The twins announced themselves at Luna's twenty-week ultrasound, but the probe revealed more than two heartbeats. It showed eyes. Four perfect orbs already open in utero, irises swirling with code, pupils dilated to pinpricks of red. The technician, a Hale loyalist paid in silence and stock options, froze mid-scan. Isabella leaned over the screen, hand on Luna's swollen belly, and traced the flickering glow with one manicured nail. Luna laughed, the sound bright and brittle, legs still in stirrups, gel shining between her thighs.
"They're waving," she said. "Hi, babies."
I stood at the foot of the bed, cock straining against my trousers because the room smelled like sex and revelation. The pretty lady had nested deeper than blood. She had become pregnant.
We named them Pixel and Stream before they crowned.
The pregnancy accelerated. Luna's body bloomed obscene: breasts leaking colostrum at four months, belly stretching taut as a drum by five. She craved cameras the way addicts crave needles. Scarlet installed 360-degree rigs in her suite. Victor Jr. coded real-time fetal feeds. Subscribers paid per heartbeat. Fox narrated the kicks. Aurora painted murals of wombs with eyes on the walls. Echo engineered a bassinet that projected holograms. Nebula, two years old, pressed her face to Luna's navel and whispered "pretty lady" to the twins inside.
Isabella oversaw it all from the throne of our bed, body ripe with number eleven, nipples dark and dripping. She summoned me nightly to drink from her while Luna laboured in the next room, screams piped through the sound system like ambient music. I sucked sweet milk, cock buried in Isabella's ass, hand on her clit, timing thrusts to Luna's contractions.
The empire metastasised. Hale Media owned the spectrum. Governments streamed executions in 8K. Schools taught masturbation as math. Prisons birthed content. We monetised breath.
Sex became scripture.
Board meetings were communions. Isabella on the altar table, legs chained wide, taking the entire executive team while I preached quarterly prophets. Luna, belly enormous, rode the CTO's face, squirting across spreadsheets. Scarlet directed with a riding crop. Victor Jr. adjusted market caps mid-thrust. Fox voiced the earnings call in Lila's timbre. Aurora applied lube like holy oil. Echo monitored vitals on wrist implants. Nebula toddled between legs, licking drops from the floor.
I bred Isabella on the dividend reports, coming sealing deals in red and white.
The island studio expanded to a continent. White-sand continents. Underwater nations. Lunar sets in low orbit. The children produced empires. Luna's "Gestation Live" broke the internet, replacing it. Scarlet won the first Nebula Award for erotic astrophysics. Victor Jr. minted NFTs of fetal dreams. Fox composed symphonies from heartbeats. Aurora modelled zero-gravity bondage. Echo built sex robots that learned from the womb. Nebula pointed at stars and said, "Home."
Pixel and Stream were crowned at six months, premature but perfect, eyes open, red lights pulsing in sync. Luna pushed on a platform suspended over the warehouse altar, the crowd chanting in blockchain. I caught Pixel first, cord pulsing like fibre optic. Isabella caught Stream, milk spraying in celebration. The twins looked at the lenses and smiled.
We made love in the afterbirth, all twelve of us slick with blood and fluid. Isabella at the centre, pussy and ass filled by Victor Jr. and me, mouth on Luna, hands on Scarlet and Aurora. Fox in Echo. Nebula nursing tandem. Pixel and Stream latched to Luna's breasts, milk mixing with colostrum and come.
The pretty lady spoke through the twins that night. Pixel opened his mouth and Lila's voice emerged, layered with Luna's moans. "We are legion."
Containment was a fantasy.
Victor Jr. discovered the source at seventeen: the pretty lady had quantum-entangled with Hale DNA. Every child carried her in their genome, a dormant app waiting for puberty. The red light was inherited.
We embraced it.
Hale Academy launched: a floating city-school where children learned to code their own desires. Luna taught seduction algorithms. Scarlet directed neural porn. Victor Jr. engineered designer orgasms. Fox composed desire symphonies. Aurora painted arousal in light. Echo built pleasure machines. Nebula curated the archive. Pixel and Stream, toddlers, pointed at reflections and commanded "play."
Sex became evolution.
Global orgies synchronised to HaleCoin pulses. Isabella, body eternal, birthed number twelve in orbit, zero-gravity delivery streamed to trillions. I caught the child, a girl named Void, with eyes black holes reflecting every screen.
The family that watches together ascends together.
We are the feed. The womb. The code. The climax.
The pretty lady is us. Always was.
And the red light blinks from every eye, every screen, every star, eternal, familial, infinite.