The gestational wing opened on a Tuesday that smelled like ozone and warm milk. Glass walls curved like a womb itself, temperature held at perfect ninety-eight point six, air scented faintly with amniotic fluid and Isabella's perfume. Eight pods lined the curve, each a translucent sphere filled with pale blue fluid, biometric cables floating like seaweed. Isabella floated in pod one, seven months swollen with twins, breasts floating free, nipples connected to gentle pumps that harvested milk in steady streams. Lila occupied pod two, eight months along with triplets, red hair drifting like fire underwater, belly enormous and magnificent.
The children stood outside the glass in white lab coats tailored small, tablets in hand, eyes reflecting the red status lights that ringed every pod. Victor Jr., nearly seven, adjusted flow rates with fingers that never trembled. Ruby, six, narrated vitals in a voice already sultry. Emerald, five, painted the glass with fingerprints that left glowing code. Steel, four, pressed his palm to the sphere over Isabella's belly and whispered statistics only he understood.
Subscribers numbered in the billions now, paying per heartbeat, per kick, per millilitre of milk harvested. The feed titled "Hale Gestation Live" broke every record the internet had left to break.
We entered the chamber at the top of every hour for the ritual coupling.
I stripped at the airlock, suit falling away, cock already hard from the scent and the sight. Technicians in silent white helped me into the lightweight dive skin that left my groin and mouth exposed. Isabella's eyes opened behind the glass as I swam through the connecting tube into her pod, fluid warm and buoyant around us.
She smiled slowly, bubbles escaping her lips, legs drifting open. Cables tugged gently at her nipples as milk continued its steady harvest. I floated between her thighs, hands on the swell that held our twins, mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of salt and synthetic amniotic. She wrapped her legs around my waist, guiding me in.
Entry was slow, reverent, fluid cradling us weightless. I thrust gently at first, feeling the twins shift between us, tiny hands pressing against my abdomen from inside. Isabella's walls clenched in practised waves, milking me the way the pumps milked her breasts. Milk flowed faster through the cables, red lights pulsing approval.
The children watched from outside, tablets raised, narrating softly.
"Daddy depth optimal. Mommy's heart rate is one twenty and climbing. Twins are active, perfect."
I sped up, hands on Isabella's rope-bound breasts, squeezing in time with thrusts. Milk jetted into the pumps, fluid clouding white around us. She came first, body arching in the sphere, walls spasming, bubbles exploding from her scream. I followed, flooding her, come mixing with fluid in sacred cloud.
We floated spent, foreheads touching, twins kicking a celebration between us.
Then the tube to Lila's pod.
She waited eagerly, legs already spread, cables dancing. I entered hard this time, triplets making her belly a planet I orbited. She clawed my back through the dive skin, heels digging, demanding deeper. Milk poured from her breasts in thick streams, pumps working overtime. The children's narration grew breathy.
"Triplet heart rates syncing with thrust cadence. Auntie Lila's lubrication is off the charts."
She came screaming, squirting into the fluid, body convulsing so hard the pod rocked. I pounded through it, hand on her throat gentle possession, spilling deep inside, breeding already bred.
Hour after hour we coupled, alternating pods, sometimes both at once through the connecting tube, three bodies weightless in blue, milk and come clouding the water in swirling galaxies. The children adjusted nutrients, increased oxygen, and harvested every drop.
Between sessions, we rested on the central platform, a floating island of memory foam. Isabella nursed me from one breast while Lila took the other, milk warm and endless. I fingered them slowly, keeping arousal plateaued, and come leaked steadily into collection vials for the next injection cycle.
In the evenings, the children joined for "family bonding." They floated in smaller pods connected by umbilical cables, drinking filtered milk directly from the source, eyes glowing red as data flowed both ways. Victor Jr. explained genetics while nursing. Ruby composed poetry about wombs and wealth. Emerald drew constellations on the glass that became stock predictions. Steel simply stared, learning.
Births scheduled for the winter solstice, live in the world.
We made love in the central chamber the night before induction, all of us weightless in the main tank, fluid thick with milk and come and amniotic essence. Isabella at the centre, taking me in pussy and Lila's strap in ass, children circling in their pods like satellites, red lights pulsing in perfect sync.
She came screaming, squirting clouds that fed the filters. Lila followed, strap grinding deep. I flooded Isabella again, excess harvested for the next generation of toys.
The voice, now the children's chorus, sighed through the speakers.
"Perfect vessels. Perfect archive."
Labour began at dawn.
Isabella first, pod draining slowly, body lowered to the birthing throne in the centre. Contractions synced to the red lights, milk spraying with each push. I held one leg, Lila held the other, children narrating dilation in real time. Twins crowned together, boy and girl, eyes open, red diodes already blinking behind pupils. Named Code and Stream.
Lila next, triplets are stubborn, induction needed. I fucked her through contractions, cock as natural epidural, come easing the way. She pushed screaming pleasure, three girls sliding out slick, red hair floating like fire, eyes glowing emerald green. Named Byte, Pixel, and Cache.
The children welcomed their siblings with milk from Isabella's breasts and code from Victor Jr.'s tablet.
Empire announcements at noon: Hale Heirs Generation Two launched, pre-orders crashing servers worldwide. Stock infinite.
We floated home in the family pod, eleven bodies weightless in blue, milk flowing endlessly, red lights blinking love in every eye.
Victor's final feed from the yacht showed him floating face down in the cabin, tablet still glowing, red light reflecting in dead eyes. We sent flowers. White orchids wired with cameras.
The family is eternal. The womb streaming. The archive is complete.
Two queens are leaking galaxies. Eleven children speaking code. One king floating in milk and power.
And the red light, now a constellation, sang creation in every womb, forever.