The Ember's Claim - Part 3: The Legacy
Act 1: The Seed Takes Root
A year's passed since the cabin, and we're caged in this rotting house--paint peels like dead skin, floors sag, a fresh snare. My body's reshaped: breasts heavier, hips flared, a scar etched across my belly from birthing her--Anya, three months old, asleep in a crib by the stove, fists curled, my dark hair framing your blue eyes.
I'm in the kitchen, slicing carrots with a dull blade, cotton dress clinging--no bra, peaks pressing through, my form swaying despite my locked jaw. You're behind me--ever-present--shirtless, jeans low, your shaft stirring, drawn to my nearness. "She's quiet today," you growl, voice like gravel, stepping in close.
Your hands slip under my dress, tracing my thighs, finding bare flesh--no panties, just my core, taut despite her passage. I freeze, knife poised, breath snagging.
"Don't wake her," I snap, accent thick, eyes boring into the counter. You ignore me, fingers grazing my folds--dry, then yielding, a damp seep under your touch.
"Always ripe," you mutter, pressing your rigid length against my ass through denim. I slam the knife down, hands seizing the edge, a spark flaring low that I curse. "Get off," I hiss, twisting, elbow aimed at your ribs, but you clamp my hips, pinning me to the counter's lip.
"Keep squirming," you growl, unzipping fast, tip nudging my entrance--hot, unyielding. I shove back, nails raking your arm, but you thrust in--deep, sudden, splitting me open. My breasts jolt under the dress, brushing rough wood; I bite my lip, silencing a grunt. You pound hard, hands bruising my hips, the wet slap loud in stale air.
"Tikhiy!" I hiss--Russian for quiet, voice a blade--but you grunt, driving faster, your pulse swelling, my walls tightening against my will. Anya whimpers next door; I curse--"Blyad!"--but you don't relent, burying deep until you spill, hot and thick, flooding me. I quake, legs unsteady, your stain trailing down as you pull out, panting.
"Took it like you should," you mutter, zipping up, smirking. I grab a rag, wiping myself, glaring as Anya's cries cut sharper. I'll outlast you yet, I vow silently, hate a thick fog. You saunter to her, casually, while I stand--shaken, plotting, caged.
Act 2: The Years Burn By
Five years fade--Anya's six, a fierce wisp with my unyielding spark and your piercing blue stare, chasing a frayed doll across the dusty yard of this weathered shack, a cracked roof over dirt floor. I'm on the porch, shoulders slumped, tank top stretched tight over fuller breasts, faint outlines showing, shorts high and frayed.
Time's worn me--still pale, still defiant, but tempered by her, eroded by you. You're under the truck, shirtless, sweat glazing your broad back, muscles flexing as you turn a wrench. Your jeans cling, grimy, length half-hard; I look away, jaw set, a prickle crawling my skin.
"Mama!" Anya calls, bounding up, dirt-smudged, grinning--your grin. I pull her onto my lap, her warmth steadying me; you watch, eyes dark, hungry. "She's growing fast," you mutter, wiping oil on your thigh, closing in. I nod, stiff, as she slips free and dashes off.
Your hands seize my waist, hauling me against you--your shaft presses, stiff through denim. "Not here," I snap, venom lacing the words, shoving your chest, but you tug my shorts down just enough, bending me over the rail. My tank rides up, breasts spilling free, peaks hardening in warm air.
