Non-Con Breeding: Female and Male

The forty-second floor had the hush of a place abandoned by accident. Veronica, twenty-two and already the kind of office professional who could hold a room without raising her voice, stood between the workstations with her blazer over one arm. The merger deck was done. The building was not. Sometime after nine the security system had glitched, locks throwing, elevators dead, stairwell doors sealed, and facilities had called once with useless mercy. Stay put. Technicians at dawn. Do not force the doors.

Roman was the only other soul left on the floor. Twenty-eight, her colleague on the same grind, equally driven and worse at pretending he did not watch her when she crossed a room. He had been proofing numbers in the glass conference room when the bolts dropped. Now he stood at the window wall in his shirtsleeves, city lights smeared far below, the empty workspace breathing around them both.

"Dawn," he said, without turning. "They said dawn."

"I heard." She toed her heels off and felt the carpet under her bare feet. The charcoal dress still held her the way it had at eight that morning, though her hair had loosened and the day sat in her shoulders. "So we wait."

"Or we stop pretending the wait is the part that matters."

Months of late nights lived in that sentence. Arguments that ran hot and died because one of them always found a screen. She had wanted him since her first week on the team, hired at twenty-two, an adult with a badge and a life that had not included him before that Monday. He had wanted her back, look for look, and neither of them had spent the want. The malfunction stripped the office of its excuses. Isolation did the rest. What rose between them was electric, long-suppressed attraction with the whole night to spend.

She walked the perimeter of the open plan. He followed, not quite touching, close enough that when she paused at a dark monitor she felt him at her back like weather. Past the kitchenette. Past the printouts nobody would read until morning. Past the long black conference table. They circled each other the way people do when the wanting has become a physical fact and the hands have not caught up. Every sound carried. Her breath. His. The low hum of a building keeping two people alive and unsupervised.

"You have been circling me since the locks hit," she said.

"You have been letting me."

She turned. Coffee and clean cotton. Eyes steady on her mouth. Nothing in him blurred or careless. Her pulse showed at her throat and she let it.

"If I keep this dress on all night," she said, "I am going to lose my mind."

"Then take it off." His voice had gone low. "But understand me, Veronica. If you do, I will not be civilized. I have wanted you too long to play polite in an empty office."

She did not step back. The high-rise held them, locked and lit and alone, and the tension finally had nowhere left to hide.

They found the wine because the break room always hid something for the partners who stayed past sanity. A bottle of red, emergency in name only, cork already loose. Roman pulled two mugs because the glasses were downstairs and downstairs did not exist tonight. He poured a shallow splash into each. Veronica tasted it, sharp and warm, and set the mug down after one swallow. She wanted her head clear. She wanted to remember every second of whatever they were about to stop resisting.

"You are staring," she said.

"I am deciding how much of that dress I get to ruin."

She hopped onto the break room counter and crossed her legs, slow, letting the hem ride. His eyes followed the motion and stayed.

"Come here," she said.

He came. He set his hands on the counter to either side of her hips, not on her yet, bracing, close enough that she had to tip her chin up to hold his gaze. The wine sat forgotten. Her knees brushed his belt.

"Tell me to stop," he said, "and I will. Right now. No sulking, no story about it tomorrow. But if you do not tell me to stop, Veronica, I am going to put my mouth on you and I am not going to be gentle about the rest."

"I am not telling you to stop." Her voice came out steady, which surprised her, because her body was anything but. "I have wanted this. I want you to take me hard. I want you to fill me. Raw. No condom, no careful, no pretending this is a mistake we can tidy up. I want you to fuck me until I cannot think about anything but you coming inside me."

His hands tightened on the counter. "Then hear me," he growled. "I am going to breed you. I am going to take that fertile pussy and fill it until you are dripping me. I am going to put my cum so deep you feel it when you walk. You want that? Say it plain so I know I am not inventing the night."

"I want it." She reached for his shirt and fisted the fabric. "Breed me, Roman. I am asking. I am saying yes. Take me hard and do not pull out."

That was the end of the circling.

He kissed her like the lock had been on his mouth and she had the key. Frantic, open, all teeth and tongue and months of not. She kissed him back just as hard, tasting wine and want, her hands already working his buttons. His palms finally landed on her, sliding up her thighs, dragging the dress with them, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of her thighs. She gasped into his mouth and he swallowed it. He lifted her down without breaking the kiss and walked her backward through the dark, mouths locked, her fingers in his hair, his hands on her ass. She moaned into the kiss and bit his lower lip, and he answered with a rough sound that vibrated through her chest. Fabric gave. Skin found skin. Neither of them slowed.

She got his shirt open and shoved it off, palms skating over heat and muscle. He dragged her zipper down and the charcoal pooled at her feet. Panties, black and already soaked, clung to her. He peeled them down and tossed them. Her bra followed. She stood bare in the aisle light, tits high, nipples tight, cunt glistening, and she shoved his pants and boxers down together. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, wet at the tip. She stroked him once and he swore into her hair.

"Conference table," he growled. "Now. I am done waiting to be inside you."

"Yes," she said, and dragged him there, kissing him the whole way, frantic and open-mouthed, until her hips hit the edge and the night had a place to happen.

He turned her and bent her over the conference table, cool laminate against her breasts, her cheek, her palms. He kicked her feet wide and dragged his cock through her slick, groaning, then drove in raw. One thick stroke to the hilt, nothing between them, the stretch blooming into a deep ache as her cunt gripped him. The head of him kissed her deepest place and she cried out, fingers scrabbling at printouts, ass pushed back to take more than there was. City light silvered the sweat already rising on her spine. He fisted her hair, pinned her low back, and held buried.

"Tight," he growled. "Made to be bred on. That is as deep as I go, and that is where my cum belongs."

"Fuck me," she gasped. "Hard. Do not be gentle."

He pounded her from behind in deep breeding strokes, full withdrawals and hard plunges that knocked sounds out of her and shoved her thighs into the table edge. Skin slapped. Her tits dragged the cool surface, nipples scraping, and she clenched every time he ground at the end of a stroke, pressing where she was softest. The empty conference room filled with it, wet and rhythmic and obscene.

"Mine," he said, voice ragged, hips snapping. "Mine to fuck. Mine to fill. I am claiming this fertile pussy right here where we used to pretend we were only colleagues. Beg for my cum. I want to hear you."

"Please." She was loud, past shame, voice echoing off glass. "Roman, give me your cum. Breed my pussy. I am begging. Do not waste a drop. Put it in my womb. I want to feel you come inside me. I want to drip your seed when I stand up. Harder. Deeper. Claim me. Fill me. I need your load, I need it, please."

He fucked her harder, balls striking her clit, and she came shaking, bent and stuffed, pulsing around him, still begging through it, please, please, come in me, breed me, do not stop. He gritted his teeth and did not spill. He fucked her through the orgasm, sweat on his chest, then pulled out slow, cock shining, and she whined at the loss.

"Not yet," he said, hauling her up, kissing her filthy and sweet. "Floor. Ride me. I want to watch those tits bounce while I fill you completely."

They went to the carpet between two dark desks. She straddled him and sank in one greedy drop, crying out as he bottomed out, her cunt stretched around the root of him. His hands clamped her hips at once, bruising, holding her down.

"Sit on it," he snarled. "All the way. Let me see those tits bounce while you take my cum."

She rode him hard. Up to the head, down to the hilt, again and again, the wet sound filthy in the quiet. Her tits bounced with every drop, full and flushed, and he watched them, starved, then gripped her hips harder and fucked up to meet her. She braced on his chest, hair wild, grinding her clit at the base.

"So deep," she gasped. "Breed me, Roman. I want your load. Fill me up. Watch me take it. I am yours to come in."

"Mine," he said, loud, certain. "My fertile pussy. Take every inch and milk me."

He held her hips and drove up, jolting her, tits bouncing wildly, skin slapping. She chanted yes, breed me, give it to me, and he broke. He slammed her down, buried to the root, and came with a raw shout, thick ropes of cum pumping deep. Heat flooded her, spurt after spurt, and she ground down, milking him, moaning as he filled her completely. He growled that she was bred, that his seed was in her womb, that she would keep it, and she came from the feel of it, clenching, leaking around the seal of him while he emptied everything he had.

"Full," he panted, still hard inside her. "Stuffed with my cum. And I am not done with you."

He rolled them, pinning her to the carpet on her back, cock never leaving the soaked clutch of her. Cum and her slick made every inch filthy. He hooked her knees up, spread her wide, and thrust back to the hilt, watching her face. His weight trapped her. His forearms framed her head. Missionary, raw, nowhere to hide from how deep he was.

"Look at me," he ordered. "Two more loads. Deep in your womb. You are going to beg for both while I pin you and fuck you like I mean to keep you pregnant with me."

"Yes." Her nails raked his back, her eyes locked on his. "Pin me. I want them. I want to be so full of your cum I cannot hold it. Breed me. Claim me. I am saying yes. Put it in me and do not pull out."

He thrust with raw intensity, long brutal strokes that shoved her up the carpet until he hauled her back onto his cock and did it again. Each plunge hit so deep she saw white. She was loud, sobbing his name, telling him to use her pussy, to knock her up, to pump her full, never to pull out. He answered just as loud, voice cracked. "This cunt is mine. I am breeding you. I am going to overflow you and then I am going to come in you again. Take your breeding. You asked for it. You are getting it."

She held his face and did not look away. He swelled, buried himself, and came, a thick heavy load pulsing into the cum already flooding her. Extra heat, extra pressure, and she wailed, yes, give it to me, breed me, fill my womb, do not stop. He ground deep, pumping, talking through it. "Take my seed. Good. Bred. So fucking bred. That is one. Stay open. I have another for you."

He barely softened. Her begging kept him hard, a live wire under sweat and mess. He kissed her, then started thrusting again through his own cream, the sound lewder, her oversensitive body still rising to meet him. She locked her ankles behind him and dragged him deeper.

"Again," she demanded, hoarse and sure. "Another load. Pump me full. I want to leak you for hours. Breed me, Roman. Do it. Claim me again. I can take it. I want your cum in my womb right now."

He fucked her harder, desperate and precise, sweat dripping onto her chest, cock dragging through the thick seed he had left. She came screaming into his shoulder that she was his, that she wanted every drop, that he had better not pull out. The talk undid him. He slammed deep, pinned her hips to the floor with his weight, and pumped a second thick load into her womb, cock jerking, hot heavy spurts flooding her until she overflowed in creamy pulses down to the carpet. He stayed buried, grinding, groaning that both loads were in her, that she was claimed, that her womb was taking him and she was his to fill.

"Yours," she cried, loud and wrecked and smiling. "I am bred. I feel it. So much cum. Do not pull out yet. You bred me. You actually bred me."

She lay sprawled on the carpet where he had pinned her, thighs open, chest heaving, a satisfied smile on her mouth. His cum leaked out of her in thick slow pulses, warm on her skin, and she did not close her legs. Roman eased out with a wet sound that made them both groan, watched the creamy spill with wrecked pride, and lowered himself beside her.

He kissed her softly. A real kiss, slow, his hand cupping her jaw, thumb stroking the smile he had put there. She kissed him back and tasted sweat and the night they had finally spent. Outside, the city kept its distance. Inside, the locks held, and neither of them reached for clothes.

"Stay," she murmured. "The locks do not open until morning. Rescue is hours away. I do not want the dress or the pretending. I want to stay locked in with you."

"We are not finished." His forehead rested on hers. He spread his palm low on her belly, possessive and gentle at once, feeling the heat of what he had already pumped into her. "I am going to breed you at least two more times before anyone comes through that door. At least two. I want you full when the sun hits those windows."

"Yes." She laughed, breathless, and hooked her fingers in his hair. "Lock in with me until dawn. Breed me again and again. This office is ours until they let us out, and I want every load you have left."

She took him back inside before either of them could remember the word colleague, and the cum already leaking out of her only made room for more.