Mafia Boss Fucks Eggs Out of His Pregnant Mermaid

The marble bathroom had been built for him. Sullivan knew that every time the water closed over the flared base of his tail and the gold veins in the stone caught the low lamps. Bruno had ordered the tub carved wider than any hotel bath in the city, deep enough that a full-grown merman could float without his fins striking the rim, and the jets were set low so they would not batter a swollen belly. At twenty-eight, Sullivan had lived in this penthouse long enough to know which rooms were for business and which rooms were only for the two of them. This one belonged to the nights Bruno locked the outer doors himself.

He lay half-submerged, pale chest above the waterline, copper-dark scales slick along the coil of his tail. The eggs sat low and heavy inside him, a packed, living weight that shifted when he breathed. Another contraction rolled through the muscles of his abdomen and down into the sensitive seam at the front of his tail. He gasped, one webbed hand gripping the marble edge, the other spread over the tight curve of his belly. The skin there was warm, stretched, and faintly luminous where the shells pressed from within.

“Easy,” he told himself, voice rough. The word did nothing. The pressure crested and eased, leaving him trembling and open.

The door clicked. Bruno came in barefoot, thirty-four and broad through the shoulders, the black silk shirt hanging open off his chest. He had left the rest of his clothes somewhere between the study and the hall. Water beaded on the stone as he crossed it. He looked at Sullivan the way he looked at things he had already decided were his: slow, certain, a little hungry.

“You’re early,” Sullivan said.

“You’re loud.” Bruno’s mouth tipped. “I heard you from the landing.”

He stepped into the tub behind him. Heat climbed Sullivan’s scales as Bruno’s thighs bracketed the thick base of his tail and strong arms came around his ribs. The silk shirt floated and clung, useless, and Bruno shrugged it off one shoulder so skin met skin. His chest was solid against Sullivan’s back. One large hand settled low on the swollen belly, possessive and careful at once.

“There you are,” Bruno murmured against the curve of his ear. “My pretty little carrier. Look at you. Full of me and still trying to be quiet about it.”

Sullivan’s breath caught. The next contraction was smaller, a warning more than a wave, but Bruno’s palm followed it, stroking in slow circles that made the eggs shift and press against the inner mouth of his slit. They had talked about this for months. Not just the clutch, not just the birth. The act itself. Bruno fucking him through it, cock seated deep while the eggs worked their way out around him. Sullivan had asked for it sober, in daylight, more than once. Bruno had made him say it again tonight before he filled the tub.

“I can feel them,” Bruno said, voice gone low and filthy. “Pressing right here. You want me to help them out, don’t you. You want my cock opening you so they slide easier. You’ve been dripping for it since the first pain hit.”

“Bruno.” Sullivan’s tail flexed under the water, scales rasping softly against Bruno’s legs. Shame and want tangled in his throat. “Don’t tease. Not now.”

“I’m not teasing.” Bruno kissed the wet line of his shoulder. “I’m reminding you what you begged me for. Slow. Deep. Until every egg is out and you’re shaking on my cock. Say you still want it.”

Sullivan turned his face into Bruno’s jaw. “I want it. I want you. Please.”

The contraction that followed was stronger. It seized low in his belly and traveled in a hot band toward the slit hidden in the softer scales at the front of his tail. He arched, water sloshing, a broken sound leaving his mouth. Bruno held him through it, one arm locked under his chest, the other hand never leaving the curve of the eggs. When it passed, Sullivan was panting, slit fluttering open against the warm water, slick already threading out of him in thin, iridescent strands.

Bruno shifted them both until Sullivan’s back rested more fully against his chest. The thick length of his cock rose under the water and nudged the sensitive outer lips of the birthing slit, not entering, only resting there, heavy and hot. Sullivan’s own cock had pushed free of its sheath higher on the tail, flushed and aching, untouched. Bruno ignored it on purpose. His fingers traced the swollen belly instead, mapping each firm oval beneath the skin.

“Feel that?” he said. “They’re ready. You’re clenching around nothing and it’s driving you crazy. I can feel your slit kissing the head of my cock every time you breathe. Greedy little thing. You were made to take me while you birth.”

“Then do it,” Sullivan whispered. His fins trembled. “Please, Bruno. I’m—another one’s coming. I need you in me before it hits. I need you to fuck them out.”

Bruno’s breath went rough against his neck. “Say it clearer.”

“Fuck the eggs out of me.” Sullivan’s voice broke on the words, explicit and shameless. “Sit me on your cock and don’t stop until they’re gone. I want it. I consent. I’ve wanted it since you put them in me. Please.”

That was the edge. Bruno’s hand left his belly only long enough to guide himself. The broad head of his cock pressed to the yielding slit, slick with Sullivan’s own oils and the bathwater, and pushed. Sullivan cried out as he opened. The entrance was swollen from the labor, exquisitely sensitive, and the stretch burned sweet all the way up into the clutch. Bruno sank in by inches, groaning, one arm braced across Sullivan’s chest so he could not thrash away from the fullness. Water lapped their joined bodies. Scales shifted. The thick shaft seated deep, the head nudging the lowest egg through the thin inner wall.

“God,” Bruno said, strained. “You’re so tight around me. Even like this. Even full.”

Sullivan could not answer. The next contraction rolled over the invasion and turned it into something blinding. His slit clenched rhythmically around Bruno’s cock, trying to both expel and keep. Bruno held still until the worst of it passed, mouth at Sullivan’s throat, murmuring praise that was half worship and half filth. When Sullivan sagged, trembling, Bruno moved them.

He sat back against the sloped marble wall, water to his chest, and drew Sullivan with him until the merman was straddling his lap in the only way a tail allowed: coiled loosely, torso upright, weight settled down onto the cock buried inside him. Bruno’s hands spanned his hips and the lower swell of his belly. He thrust up once, slow and powerful, and Sullivan’s head fell back against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” Bruno said. “Ride it. Let me do the work.”

He set a deliberate rhythm. Not fast. Each upward stroke was a controlled drive that pressed the head of his cock directly against the packed eggs, then a long withdrawal that dragged over the fluttering inner muscles and made Sullivan’s slit cling. The water rocked with them. Sullivan’s hands found Bruno’s forearms and held on. Every thrust sent a shock through the clutch. The lowest egg shifted, caught, shifted again. Pleasure and pressure braided until Sullivan could not tell which moan belonged to which.

“You feel that?” Bruno’s voice was wrecked and proud. “I’m pushing it down. My cock’s right against it. You’re going to open for me and let it out while I stay inside you. Filthy perfect thing. My merman. My clutch.”

“Yes—yes, don’t stop—” Sullivan rocked as much as the position allowed, meeting each thrust, tail flexing in the water. His cock bobbed against his belly, leaking. Bruno wrapped one wet hand around it at last and stroked in time with the slow fuck, thumb smearing the slick over the flushed head. The other hand supported the heavy curve of his stomach, lifting just enough to ease the strain while the thrusts did their work below.

The contraction that brought the first egg was enormous. Sullivan shouted, body locking, slit stretching impossibly around both the thick cock and the descending shell. Bruno did not pull out. He thrust shallow and steady, groaning at the vise of muscle, one palm firm on the belly as if he could guide the egg by touch alone. Sullivan felt the oval crown at his entrance, smooth and warm, forcing him wider than Bruno’s cock already had. The sensation ripped a sob out of him that was not pain so much as too much of everything he had asked for.

“Push,” Bruno ordered, gentle and absolute. “I’ve got you. Push it out on my cock. Let me see it.”

Sullivan bore down. The egg slid, caught on the rim of his slit beside the shaft, then slipped free in a rush of slick and warm water. It bobbed between them, pale and glistening, veined with soft gold. Sullivan shook through the aftershock, hole clenching wildly around the cock that had stayed seated the entire time. Bruno’s hand left his prick only long enough to nudge the egg toward the shallow ledge of the tub, then returned, stroking him harder.

“Beautiful,” Bruno said against his ear. “One. Look at you taking me while you birth. Again.”

He fucked up into the loosened heat, slower now, deeper, chasing the next pressure. Sullivan was beyond words. He moaned with every stroke, rocking in the water, scales flashing under the lamps. The second egg was already moving, urged by the relentless press of Bruno’s cock and the contractions that would not stop. Bruno rubbed his belly in firm circles and jerked his cock in a slick fist, possessive dirty talk pouring out of him without pause.

“That’s my boy. Open. Give it to me. I put them in you and I’m taking them out the same way. You love it. I can feel you milking me. You’re going to come while the next one drops, aren’t you. Come all over my hand while I fuck your eggs free.”

The second egg crowned faster. Sullivan cried out, high and broken, and spilled between their bodies in thick pulses that painted Bruno’s fingers and his own swollen belly. The orgasm clenched him so hard around Bruno’s cock that the egg was forced the rest of the way out in one smooth, obscene slide. It joined the first on the ledge, shining. Sullivan sobbed through the pleasure, oversensitive, still hard in Bruno’s fist, still full.

“Two,” Bruno groaned. His thrusts had gone ragged at the edges but he kept them slow, disciplined, the way he had promised. “One more. I can feel it. Right against me. Give me the last one, Sullivan. Then I’ll fill you.”

Sullivan nodded, wrecked, forehead tipped back to Bruno’s. “Don’t pull out. Stay. Fuck it out. Please—I’m close again—don’t stop—”

Bruno kissed him, messy and deep, and drove upward in long, grinding strokes that pressed the final egg inexorably downward. His hand never left Sullivan’s cock. The third contraction built under the orgasm that had not fully faded, and Sullivan came again with a raw shout, spilling weaker, shaking apart in Bruno’s arms. The last egg stretched him wide beside the buried cock and slipped free as Bruno groaned and buried himself to the hilt. Heat flooded Sullivan’s channel in heavy pulses, Bruno’s cum mixing with the birth slick, cock throbbing against the suddenly empty space where the clutch had been.

They stayed locked like that while the water settled. Sullivan trembled, tail twitching with aftershocks, slit fluttering around the softening length still inside him. Bruno held him close, one arm across his chest, the other hand spread protectively over the deflated curve of his belly. Both of them breathed hard. The three eggs gleamed on the marble ledge, whole and perfect.

When he could move, Bruno eased out with a careful hand and gathered the eggs one by one into the silk-lined basket waiting beside the tub. He did not rush. He checked each shell with a tenderness that sat strangely beside the filth he had just spoken, then set the basket where the lamps would keep them warm. Sullivan watched through half-lidded eyes, spent and floating, and let Bruno draw him back against his chest in the cooling water.

“All three,” Bruno said quietly. “You did so well.”

Sullivan hummed, boneless. “We did.”

Bruno’s mouth brushed his temple. He did not say that the coastal house was already bought in both their names, the nursery tiled and waiting, the papers signed that morning while Sullivan slept through the early pains. He only held his trembling merman closer and let the secret rest, for now, between one heartbeat and the next.