A World of Her Own

Chapter 1: The Past is Prologue

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Hey All and Welcome. Thanks for checking this out.

A couple of (hopefully quick) things before we get started. First, this first chapter/prologue is a bit different from what I hope the tone of the rest of the series will be. It starts well enough, but it ends in NonConsent. If you are bothered by hardcore NonCon/Reluctance, you may want to skip both this chapter and, potentially, this series. I don't see it becoming a major theme, but things change and I haven't exactly mapped this thing out to the end. There's a decent chance it will make a reappearance, though likely under drastically different circumstances (I tend to kill characters that engage in that sort of behavior. Fair warning.)

With that disclaimer out of the way, let's get to what I want this to be: a reimagining of the LitRPG Harem genre. Male jerk-off fantasy has its place, but it often has only the most cursory depictions of frankly bad sex. The women tend to be prop pieces so uniformly two-dimensional that learning their names is generally not worth the effort. (Let's be clear: there *are* exceptions, as few and far between as they are.)

To turn the tables, my female protagonist (Leah) will be shamelessly building her stable of men to satisfy her every desire. Except she isn't going to do it the stupid way, based on whatever dick swings her way. No, she's a real woman - she's going to use the power she's got to make something of herself in a world that is struggling not to turn back into her worst nightmare - a *man's* world.

Enjoy - FracturedByDesign

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My boyfriend was balls deep inside me when the apocalypse hit. Hey, I've got nothing to be ashamed about and you know that someone, somewhere, had to be fucking when the world ended. Well, lucky me, I was the one. Well, we were. Okay, he was. I mean, I was participating but Cal's the type of man who gets devoted to his work and gets all controlling and focused, dedicated to every detail. When we started dating I had teased him that he didn't have sex but engaged in ritual devotion to the female form. Or, well, *my* female form.

I had no complaints.

We were all romantic-missionary, one of his arms tucked under the small of my back and gripping my opposite hip, the other gripping the back of my neck, his eyes just inches from mine while he gently turned my brain to mush and made it leak out my vagina. Don't get me wrong, normally we were way less tame, but today this felt right. The time had come to start making babies. Y'know, take that next step into the future. Pass down our genes. Become parents. Get fat and happy. All that.

So yeah, we were having passionate, romantic sex so he could breed me. I was ecstatic. Although we'd never get married - I had been quite firm that no man would ever put his collar on me, even if that collar went around my finger - things had worked out perfectly for us. I had just turned twenty-six, he was twenty-eight, almost twenty-nine. Both of us were settled into our careers, me as a civil inspector for the city, him as a mid-level human resources director for a pharmaceutical company. Just over a year ago, we managed to buy a home and settle in. Our nest egg had started to grow, with both of us agreeing to make large investments into our respective savings.

Then it happened. It wasn't anything special, not really, but it was that moment that it clicked and we both knew it was time. I'm not sure how it is for other couples or other women for that matter, but my biological clock hadn't made more than the occasional quiet tick before it went off like the proverbial nuke. We were sitting in a restaurant having one of those lonely-couple dinners. You know the ones I'm talking about, where you're supposed to be all into each other but you've been doing it for long enough now that the conversations all feel like retreads and you're both just as interested in what's on the TV at the bar, so it half feels like one of those many dinners you spent eating alone when you were single, despite the fact you have someone to share it with. It feels like that together-alone thing, but more intimate, if that makes sense.

We were doing that when this woman walks in with a baby that couldn't be more than three or four months.

It was obvious she was struggling. Looking back, I'm not quite certain why save that she had her baby snuggled up to her chest and a diaper bag over one shoulder rather than having a stroller or the like. She didn't look particularly haggard either. She had business wear on, a nice blouse, and dress slacks with tasteful jewelry. But the look in her eyes, the way she curled slightly around her infant, the way the bag hung as if she hadn't bothered to arrange it once the strap was in place, it all spoke of a woman pushed just a little too far.

Cal saw it too. He gave me a look and I nodded at him. It was one of the things I absolutely adored about Cal. No matter who it was, stranger or bosom buddy, he wanted to help and most of the time he would find a way. Of course, being a man in a 'bar and grill' - you know, one of those places that are just family-friendly bars - he couldn't go up and offer to help without it being taken the wrong way. Especially since there was a baby involved. That would make it all sorts of weird.

But I could. I just needed an excuse. It was pretty busy and two parties were waiting to be seated. Our meal was almost done. It was practically preordained how I would approach her. Slipping out of my seat I walked up to the host's station where the woman was currently bouncing and rocking, a little frantically if I'm honest.

"Excuse me," I said softly, well as softly as the busy restaurant would allow. "Ma'am?"

The woman's head whipped up to look at me, looking a little wide-eyed when she realized my words were directed at her. "Can I help you?" her tone was wary, not too far short of hostile.

"My boyfriend and I saw you come in," I said, keeping the same soft tone. "We didn't think it was right, you over here on your feet waiting all by yourself. If you don't mind sitting with us for a few minutes we're almost done eating and you can have our table when we're done."

Relief warred with suspicion on her face as she looked at me, but it was obvious she was too frayed to refuse. She just gave me a half-relieved, half-thankful smile and nodded at me. That smile, with the worn eyes peeking out above it, made my heart glow a little and I thanked Cal once more for pushing me into these little acts of kindness. I didn't have the inclination myself, but I gladly followed his because it always brightened me up. Every time, without fail, I came away feeling good about myself and, maybe just as important, about him.

The moment happened when we got to the table. Cal got up to pull out our chairs for us, not a typical gesture for him given my rather firm thoughts on chivalry, such as how it wasn't near dead enough and needed a few more bullets just to make sure, but it was the perfect gesture for the woman considering her hands were full with baby, bag, and purse.

Bless her heart the woman got to the table and hesitated, not willing to do the obvious thing without at least pausing to consider it one more time. Then, reluctantly, she smiled at me and asked, "Would you hold him for just a moment? It's hard to get this bag off while carrying him."

"Of course," I replied instantly, holding my hands up. In my heart of hearts, I knew this was one more bit of gender disparity and that I should look at the woman and tell her that Cal would be the better choice. He was the oldest of six kids and had helped raise the two youngest. He'd changed more diapers before he was a proper adult than I was likely to in my entire life. My women's studies professor had been right - women were just as tied to gender roles as men, both consciously and subconsciously. This woman simply would not consider handing her baby off to a man when there was a woman present.

Once the precious bundle was in my arms I couldn't help but look into his face, meet his eyes, and smile. I'm not certain I've ever smiled quite like that before. It wasn't happy or joyous, not anything active or motivated. Like most people, I had a positive arsenal of smiles. Smiles for men, smiles for women, bitter smiles, and radiant ones. But I don't think I've ever smiled in peace and contentment before, not like that.

And then, as if some irresistible force had overtaken me I looked up and met Cal's eyes. He was looking at me just as intently as I was looking at him. Then he smiled in a way I'd never seen before either. Oh, it had that hungry edge that told me he was thinking of me in questionable circumstances, but it also had a softness to it, a softness and an edge. That smile, the look in his eyes, it told me that he was going to get himself one of those, that he was going to make one of those. And he was going to do it *to me*.

We had a moment of perfect understanding. One of those moments that your friends, when they see it happen, gag and make fun of you and tell you to get a room.

Then the woman broke in. "Oh, I know that look. Had it myself about a year ago. And my husband gave me that same smile." She shucked her bag over the back of her chair and dropped like a sack of potatoes into the seat. "I wish you all the luck with it."

I couldn't speak and didn't bother to respond. My mind was already moving from the goal to the process, my body eagerly following along. I didn't stare at Cal, though part of me wanted to. Our lonely-couple dinner was suddenly far too crowded. We made good on our offer to the woman and finished our meals quickly, practically sprinting out the door to the car.

That night we fucked like bunnies. And the next morning I stopped taking my birth control. I know it was too soon, we hadn't even really talked about it yet, but we had already started to feel our way to consensus, we both knew it, we just hadn't gotten around to making the mouth noises yet. Our hearts had already committed though.

Which brings us back to now. It had been two months since that night. The entire first month was a write-off since it takes a frustratingly long time for all those hormones and chemicals to set themselves right once you stop manually controlling them. Then we had to wait for my cycle.

Now was the time. Which was why we were having slow, deep, passionate sex instead of the wild scrabbling and bucking we normally did. I mean, we'd even made it to the bed. Seriously, deciding to have children had done wonders to revitalize our sex life. Wonders. Not that it was ever bad, mind, but just like everything else in life, it can fall into a rut. Well, we were officially rut free. For the moment, at least.

So there I was, laying on my back, stuffed to the brim with Cal's cock and loving it, dreamily imagining his cock going off inside me like a loaded gun, his seed finding my fertile womb, while waves of pleasure rose and receded in time with his thrusts. His eyes were right there but, honestly, I wasn't seeing him. I was quickly approaching 'too far gone' for that. But I was feeling him, oh yes I was, one hand in his hair and the other gripping his fine ass.

Anyone who believes that sex is a purely physical activity is either a virgin or has been doing it very wrong. Just the idea, the thought, that this time was it, that we were not just making love but making life, had me in a completely different head space, one filled with light and hope and love and vague promises of the future.

"God, Leah, I can't hold on much longer. Are you ready?" The words were enough to cause my body to react, bringing me back slightly from my happy haze and causing me to clamp down hard on his thrusting cock, making him groan. This time I wanted to be looking into his eyes when it happened. I tightened my grip on his hair, keeping him focused on me. Cal was one of the few men willing to admit that he liked having his hair pulled and I have to admit that I took shameless advantage.

This was it, I could feel it. He was swelling inside of me, getting just a little larger, forcing his thrusts just a little deeper, grinding against me at the end of each one now. That last forced a moan out of me as his grinding rubbed him against my clit. My passion, which I had thought mostly pounded into languid submission - I was not generally one of those lucky bitches that could have multiple orgasms - took a sharp turn for the cliff, letting me know that this one was going to be one of those rare nights where I would get two for the price of one, likely thanks to all the extra buildup and excitement. I was more than fine with that.

I tilted my hips in just the way Cal liked, the one that I sometimes used to secretly punish or reward him when the mood struck. You know the one, of course you do, at least if you have a long-term partner. It's the one that pushes him upwards inside of you, making sure that the head of his cock rubs especially hard against the roof of the vagina and tends to cause him to peak quickly. Well, at least it worked for Cal. I've never had the opportunity to ask if it works for other girls and I've never been with another man long enough to learn his body this well. Before Cal, I was mostly a first-come first-serve type of girl. Not that I was a slut, far from it, but I had never latched on to another man like I had Cal. I'd always believed the binary relationship framework was outdated and had actively avoided falling into it. At least, I had until I'd fallen in love. That hadn't changed my perspective, exactly, but it did make me understand why it was so enduring. And considering that it had been over two years since I'd slept with anyone else, the reason for its success seemed apparent.

That move got Cal's enthusiastic approval and then I felt it. We had talked about it before and I always jokingly called it the 'final thrust'. Cal, like a lot of men, got so sensitive when he came that he couldn't continue fucking while he orgasmed. It was just too overwhelming. So instead he did a final thrust, where he would use all his leverage, all his strength, all his length, and every trick of positioning he could come up with at that moment to bury himself as deeply and firmly inside me as he could.

It was his favorite thing. Truth be told it was his only thing. He wasn't a huge fan of blow jobs, didn't try to stick himself in odd places, and had no serious kinks. Nothing like that. No, his entire focus was getting as deeply and firmly embedded inside of me as humanly possible when he finally went off. It was a brutal thing, a powerful thing. Primal. No matter the tone or tempo of our fucking up to that point I knew, I always knew, that he would finish with his final thrust.

I loved it. I'm not sure what it was, exactly, but the way he did it, the way he 'announced' his orgasm like that, it just did it for me. And even better, I got to tease him. Not just with words either, though I did that too. No, the best time to tease him was now, just after he had hammered himself into me so deep and so hard that you might have mistaken his passion for violence, just as he was starting to release all his precious fluids inside me, I rocked my hips, sliding him around inside me, teasing him with my body.

There was no pulling out, no thrusting on my part. He held me too strongly for that, keeping me almost completely immobile. But just now, when I rocked my hips, I could see his body quiver and could feel his cock twitching spasmodically at the overload. His eyes dilated and his grip became almost crushing.

Just as I finished the first quick revolution of my hips, his cock jumping and sliding around inside me, his seed spilling out in great gouts drawing pools of fire inside me, causing my own, second, orgasm, to begin, something else happened.

Magic.

No, seriously.

We were *mid orgasm* when it hit. His cock was suddenly dynamite inside pussy, dynamite that was mid-explosion. It went off and my world went white with nirvanic pleasure. Unlike Cal, I was not one prone to chronic overstimulation. When we had sex I tended to orgasm fairly early, fairly easily, and then simply ride out the pleasure while Cal had his way with me. It didn't matter what he did, we had yet to find anything that did more than prolong my orgasm. Though I'm under the impression that, with proper effort, Cal can induce me to have fairly long orgasms. My brain gets pretty fuzzy so I'm not even sure how he's measuring it. The one time we talked about it I envisioned him stroking in time with his count - "Ooone Mississippi, Twooooo Mississippi..." Not quite sure how accurate that would be. I deliberately avoided imagining him with a stopwatch or something. I'd like to think he'd be a little too preoccupied for something like that.

Back on topic. Cal and I were, both, in the middle of back-arching, spine-tingling, brain-searing orgasms, struggling to maintain our desperately romantic eye contact while he filled my internal bowl with baby batter, his arms locked tight and rigid holding me to him so I could do little more than wiggle my hips - which I was doing frantically while he spasmed and groped to get me to stop because overstimulation is one of the best worst things in the world - when the first wave of mana struck the world and turned our pathetic little attempt to pierce the heavens with our lovemaking up to fifty.

No, sixty.

I've heard of tantric sex, sex so spiritual that the lovers' souls entwine in a state of divine bliss. I've heard of - and scoffed at - women passing out from orgasms. I've even heard of women who, once they have an orgasm are more or less in a constant, low-level state of continuous orgasm for the rest of the time their partner feels like using them (since they're so out of it from the mild-ish overstimulation that they couldn't possibly object to *anything*). I've heard of women who turn into screaming, moaning animals during an orgasm, lacking anything that might be considered coherent thought (I've never really believed this one).

What we experienced then surpassed *all of that*. He pierced my soul with his dick and then fucked my soul into orgasm before filling it up with his orgasm juice so I could continue to orgasm even after he had passed out from sheer sexual exhaustion.

I have no idea how Cal would describe it. I've talked to another couple with a somewhat similar experience and asked the guy to try and put it into words. He just shrugged and said "It was the first time I ever got to fuck her. Not her body, but her, the real her, the her that lives in some ethereal space and never actually gets to interact with the rest of the world except through proxies."

Maybe, for a guy, that's enough of an explanation. Hell, maybe for a woman too. But not for me. Because that is only the tiniest fraction of what I experienced. It is a sliver, a single hydrogen atom in the ocean of fire that is the sun. If our sun was a hypergiant star.

I felt him enter me. Spiritually. His essence entered me, entered my soul. I felt it before it happened. There was a brief instant, a tiny moment when some instinctive part of me felt my... violation... coming. If I had wanted, I could have pulled back. Kept the experience purely physical. Even then it would have been far and away the very best, most satisfying orgasm of my life. It would have been my Mt. Everest moment, that one time that, when I was 90 and truly too old to fuck anymore, I would reminisce and tell stories about.

But I didn't pull back. I could feel it was Cal. I recognized him. How? I have no idea, but just as I knew I was about to be truly penetrated for the first time, I knew who was doing the penetrating and I trusted him. So I let him in, let him in after a hesitation so short Cal never even knew it was there.