quietly: his seed had taken root. Twice. And the Church he served would never know the fruit of his fall.
Senator Marcus Hale touched down in Washington. Greeted by staff with policy briefings and cameras flashing. He slapped backs. Talked family values. Yet the phantom clench of her around him lingered; the chant “triplets ... multiples...” echoed in his skull. In the Senate chamber he railed against abortion with renewed fire while knowing his own seed had filled a woman who would never let him claim it. At night, alone in his study, he stared at the anonymised ultrasound images the Institute sent: three daughters. His laws would force any woman to carry them. But not this one. Not hers. The irony coiled tighter with every hearing. Every vote he cast to strip choice felt like a confession he could never speak. He watched the news cycles turn. Watched young women protest. And somewhere, three girls grew inside the woman who had broken him. They would inherit everything he had tried to control. And he would inherit only the silence.
They resumed their empires.
But something had shifted.
No one spoke of the week.
No one needed to.
The three daddies carried it alone.
The pregnancy progressed under strict medical oversight in the Institute’s isolated penthouse suite: high in the Alps, windows tinted against the endless snow, every surface sterile and warm.
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