Bloodline
"Five years away. One look at his aunt. A primal need he can't explain — to fill her, claim her, make it permanent. She says no. Her body says yes."
I see her and something breaks.
Five years away. Military, then contracts overseas. I've been with women on three continents. None of them prepared me for this.
Aunt Marlene is standing by the punch bowl at my grandmother's 80th birthday, and I can't breathe.
She's forty-four now. Fuller than I remember. Riper. Her dress — some floral thing, modest by any standard — clings to curves that make my mouth water. Heavy breasts straining against the fabric. Wide hips that flare out from a soft waist. A belly that rounds gently, promising warmth.
Built for it.
The thought appears unbidden. Built for breeding.
I should be disgusted with myself. She's my father's sister. Blood relation. Married for twenty years to Uncle Ray, who's somewhere in this crowd being boring.
I'm not disgusted.
I'm hard.
I can't stop watching her.
Every time she laughs, her breasts shake. Every time she bends to hug a child, her dress pulls tight across her ass. Every time she turns and our eyes meet, something electric passes between us.
She feels it too. She must. The way she keeps looking away. The way her cheeks flush when she catches me staring.
I imagine her pregnant. Round with my child. Those breasts swollen even fuller, leaking, ready to feed what I put in her.
The image won't leave my head.
Mine. The word pulses through me. I want to make her mine.
She's in the kitchen when I find her.
Alone. Loading the dishwasher. The rest of the family is in the backyard, voices distant through the window.
"Need help?"
She startles. "Nathan. You scared me."
"Sorry." I'm not sorry. I move closer. "You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't—"
"You have." I'm close now. Close enough to smell her perfume. "Every time I come near you, you find somewhere else to be. Why?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes you do."
She turns to face me. Her eyes are wide. Scared. But something else too — something she's trying to hide.
"Nathan, you should go back outside."
"No."
"Your uncle—"
"Isn't here." I step closer. Her back meets the counter. "Tell me why you've been avoiding me."
"Because of how you look at me." Her voice is barely a whisper. "You look at me like—"
"Like what?"
She shakes her head. Won't say it.
So I say it for her.
"Like I want to bend you over this counter and fuck a baby into you."
She should slap me.
She should scream. Call for her husband. Tell me I'm sick, disgusting, that she never wants to see me again.
Instead, her breath catches. Her thighs press together. Her nipples harden visibly through her dress.
"Nathan." Her voice shakes. "We can't."
"I know."
"You're my nephew. My blood."
"I know."
"If anyone found out—"
"They won't."
"This is wrong."
"I know." I reach out, cup her face. She doesn't pull away. "Tell me you don't want it. Tell me you haven't thought about it. Tell me you don't get wet when you catch me staring at you."
She's trembling. Tears in her eyes. "I can't."
"Can't tell me? Or can't stop wanting it?"
"Both."
I kiss her.
She resists for exactly three seconds.
Then her mouth opens and her hands are in my hair and she's moaning against my lips like she's been waiting for this her whole life.
I lift her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around me instinctively. I can feel her heat through my pants, through her dress, burning.
"Nathan, we can't—"
"We are." I push her dress up. My hands find her thighs — soft, full, trembling. "I've thought about nothing else since I walked in that door."
"Someone might—"
"Then we'll be quick."
I pull her panties aside. She's soaked. Dripping. Her body already knows what it wants.
"Oh god," she whimpers as I free myself. "Oh god, Nathan—"
"Look at me."
She does. Those eyes — the same brown as my father's, as mine — wide with fear and want.
"I'm going to come inside you," I tell her. "Deep. Every drop. I'm going to fill you up and you're going to take it all."
"We can't—"
"We are."
I push into her.
She's tight. Hot. Wet.
She gasps, her whole body jerking. Her walls clench around me like they're trying to pull me deeper.
"Fuck," I breathe. "Fuck, you feel—"
"Nathan." Her nails dig into my shoulders. "Nathan, please—"
"Please what?"
"I don't know. I don't know anymore."
I start moving. Hard. Fast. The counter shakes with each thrust. She's biting her lip to keep quiet, tears streaming down her face, but her hips are moving with mine.
She wants this. Her body wants this. Wants to be bred.
"You feel that?" I pound into her, deep as I can go. "Feel how deep I am? That's where I'm going to put it. Right there. Fill you up until it takes."
"We shouldn't—"
"But we are." I grip her hips, pull her onto me harder. "And we're going to keep doing it. Again and again. Until you're round with my baby."
She moans — loud, too loud. I cover her mouth with my hand.
"Quiet. Unless you want them to find us like this."
She nods. Eyes wild. Body clenching.
"Good girl."
I don't last long. Can't.
The thought of what I'm doing — breeding my own aunt in my grandmother's kitchen while the family celebrates outside — pushes me over the edge.
"Take it," I growl against her neck. "Take all of it."
I empty into her. Pulse after pulse, deep as I can get. I feel her flutter around me, feel her come with me, feel her body milk every drop.
When I finally pull out, she's shaking. Crying. My cum drips from her onto the counter.
"What did we just do?" she whispers.
"What we both needed."
"I'm your aunt."
"I know."
"I'm married."
"I know."
"This can never happen again."
I tuck myself back in. Smooth her dress down. Wipe her tears with my thumb.
"Yes it will."
It happens again three hours later.
Upstairs bathroom. Her bent over the sink, watching herself in the mirror as I take her from behind.
"What's wrong with us?" she gasps.
"Nothing." I grip her hips, watch myself slide in and out of her. "This is right."
"It's not—"
"Feel how wet you are. Feel how you grip me." I thrust deeper. "Your body knows what it wants. What it's for."
"Nathan—"
"You're built for this." My hands move to her belly, still soft, not yet round. "Built to be filled. Built to carry. Built to be bred."
She comes on the word. Clamps down on me so hard I see stars.
I fill her again.
It becomes a pattern.
Every family event. Every excuse to be in the same room.
Thanksgiving — behind the garage while everyone watches football.
Christmas — in my childhood bedroom while the house sleeps.
Easter — in the back of her minivan, parked in the church lot.
Each time, she says it's the last time. Each time, she's wetter than before.
The act itself becomes the addiction.
It's not about whether it works. It's about the moment — that moment when I'm as deep as I can go and I let go, pumping everything I have into her.
Mine. The word echoes through me every time. Making her mine.
She feels it too. I can see it in her eyes when I come inside her. That flash of something primal. Something that goes beyond logic or morality.
We're animals. We're blood. And some part of her wants to carry my blood inside her.
Six months in, she stops pretending.
"I counted the days," she says, pulling me into her house while Ray is at work. "I'm ovulating."
"Marlene—"
"Don't." She's already unbuttoning her blouse. "Don't talk. Just do it."
I fuck her on the kitchen table. The living room couch. Her marriage bed.
Each time, I bury myself deep and let go. Each time, she holds me inside her, legs locked around my waist, like she's trying to keep every drop.
"Give it to me," she whispers. "Give me everything."
I do.
We don't talk about what happens if it works.
We don't talk about how she'd explain it to Ray, who had a vasectomy fifteen years ago. We don't talk about genetics, about what the child might look like, about the questions that would follow.
We just keep trying.
She buys a fertility tracker. Charts her cycle. Texts me when the window opens.
"Tonight," the message will say. "Come over after nine."
I come over. In every sense.
Her husband works nights now — some new shift at the plant. She stopped taking her birth control months ago, claiming menopause symptoms. The lies pile up, and we don't care.
All that matters is the moment when I'm inside her, throbbing, releasing, claiming.
"Breed me," she whispers in my ear. "Breed your aunt."
I do. Again and again.
One night, she's on top, riding me slowly, my hands full of her hips.
"I used to dream about you," she admits. "When you were overseas. I'd see photos your mother posted and I'd... touch myself."
"What did you dream about?"
"This." She rolls her hips. "You inside me. Filling me. I'd imagine my belly growing and know it was yours."
"How long?"
"Years." She leans down, kisses me. "I'm not a good person, Nathan."
"Neither am I."
"I don't care about Ray. I don't care about the family. I just care about this." She clenches around me. "About you."
"Then take me."
She does. Rides me until I explode inside her.
A year now.
Fifty-two times I've emptied into her. Fifty-two chances. We track them. Keep count. A ritual.
She hasn't gotten pregnant. Maybe she can't anymore. Maybe the universe is being kind.
But we don't stop.
Some nights, I stay after.
Lie in her bed, her body pressed against mine, my hand on her belly.
"What if it happens?" she asks.
"Then it happens."
"What would we do?"
"I don't know." I kiss her shoulder. "I don't care."
"You should care."
"So should you."
She laughs — soft, broken. "I stopped caring the first time you came inside me. All I wanted was more."
"So we'll keep going."
"Until?"
"Until."
Tonight, she's bent over the bathroom counter again.
Her favorite position. She can watch in the mirror, see my face when I come.
"Harder," she demands. "Give it to me harder."
I grip her hips — those wide, fertile hips — and pound into her. The counter shakes. The mirror shakes. She bites her hand to keep quiet.
"I'm close," I warn her.
"Deep. Give it to me deep."
I bury myself to the hilt and let go.
She watches in the mirror. Watches my face twist. Watches me pulse inside her. When I'm done, she doesn't let me pull out.
"Stay," she whispers. "Stay inside me."
I do. Softening slowly, still plugging her, keeping my seed where it belongs.
"I love you," she says.
It's the first time either of us has said it.
"I love you too."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"I don't want to stop."
"Neither do I."
She finally lets me pull out. Turns in my arms. Kisses me soft and deep.
"Same time tomorrow?"
"Same time always."
We're not waiting for a result anymore.
We're not hoping or fearing.
We're just doing. Being. Two bodies locked in a ritual neither wants to end.
She's my aunt. My blood. My obsession.
And I'll keep filling her until one of us is in the ground.
That's not a threat.
It's a promise.