The glass wall of Ethan's Malibu beach house bled sunset into the Pacific. Kayla Brooks stood on the deck, wind whipping her platinum hair, skirt plastered to a 50-inch ass that could stop traffic on the 405. Her husband's orange jumpsuit was still trending on TMZ; her AmEx was maxed; the foreclosure notice on their Hidden Hills mansion was dated tomorrow.
Ethan watched from the kitchen island, shirt unbuttoned, cock already half-hard in linen slacks. *Cupidity* had pinged her at 3 a.m.—arousal index 97 %, pussy dripping so hard she'd left a wet spot on the Uber seat. He'd sent a single text:
**Bridge loan. My place. Sunset.**
Kayla stepped inside, heels clicking on heated marble.
"I need two million by Monday," she blurted. No hello.
Ethan poured two fingers of Yamazaki, slid one across the island. "Drink."
She obeyed, throat working. A bead of sweat rolled between H-cup tits straining a white silk blouse. No bra. Nipples like bullets.
He circled her like a shark. "Strip."
"Here?"
"Kitchen's soundproof."
Kayla's fingers shook on the buttons. Blouse fell; skirt followed. Naked except for a diamond choker and six-inch Louboutins. Her pussy was waxed bare, lips puffy and glistening, a visible string of arousal stretching to mid-thigh.
Ethan dropped to his knees. One slow lick from taint to clit and Kayla's lie cracked:
"I—I haven't come in six months."
Her pussy gushed the second his tongue touched her. He pinned her thighs to the island, devoured her for fifteen straight minutes—sucking, spearing, flicking—until she was sobbing, hips grinding air, juices puddling on the marble.
He stood, cock out, nine inches throbbing.
"Tell me the truth."
"Every night," she gasped. "I finger myself thinking of—fuck—of someone saving me."
Ethan bent her over the island. Her tits flattened on cold stone, ass arched high. He dragged his cock through her slick folds, coating himself, then notched at her entrance.
One thrust. Balls-deep. Kayla screamed, pussy clamping so hard he had to fight to pull back. He set a brutal rhythm—long, grinding strokes that made her ass clap like thunder. Each impact sent a ripple up her spine; her tits slid in their own milk-slick (wait, no, just sweat and her own juices).
"Harder," she begged. "Ruin me."
Ethan obliged. Hands on her hips, he fucked her through the island, marble creaking. Her pussy squirted in rhythmic pulses, soaking his thighs, the floor, the $100K loan docs he'd slid beneath her.
He flipped her onto her back. Legs over his shoulders, cock spearing straight to her cervix. Kayla's eyes rolled; her walls fluttered.
"Gonna come," she whimpered.
"Do it."
She exploded—squirting so hard it splashed his chest, the ceiling, the ocean view. Ethan kept pounding, chasing his own edge. First load painted her insides white; second overflowed, dripping in thick ropes onto the marble.
He pulled out, cock still rigid. Kayla slid to her knees without prompting, tits heaving, pussy gaping and leaking. She looked up, mascara streaked.
"Sign me."
Ethan grabbed the pen, pressed it between her tits. She scrawled *Kayla Brooks* in cum-smeared ink across the contract.
Phone buzzed on the counter.
**New match: Sasha Ivanov. Arousal index: 99 %. Location: Santa Monica yoga studio. Closing in 48 hrs.**
Ethan zipped up, tossed Kayla a silk robe.
"Shower's upstairs. Pack a bag. You're moving in."
She clutched the robe, cum still dripping down her thighs, and smiled for the first time in months.
Outside, the sun sank into the sea, painting the wet marble gold.
The Santa Monica yoga studio smelled of eucalyptus and panic.
**Sasha Ivanov** locked the door at 9:03 p.m., flipped the sign to *CLOSED*, and let the tears fall.
Bankruptcy papers lay on the reception desk like a death sentence.
Her phone buzzed:
**Ethan Ryder: Private session. Bring the mirrors.**
She wiped her face, rolled out the last clean mat, and dimmed the lights to blood-red.
When Ethan walked in, the room temperature spiked ten degrees.
Sasha wore nothing but black spandex shorts and a cropped tank that barely contained I-cup breasts. Sweat already beaded between them; her pussy had been dripping since the text. She dropped into downward dog, ass high, 48-inch cheeks swallowing the fabric.
Ethan circled her slowly.
"Show me child's pose."
She folded forward, tits spilling onto the mat, ass higher. He knelt behind her, peeled the shorts down in one motion. No panties. Just a shaved, swollen pussy glistening like morning dew, lips parted and pulsing.
He dragged one finger through her slit. Sasha shuddered, a low Russian curse slipping out:
"*Блядь…*"
Juices coated his finger to the knuckle. He licked it clean, then spread her cheeks.
"Hold the pose."
Ethan freed his cock, nine inches of rigid heat, and pressed the head to her entrance.
One slow push. Sasha's breath hitched as he sank in—six inches, seven, eight—until his hips met her ass and her belly bulged faintly.
The mirrors caught every angle: her tits swinging, his shaft disappearing into slick pink, her face twisted in bliss.
He gripped her hips and began the rhythm: long, deliberate strokes that dragged over every ridge inside her. Each thrust forced a squirt—small at first, then gushing arcs that splattered the mirrors in rhythmic *splat-splat-splat*.
Sasha's moans turned to Russian filth:
"*Трахай меня, папочка… глубже…*"
(*Fuck me, daddy… deeper…*)
Ethan folded her into mating press—ankles by her ears, cock spearing straight down. Her tits smothered his face; he latched onto a nipple, sucked hard. Sasha screamed, pussy clamping so tight he saw stars.
She came—hard—squirting in a perfect arc over his shoulder, soaking the ceiling tiles.
He flipped her to all fours, re-entered from behind. The mirrors showed everything: her ass rippling like waves, his cock pistoning in and out coated in cream, her tits slapping the mat in wet *thwacks*.
Ethan reached under, pinched her clit. Another squirt—this one hit the far wall.
"On your back," he ordered.
Sasha obeyed, legs spread wide, pussy gaping and fluttering. He slid back in, missionary deep, her ankles locked behind his neck. The angle let him grind her G-spot on every stroke.
She came again, babbling in Russian, nails raking his back.
Ethan pulled out, straddled her chest. Her I-cups enveloped his cock in warm, slick flesh. He fucked her tits slow, then fast, precum mixing with her sweat.
"Open," he growled.
Sasha tilted her head back. He erupted—thick ropes across her tongue, chin, and breasts. She swallowed what she could, the rest dripping down her cleavage like icing.
He wasn't finished.
Still hard, he slid back into her pussy—now a creamy, cum-filled mess—and resumed slow, grinding strokes. Ten minutes later he came again, flooding her until it leaked out in pulses around his shaft.
Sasha lay spent, mirrors fogged, floor puddled. Ethan zipped up, tossed her a towel.
"Studio's yours. Rent paid for life."
She laughed weakly, cum still dripping from her chin.
"*Spasibo, papochka.*"
His phone lit up on the mat.
**New match: Monica Reyes. Arousal index: 100 %. Location: Children's Hospital, Room 412.**
Ethan pocketed it, already hard again.
"Pack your yoga gear, Sasha. You're moving in."
Children's Hospital smelled of bleach and hope.
Monica Reyes sat in the plastic chair beside her son's bed, fingers knotted around an MRI bill: **$187,400**.
Her scrubs were two sizes too small, G-cup breasts straining the V-neck, nipples dark shadows beneath thin cotton.
She hadn't slept in three days; her pussy hadn't stopped dripping since the oncology nurse handed her the envelope.
Ethan walked in at 11:47 p.m., visitor badge clipped to a $3,000 hoodie.
The boy slept under cartoon blankets.
Monica stood, eyes red.
"You're the donor?"
"I'm the solution."
He closed the door, flipped the lock.
Monica's breath hitched.
"My son—"
"Will have the best care money can buy. After this."
Ethan stepped close. One hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing a tear.
The other slid under her scrub top, palmed a heavy breast.
Monica whimpered; milk beaded instantly, soaking the fabric.
He peeled the top up, latched onto her left nipple, and sucked.
Warm, sweet milk flooded his mouth in rhythmic pulses.
Monica's knees buckled. He caught her, lifted her onto the empty gurney, scrubs pants yanked to her ankles.
No panties. Just a shaved, swollen pussy so wet it left a snail-trail on the vinyl.
He dropped between her thighs.
One long lick and Monica came—silent, violent, thighs clamping his head.
He drank her through it, tongue spearing deep, lapping every drop.
Her milk leaked in twin streams down her ribs.
Ethan stood, cock out, nine inches throbbing.
He lifted her legs to his shoulders, lined up, and sank in slow.
Monica's eyes rolled; her pussy fluttered around him like a heartbeat.
He set a gentle rhythm at first—long, grinding strokes that kissed her cervix.
The gurney creaked softly, metal warm beneath her back.
"Harder," she whispered.
He gave it.
Hands under her ass, he pulled her onto every thrust.
Her tits bounced in hypnotic circles, milk spraying in fine arcs with each impact.
Monica bit her fist to stay quiet; the boy slept six feet away.
She came again—harder—pussy gushing around his cock, soaking the sheets.
Ethan kept going, chasing his own edge.
First load painted her insides white; second overflowed, dripping in thick ropes onto the gurney.
He stayed buried, grinding slow, milking every aftershock.
Monica's legs trembled around his neck.
He pulled out gently, tucked himself away.
Grabbed the bill from the side table, scrawled **PAID IN FULL** across it in Sharpie, and tucked it into her bra.
"Pack his things," he said. "Private clinic in Switzerland. Tomorrow."
Monica stared, milk and cum on her thighs, eyes shining.
"Yes, sir."
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
**Seed LLC Group Chat:**
**Vanessa:** *Rooftop pool. Midnight. Bring the new girl.*
**Kayla:** *Champagne's chilling between my tits.*
**Sasha:** *Mirrors installed. Ready for showtime.*
Ethan kissed Monica's forehead, tasted salt and milk.
"Welcome to the family."
The rooftop infinity pool shimmered like liquid sapphire under a half-moon.
Four loungers. Four robes. Four sets of eyes locked on Ethan as he stepped out of the elevator at 11:59 p.m.
Vanessa, Kayla, Sasha, and Monica, silk robes slipping off shoulders, breasts heavier with every breath.
The air smelled of chlorine, coconut oil, and the unmistakable musk of four pussies already soaked.
Ethan dropped his towel.
Cock jutted upward, nine inches of rigid invitation.
"Seed LLC," he said. "My money. Your bodies. Our babies."
Vanessa stepped forward first, robe pooling at her feet. JJ-cups glistened with fresh milk.
She poured champagne between her tits; the golden stream ran down her belly and dripped from her pussy lips.
Kayla knelt, tongue catching every drop, then slid up to lick the champagne from Vanessa's nipples.
Sasha twerked slowly, 48-inch ass clapping in perfect rhythm.
Monica stood shyly until Ethan crooked a finger.
He pulled her close, sucked a nipple until milk sprayed across the deck in a pearly arc.
"Rules," he said, voice low.
"1. You live here.
2. You stay wet.
3. You carry my children.
Sign with your pussies."
He laid a single contract on the glass table.
Vanessa straddled the corner, ground her dripping slit along the edge until ink smeared.
Kayla followed, squirting a clear signature.
Sasha pressed her lips to the paper, leaving a glossy kiss-print.
Monica came last, trembling, and simply let Ethan guide her hips until her juices soaked the final clause.
Ethan lifted Monica, carried her to the largest lounger.
The others followed like a pride of lionesses.
**Mini-orgy teaser:**
- Vanessa knelt over Monica's face, lactating into her open mouth while Ethan slid into Monica missionary-style, slow and deep.
- Kayla rimmed Sasha's pussy, tongue delving for the taste of Ethan's last load, while Sasha twerked on Ethan's fingers.
- Ethan rotated every five minutes:
- Prone-bone Vanessa, milk spraying the cushions.
- Reverse cowgirl Kayla, ass clapping loud enough to echo off glass railings.
- Full-nelson Sasha, cock spearing so deep her belly bulged.
- Missionary Monica, legs on his shoulders, creampie #1 overflowing onto the lounger.
The moon climbed higher.
Four pussies. Four creampies. Four sets of tits painted in milk and cum.
No one spoke; only moans, wet slaps, and the soft *drip-drip* of overflow onto teak.
Ethan stood at the edge of the pool, cock still hard, four women kneeling in a semicircle, chins dripping.
"Bedroom," he commanded. "Now."
They rose as one, robes forgotten, bodies gleaming.
The elevator doors closed on five silhouettes, the contract fluttering to the wet deck like a white flag of surrender.
The master bedroom was a cathedral of sin:
- 20-foot ceiling,
- floor-to-ceiling mirrors,
- a California-king bed that could host a small orgy (and would).
- Silk sheets the color of fresh cream.
- Hidden speakers pulsing slow, bass-heavy R&B.
Ethan stood at the foot, naked, cock jutting like a steel beam.
Four MILFs knelt in a perfect line on the plush carpet:
**Vanessa, Kayla, Sasha, Monica**, robes gone, bodies glowing under recessed lights.
He snapped his fingers.
"Rotation. Twelve hours. No breaks."
**Round 1 – Vanessa (Prone-Bone Lactation Special)**
She crawled forward, JJ-cups dragging across the sheets.
Ethan pushed her flat, ass up, face buried in a pillow that smelled of Kayla's perfume.
He spread her cheeks, slid into her soaked pussy in one slick glide.
Vanessa moaned into the pillow as he set a punishing rhythm, hips slapping her 52-inch ass in wet *thwacks*.
Her tits leaked steadily; milk pooled beneath her, soaking the sheets.
Kayla slid underneath, mouth open, catching every drop like a baby bird.
**Round 2 – Kayla (Reverse Cowgirl Ass-Quake)**
Kayla mounted him backward, H-cups bouncing, 50-inch ass swallowing his cock to the root.
She rode hard, thighs flexing, ass clapping so loud the mirrors rattled.
Each bounce forced a squirt; clear arcs splashed Ethan's chest, the headboard, Sasha's waiting tongue.
Monica knelt beside them, fingers in her own pussy, eyes glazed.
**Round 3 – Sasha (Full-Nelson Squirt Storm)**
Ethan stood, lifted Sasha like she weighed nothing.
Her legs folded back, ankles by her ears, pussy exposed and dripping.
He impaled her mid-air, cock spearing straight down.
Her belly bulged with every thrust.
Sasha screamed in Russian, squirting in perfect arcs that painted the ceiling, the walls, Monica's tits.
Vanessa and Kayla licked the splatter off Monica's skin like cats.
**Round 4 – Monica (Missionary Creampie Marathon)**
Ethan laid Monica on her back, legs over his shoulders, and *lived* inside her.
Slow, grinding strokes that kissed her cervix.
Her G-cups jiggled in hypnotic circles; milk beaded and rolled down her sides.
He came four times, each load thicker, hotter, overflowing in creamy rivers that soaked the sheets and Monica's thighs.
She came with every pulse, pussy fluttering like a trapped bird.
**Intermission – Hydration & Tease**
At the 4-hour mark, the women lay in a tangle of limbs, pussies gaping, tits glistening.
Ethan fed them champagne from his mouth, then water from crystal bottles.
Vanessa lactated into flutes; the others drank greedily.
Sasha twerked lazily on his lap, keeping him hard.
Kayla and Monica 69'd, licking his cum from each other's folds.
**Round 5 – Rotation Reset**
Ethan flipped the script:
- Vanessa on her knees, tit-fucking him while Kayla rimmed her.
- Sasha in a bridge pose, pussy angled for deep penetration, squirting upward like a fountain.
- Monica riding his face, milk dripping into his mouth as he tongue-fucked her to another orgasm.
By hour 8, the bed was a swamp of milk, squirt, and cum.
The mirrors were fogged.
The women's voices were hoarse from screaming.
Ethan's cock? Still granite.
He stood, stroked once, twice.
"Part 2 at dawn," he said. "Sleep with me inside you."
They curled around him like kittens, pussies clenching softly in their sleep, already dreaming of the next load.
Dawn bled rose-gold through the bedroom's smart-glass walls.
The bed looked like a battlefield:
- Sheets twisted and soaked,
- milk drying in crusty streaks,
- puddles of squirt and cum cooling into glossy patches.
Four MILFs lay sprawled around Ethan, limbs tangled, pussies still twitching in aftershock.
He woke hard (as always).
Nine inches jutted against Vanessa's thigh.
She stirred, JJ-cups rising like bread dough.
"Breakfast," he said, voice gravel.
They migrated to the bed's center, kneeling in a tight circle.
**Tit-fuck relay.**
Rules:
1. Edge him with breasts only.
2. No hands on his cock.
3. Last woman to make him throb gets the facial.
**Round 1 – Vanessa**
She pressed her JJ-cups together, slid his cock between them like a hot dog in a warm, milky bun.
Slow pumps, milk lubing every stroke.
Ethan groaned; precum pearled and mixed with her lactation.
**Round 2 – Kayla**
H-cups next, firmer, nipples dragging along his shaft.
She bounced faster, ass jiggling behind her.
A bead of milk from Vanessa's earlier spray still clung to his tip; Kayla licked it off mid-stroke.
**Round 3 – Sasha**
I-cups, slick with sweat and squirt.
She spat between them for extra glide, then fucked him with her tits in perfect 90 BPM rhythm.
Her pussy dripped onto the sheets in sympathy.
**Round 4 – Monica**
G-cups, smallest but softest.
She trembled, shy, until Ethan growled, "Squeeze."
She did—hard—and he throbbed violently.
**Winner.**
Monica tilted her head back, mouth open.
Ethan stood over her, stroked twice, and erupted.
Thick ropes painted her face:
- across her tongue,
- over both eyelids,
- in pearly stripes across her cheeks.
The others dove in like starving wolves:
- Vanessa licked cum from Monica's left tit,
- Kayla sucked it off her chin,
- Sasha swallowed what dripped into Monica's cleavage.
Monica came untouched, pussy clenching air, a final squirt arcing to the sheets.
Ethan collapsed backward.
The women curled around him, licking the last drops from his shaft like it was communion.
**Post-orgasm breakfast (literal):**
Room-service carts rolled in at 7:15 a.m.
- Strawberries dipped in Vanessa's fresh milk.
- Pancakes soaked in Sasha's squirt (she came on command over the stack).
- Scrambled eggs beside a bowl of Kayla's pussy juice (collected in a crystal cup).
- Mimosas topped with Monica's lactation foam.
They ate off each other's bodies:
- Ethan licked syrup from Kayla's ass crack,
- Vanessa fed Monica strawberries with cum-glazed fingers,
- Sasha drizzled warm maple between her tits for Kayla to lap up.
By 8:00 a.m., Ethan was hard again.
He bent Vanessa over the breakfast cart, slid into her from behind while she poured orange juice.
The carton trembled; OJ splashed across Monica's waiting tits.
Kayla and Sasha knelt beneath, tongues catching every drop—juice, milk, precum.
Ethan fucked Vanessa slow, savoring the clink of crystal against marble.
Ten minutes in, he pulled out, spun Monica around, and filled her in three thrusts.
Kept rotating—five strokes each—until every pussy had a fresh creampie for brunch.
At 9:00 a.m. sharp, the smart-glass walls went opaque.
The bedroom sealed.
Ethan lay in the center, four women draped over him like living blankets.
Pussies nestled against his thighs, cock nestled in Sasha's fist, tits pillowing his chest.
His phone (on the nightstand) lit up one last time:
**Cupidity AI:** *Pregnancy probabilities:
Vanessa – 94 %
Kayla – 91 %
Sasha – 97 %
Monica – 99 %
Ultrasound party scheduled: 72 hrs.*
Ethan smiled, thumbed the screen dark.
"Nap," he murmured. "Then we celebrate."
Four soft, sleepy voices answered in unison:
"Yes, Daddy."
The Charity Gala for Pediatric Cancer shimmered inside the Beverly Wilshire's grand ballroom.
Black ties, diamond chokers, and the soft clink of crystal.
Ethan wore midnight Tom Ford.
His four MILFs arrived on his arm in staggered entrances, each gown engineered for scandal.
- **Vanessa:** emerald silk, plunging neckline, JJ-cups barely caged.
- **Kayla:** crimson backless, 50-inch ass poured into mermaid satin.
- **Sasha:** gold lamé slit to the hip, I-cups shimmering with every breath.
- **Monica:** ivory off-shoulder, G-cups cradled in lace, nipples already beading milk.
They moved like planets around Ethan's sun.
Champagne flowed.
Cameras flashed.
Under the tablecloths, the real game began.
**Table 1 – Vanessa**
Seated to Ethan's left, she crossed her legs too slowly.
His hand vanished beneath emerald silk.
Two fingers slid into her soaked pussy; thumb circled her clit.
Vanessa's smile never wavered for the senator across the table.
Milk bloomed through silk in twin dark circles.
She came silently, thighs clamping his wrist, a single drop of milk rolling down her décolletage.
Ethan withdrew, licked his fingers clean, and raised his glass.
"To miracles."
**Table 2 – Kayla**
Right side.
Ethan's other hand traced the slit of her gown, found bare pussy, and pushed three fingers deep.
Kayla bit her lip, mascara flawless.
Her hips rocked imperceptibly.
A soft *squirt* soaked the chair cushion.
She excused herself to "powder her nose."
Ethan followed thirty seconds later.
**Coat Check – 7-Minute Quickie**
Behind a wall of sable and mink, Kayla bent over a Louis Vuitton trunk.
Gown hiked to waist, ass glowing under emergency light.
Ethan freed his cock, slammed home.
Seven minutes of brutal, silent thrusts:
- ass rippling,
- pussy gushing,
- cum flooding her so fast it dripped into her Louboutins with every step back to the table.
She sat, cum pooling beneath her, smile serene.
**Balcony – Sasha**
Mid-dessert, Sasha whispered, "I need air."
Ethan followed.
Moonlit marble railing.
She dropped to her knees behind a potted palm, freed his cock, and deep-throated until mascara ran.
He pulled her up, spun her, entered from behind.
Gold lamé bunched at her waist.
Ten strokes and she squirted over the balcony edge, clear arcs glittering 12 stories down.
Ethan filled her, zipped up, and escorted her inside like nothing happened.
**Silent Auction – Monica**
Ethan bid $500K on a vintage Porsche.
Monica stood beside him, trembling.
He slipped a hand into her gown's side slit, found her pussy dripping down her thigh.
One finger, two, three.
She came with a tiny gasp, milk spraying through lace onto the bidding paddle.
The auctioneer assumed champagne.
Ethan signed the paddle with her juices, handed it over.
"Deliver it to the Malibu address."
**Grand Finale – The Powder Room**
11:45 p.m.
All four women vanished into the marble bathroom.
Ethan locked the door.
Mirrors on every wall.
He lined them up over the sinks:
- Vanessa,
- Kayla,
- Sasha,
- Monica,
gowns hiked, asses arched, pussies gleaming.
He rotated like a machine:
- Five strokes each,
- creampie in every hole,
- cum and milk dripping onto Italian marble in synchronized *plip-plip-plip*.
The mirrors caught every angle:
- tits bouncing,
- pussies overflowing,
- faces wrecked with bliss.
At 11:59 p.m. they emerged, gowns smoothed, lipstick perfect.
Ethan kissed each forehead.
"Home. Ultrasound tomorrow."
His phone buzzed in his pocket:
**Cupidity AI:** *Tokyo match confirmed. OL, 39, bankrupt startup, lactating. Flight leaves 0600.*
Ethan smiled into his champagne.
The night was young.
So was the empire
Seventy-two hours later, the Malibu mansion's great room had been transformed into a pastel shrine.
Soft morning light filtered through smart-glass.
Four pregnancy tests lay on a silver tray like communion wafers.
Four MILFs stood in silk robes the color of their future babies' booties:
- **Vanessa** (emerald),
- **Kayla** (crimson),
- **Sasha** (gold),
- **Monica** (ivory).
Ethan sat in the center of the sectional, naked, cock already half-hard from anticipation.
A 75-inch screen flickered to life:
**Dr. Elena Park, Zurich Fertility Clinic, secure Zoom.**
She smiled, Swiss accent crisp.
"Ready when you are, Mr. Ryder."
**Test 1 – Vanessa**
She stepped forward, robe slipping to the floor.
JJ-cups heavier, veins blue beneath skin.
She straddled Ethan reverse-cowgirl, sank down slow.
Nine inches disappeared into her creamy pussy.
Dr. Park's ultrasound wand appeared on a rolling cart.
Vanessa leaned back, legs spread, as the wand slid over her lower belly.
**Pink line. Fetal heartbeat: 162 bpm.**
Vanessa came instantly, milk spraying in twin arcs across the screen.
Ethan thrust upward, flooding her with the first celebratory creampie.
**Test 2 – Kayla**
She took Vanessa's place, missionary on the ottoman.
H-cups bouncing as Ethan re-entered.
Dr. Park adjusted the wand.
**Pink line. Heartbeat: 158 bpm.**
Kayla squirted so hard it splashed the lens.
Ethan kept pounding, second load painting her cervix while the heartbeat fluttered on-screen.
**Test 3 – Sasha**
Full-nelson on the rug.
Sasha's legs folded back, pussy angled for the wand.
**Pink line. Heartbeat: 165 bpm.**
She squirted in Russian, arcs hitting the ceiling like fireworks.
Ethan's third creampie overflowed in thick pulses, dripping onto the ultrasound gel.
**Test 4 – Monica**
Gentle missionary on the sectional, legs over his shoulders.
G-cups leaking steadily.
Dr. Park's voice softened:
**"Triplets. All strong heartbeats."**
Monica sobbed, came untouched, milk pooling in Ethan's collarbones.
He stayed buried, grinding slow, fourth and fifth loads blending inside her until cum and ultrasound gel mixed on her thighs.
**Synchronized Creampie Finale**
Ethan stood.
The women knelt in a semicircle, bellies already rounding, pussies gaping and dripping.
He stroked once, twice.
Four loads in four minutes:
- Vanessa's tits,
- Kayla's face,
- Sasha's tongue,
- Monica's belly (already a gentle swell).
They licked each other clean, milk and cum swapped mouth-to-mouth, heartbeat audio still pulsing from the speakers.
Dr. Park signed off:
"See you in Zurich for the 12-week scan. Congratulations, Daddy."
Ethan collapsed onto the sectional.
Four pregnant MILFs curled around him, hands on bellies, pussies still clenching softly around nothing.
The screen faded to the Seed LLC logo: a single drop of milk falling into an ocean of cum.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table:
**Cupidity AI:** *Tokyo flight boarded. Local time: 14 hrs. Prepare for new acquisitions.*
Ethan kissed each forehead, tasted salt and future.
"Rest," he murmured. "We're just getting started."
One year later.
Malibu, 3:17 a.m.
The mansion's west wing had become a **living womb**.
Soft amber night-lights traced crown molding.
Four cribs of hand-carved walnut lined the nursery wall, each tagged with a platinum nameplate:
- **Isabella Moreno-Ryder**
- **Ava Brooks-Ryder**
- **Nikolai Ivanov-Ryder**
- **Luca, Matteo, & Sofia Reyes-Ryder**
The air smelled of warm milk, baby powder, and the faint musk of four **still-dripping pussies**.
Ethan moved barefoot down the corridor, silk pajama pants slung low.
Cock already hard; it never slept anymore.
He entered the **crèche lounge**, a circular room of velvet and mirrors.
Four silk robes lay discarded like shed skins.
Four MILFs waited on the oversized nursing chaise, bodies transformed by pregnancy and birth:
- **Vanessa**: JJ-cups now K-cups, heavy with milk, veins like rivers.
- **Kayla**: H-cups now J, ass a plush 54 inches of post-partum perfection.
- **Sasha**: I-cups now L, nipples dark and perpetually leaking.
- **Monica**: G-cups now H, belly soft with triplet stretch marks she wore like medals.
They knelt in a loose circle, thighs spread, pussies glistening in the low light.
A single instruction from Ethan months ago:
**"Stay wet. Always."**
He stepped into the center.
No words.
Just the soft *thump-thump* of six heartbeats from the baby monitors.
**Midnight feeding.**
Vanessa lifted first.
Ethan latched onto her left breast; milk jetted in a warm, sweet stream.
She moaned, pussy clenching visibly.
Kayla took the right, tongue swirling the nipple, drinking secondhand.
Sasha crawled forward, pressed her L-cups to Ethan's cock.
He slid between them, fucking the slick valley while milk rained down his shaft.
Monica knelt behind him, tongue tracing his balls, lapping the overflow.
**Rotation.**
Ethan laid Vanessa on her back, legs over his shoulders.
Entered her slow; her pussy was tighter than ever, post-baby muscles gripping like velvet steel.
He fucked her in long, lazy strokes, milk spraying with every thrust.
Ten minutes.
First creampie of the night, thick and hot, overflowing instantly.
Kayla took his place reverse-cowgirl.
Her 54-inch ass swallowed him whole.
She rode hard, thighs flexing, milk dripping from her tits onto Vanessa's waiting tongue.
Second creampie, her pussy squirting in celebration.
Sasha in full-nelson against the mirror.
Her reflection showed everything: belly still soft, tits bouncing, pussy stretched around his cock.
She squirted in Russian lullabies.
Third creampie painted her cervix while the mirror fogged.
Monica last, missionary on the nursing pillow.
Triplet-soft belly against his abs.
He entered gentle, then deep, then gentle again.
She came twice, milk flooding his chest.
Fourth and fifth creampies blended inside her until it leaked in slow, creamy rivers down her thighs.
**Finale.**
They curled together on the chaise, a tangle of limbs and leaking breasts.
Ethan in the center, cock nestled in Sasha's fist, milk dripping from every direction.
The baby monitors stayed silent; the children slept like angels.
Vanessa whispered, voice husky:
"Tokyo girls arrive tomorrow."
Kayla nipped his ear:
"Paris in two weeks."
Sasha licked a bead of milk from his jaw:
"Dubai next month."
Monica simply pressed his hand to her soft belly:
"Room for more."
Ethan closed his eyes.
The Seed LLC empire stretched across continents now,
bank accounts,
pussies,
wombs,
all dripping with his name.
Fade on the soft *drip-drip* of milk hitting silk,
and Sasha's whispered Russian lullaby:
**"Спи, папочка… мы все твои."**
(*Sleep, Daddy… we're all yours.*)
**THE END**