Both Sides
"His aunt. His mother-in-law. His sister-in-law. Three women from two families, each thinking she's the only one — until they discover the truth and choose to share."
My wife can't have children.
We found out three years into our marriage. Scarring from an old infection. The doctors said it gently, offered options — adoption, surrogacy, acceptance.
Rachel chose acceptance. "We have each other," she said. "That's enough."
She was wrong.
Not about us. I love her. But she was wrong about what I need.
The hunger started slow.
At first I thought it was grief — mourning the children we'd never have. But that wasn't it. The hunger wasn't about legacy or family.
It was about the act.
The primal, animal need to fill a woman. To empty myself into her, deep as I can go, and feel her body accept it. To breed.
It consumed me. I'd look at women and imagine them pregnant. Imagine putting it there. Imagine their bellies swelling with what I gave them.
Rachel couldn't give me that. But she wasn't the only woman in my life.
Patricia
My father's sister. Forty-eight. BBW in the truest sense — big, beautiful, built for sin.
I'd always been aware of her. Hard not to be. She moved through family gatherings like a force of nature, all curves and warmth and a laugh that made everyone smile.
Her husband died four years ago. Cancer. She'd been alone since, going through the motions, waiting for something she couldn't name.
I figured out what it was at my grandmother's funeral.
The reception was at Aunt Patricia's house.
Everyone was there — relatives, neighbors, people I barely knew. I found her in the kitchen, away from the crowd, crying quietly over the sink.
"Hey." I touched her shoulder. "You okay?"
"No." She didn't turn around. "I keep losing everyone. Mom, now your grandmother. Soon there'll be no one left."
"I'm still here."
She laughed — wet, broken. "You have your own life. Your wife. I'm just the old aunt who shows up at holidays."
"You're not old."
"Forty-eight."
"Not old." I moved closer. "And you're not just anything."
She turned. Her eyes were red, mascara smudged. Even crying, she was beautiful. Those full breasts heaving with each breath. Those wide hips in the black dress.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
"I don't know." But I did know. I'd known for years. "What do you want me to do?"
I took her upstairs while the mourners ate finger sandwiches.
Her bedroom. Her dead husband's bed. She was shaking when I laid her down.
"James, we can't—"
"We can." I pushed her dress up. My hands found her thighs — soft, warm, trembling. "We are."
"You're my nephew. My blood."
"I know."
"Rachel—"
"Isn't here." I pulled her panties down. She was wet already. Her body knew. "And she can't give me what I need."
"What do you need?"
I answered by pushing inside her.
She gasped. Her whole body arched.
"Oh god," she breathed. "Oh god, James—"
"Look at me."
Her eyes met mine. Same brown as my father's. Same blood in our veins.
"I'm going to come inside you." I started moving, slow at first. "Deep. Every drop. Do you understand?"
"We can't—"
"Do you understand?"
She nodded. Tears streaming down her face. Not from grief anymore.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I understand."
I fucked her harder. Deeper. The bed creaked beneath us. Downstairs, I could hear voices, laughter, the sounds of a reception continuing without us.
I didn't care.
When I came, I buried myself to the hilt and let go. Pulse after pulse, flooding her. Claiming her.
She came with me. Screaming into my shoulder, biting down to muffle the sound.
Mine.
That was two years ago.
Patricia and I meet twice a month now. Sometimes at her place. Sometimes at hotels. Always unprotected. Always deep.
She knows what I want. What I need. She's stopped asking if it's wrong. Stopped pretending she doesn't want it too.
"Breed me," she whispers when I'm inside her. "Give it to me."
I always do.
Diane
My mother-in-law. Rachel's mother. Fifty-two, still beautiful, married to a man who stopped seeing her a decade ago.
I noticed her loneliness before I noticed her body. The way she'd watch Rachel and me together. The hunger in her eyes. Not for me specifically — for connection. For being wanted.
Her husband Gerald was a cold man. Successful, distant, more interested in golf than his wife. He touched her on holidays and birthdays if she was lucky.
She deserved better.
I decided to give it to her.
It started with attention.
Compliments on her cooking, her dress, her hair. Small touches that lingered — a hand on her back, a kiss on the cheek that grazed her lips.
She noticed. Of course she noticed. At first she was confused, then flustered, then... interested.
"You're very sweet to an old woman," she told me once.
"You're not old. And I'm not sweet."
"No?" Her eyes met mine. Something passed between us. "Then what are you?"
"Hungry."
She looked away first. But I saw the flush creeping up her neck.
The first time was at her house.
Gerald was at a conference. Rachel was at work. I showed up with wine and intentions.
"James, what are you doing here?"
"Visiting my mother-in-law. Is that a crime?"
"It might be." But she let me in.
We made it through half a glass before I kissed her.
She pulled back. "We can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm married. To Gerald."
"Who doesn't touch you."
She flinched. "That's not—"
"When was the last time he made you feel wanted?" I stepped closer. "The last time he looked at you like you were the only woman in the world?"
Tears in her eyes. "I don't remember."
"Then let me remind you."
Diane was different from Patricia.
Patricia was hunger meeting hunger. Diane was worship.
I took my time with her. Undressed her slowly, told her she was beautiful, kissed every inch of her body before I entered her. She needed to feel cherished. I gave her that.
But when I was inside her, the same need took over.
"I'm going to come inside you," I told her. "Fill you up. Would you like that?"
"James—"
"Would you like that, Diane?"
"Yes." Her voice cracked. "God help me, yes."
I bred her on her marriage bed. Filled her while family photos watched from the walls. When I pulled out, my cum dripped onto sheets she shared with Gerald.
She cried afterward. Relief. Shame. Want.
"This is wrong," she said.
"I know."
"I can't stop thinking about you."
"Good." I kissed her forehead. "Same time next week?"
"...Yes."
Two women now.
Aunt and mother-in-law. Blood family and marriage family. Both getting filled regularly.
I should have been satisfied. But the hunger grew.
Grace
Rachel's younger sister. Twenty-nine. Wild where Rachel was reserved. Competitive where Rachel was content.
She'd always flirted with me. Nothing serious — just teasing, boundary-testing, the kind of thing she did with every man. Rachel rolled her eyes. "That's just Grace."
But I saw something else in her eyes. Not just flirtation. Hunger.
She wanted what her sister had. Always had.
I decided to give it to her.
I didn't pursue Grace. I let her catch me.
Lingering looks. Accidental touches. Being exactly where she needed me to be, wearing exactly what would make her look twice.
She thought she was hunting. She didn't know she was prey.
"I know what you're doing."
We were at a family barbecue. She'd cornered me by the drinks table.
"What am I doing?"
"Flirting with me." She stepped closer. Her body was pure provocation — tight dress, curves spilling out, nipples visible through the fabric. "Behind my sister's back."
"Is that what I'm doing?"
"Isn't it?"
I set down my drink. "What if I am?"
"Then you're dangerous."
"Does that scare you?"
"No." Her eyes dropped to my mouth. "It turns me on."
The first time with Grace was in the bathroom at that same barbecue.
Her idea. She pulled me in, locked the door, was on her knees before I could speak.
"I've wanted to do this since you married Rachel," she said, looking up at me. "She doesn't deserve you."
"And you do?"
"I'll take what I can get."
She was good with her mouth. But that wasn't what I wanted.
I pulled her up, bent her over the sink. "This is what I want."
"Yes. Fuck yes."
I pushed inside her. She was tight, wet, ready.
"Harder," she demanded. "Make it hurt."
I obliged. Pounded into her while the barbecue continued outside. She bit her hand to stay quiet.
When I got close, I didn't warn her.
"Wait," she gasped. "I'm not on—"
I came inside her anyway. Deep. Complete.
She spasmed around me, coming from the sensation of being filled.
"You bastard," she breathed. "You absolute bastard."
"Did you want me to stop?"
"...No."
"Then stop complaining."
Three women now.
Aunt, mother-in-law, sister-in-law. Three forbidden conquests. Three wombs I filled regularly.
Patricia twice a month. Diane weekly. Grace whenever she could sneak away.
I was exhausted. I was exhilarated. I was living a lie with three faces.
It couldn't last.
The Collision
Grace found a text she shouldn't have.
Patricia: Missing you. When can I see you again?
"Who's Patricia?"
I froze. Tried to grab the phone. Too slow.
"Patricia." Grace scrolled through. "Jesus Christ. That's... that's your aunt."
"Grace—"
"You're fucking your aunt?" She laughed — shocked, delighted. "Oh my god. You're fucking your blood aunt while you're fucking me."
"Let me explain."
"Are there others?" Her eyes were sharp. "Tell me the truth or I walk."
I had a choice. Lie and lose her. Truth and... something else.
"Your mother."
Grace went still. "What?"
"Diane. She's... she's also..."
"You're fucking my mother." Grace sat down heavily. "And your aunt. And me."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Patricia — two years. Your mother — eighteen months. You — six months."
She stared at me. I waited for the explosion.
Instead, she laughed.
"You absolute psychopath." She shook her head. "Does Mom know about me?"
"No. None of you knew about the others."
"Until now." She stood. "I need to think."
"Grace—"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "I'm not saying it's over. I'm saying I need to think."
She left. I sat in the silence, waiting for my world to end.
Three days later, they came to me.
All three of them. Patricia, Diane, Grace. Standing in my living room while Rachel was at work.
"We've talked," Diane said.
"All of us," Patricia added.
"About you," Grace finished.
I said nothing. There was nothing to say.
"We should hate you," Diane said. "You lied to all of us."
"Used us," Patricia added.
"Played us against each other," Grace finished.
Still, I stayed silent.
"But here's the thing." Diane stepped forward. "None of us want to stop."
I blinked. "What?"
"I've felt more alive in the last eighteen months than in the last twenty years of my marriage." Her voice was steady. "I'm not giving that up."
"Same," Patricia said. "You make me feel wanted. Needed. I don't care who else you're with."
"I knew you were bad news from the start," Grace said. "But you're also the best sex I've ever had. And I'm not walking away because you have... complicated tastes."
I looked at them. Three women. Three bodies. Three wombs I'd been filling for months.
"What are you proposing?"
"We share you," Diane said. "Open eyes. No more secrets."
"We work out schedules," Patricia added. "Boundaries."
"And sometimes," Grace said, eyes dark with something I recognized, "we don't need schedules at all."
The first time with all three of them was that same night.
It shouldn't have worked. The combinations were too strange — a man with his aunt, his mother-in-law, and his sister-in-law. Blood and marriage twisted together.
But it worked.
They took turns. Patricia first — slow, worshipful, making me work for her release. Then Diane — tender, grateful, crying when I came inside her. Then Grace — hard, demanding, competing with the others.
And then again. Different combinations. Patricia and Diane sharing me, Grace watching. Grace and Patricia, Diane directing.
I lost count of how many times I came. I just knew I was empty and they were full.
This is my life now.
My wife suspects nothing. Rachel is happy with the status quo — our childless marriage, our quiet routines.
She doesn't know that three times a week, I'm with her mother. That her sister texts me filthy promises. That my own aunt waits for me with her legs open.
She doesn't know I've bred them all. Again and again. Claimed them from the inside.
None of them are pregnant yet. Maybe they never will be. Patricia is too old, Diane is menopausal, Grace is religiously taking morning-after pills (though she lets me think she isn't).
It doesn't matter.
The act is the point. The filling. The claiming.
Tonight is Patricia's night.
She's waiting for me at her house. Same bed where I first took her. Same hunger in her eyes.
"Hi," she says as I walk in.
"Hi."
"Diane called. Says to save some for her tomorrow."
"Always."
"Grace wants a foursome this weekend. All of us."
"Done."
Patricia smiles. Opens her arms. "Then get over here and breed your aunt."
I do.
I'm not a good man.
I'm lying to my wife. I'm fucking three women she trusts. I'm filling them with seed that might one day take, creating secrets that could never be explained.
But I can't stop. Don't want to stop.
This is who I am. What I need.
Three women from two families. All mine. All willing.
My harem. My purpose.
And I'll keep filling them until there's nothing left to give.