He pulled out.
The sound it made was obscene — wet, dense, the specific noise of a body releasing something it had been wrapped around — and Yuna's pussy didn't close.
It 'gaped.'
Pink. Raw. The freshly stretched walls fluttering around the absence of him, visibly trembling — shaped already, in just one hour, into the beginning of the mold he had been carving — and from the ruined entrance: his seed, thick and white, flooding outward in a slow, continuous river, washing every last trace of red with it.
All that blood.
All that red.
Covered.
Replaced by white.
Yuna's belly 'bulged.'
Not grotesquely — the soft, visible distension of a flat stomach filled beyond its usual capacity, the skin pressing outward just slightly below her navel, as if her body was physically acknowledging how much of him was inside her.
She pressed both hands against it.
Small. Shaking.
"'I feel—'" Her voice cracked. "'I feel him in my 'stomach'—'"
His hand pressed over hers.
