Breeding Season
"She needs to get pregnant. Her husband can't. The farmhands can. Every night during her fertile window, she takes them one by one—sometimes two at once—while her husband listens from the next room."
My husband fires blanks.
We found out after two years of trying. Specialist after specialist, test after test, until finally a doctor in Memphis looked at us with pity and said the words: "Zero viable sperm. I'm sorry."
William cried that night. Held me in our farmhouse bed and apologized like it was his fault, like he'd failed me on purpose.
I didn't cry. I was already thinking about solutions.
The Holbrook farm has been in William's family for four generations.
Three hundred acres of soybeans and corn. A farmhouse built in 1920. And six farmhands who live in the bunkhouse out back—young men, strong men, men who work our fields from dawn to dusk.
Men who could give me what William can't.
I brought it up on a Tuesday night.
"No." William's face went pale. "Absolutely not."
"It's the only way. We can't afford IVF, and the waiting list for donors is two years."
"You're talking about—about fucking other men. Our employees."
"I'm talking about having a baby." I took his hands. "A baby with your name. Raised on your farm. Part of your family, even if the blood is different."
He was quiet for a long time.
"You'd really do that?"
"I'd do anything for us." I kissed his knuckles. "The question is: would you let me?"
He said yes.
Not immediately. It took a week of discussions, negotiations, tears. But in the end, he agreed.
"I want to know when," he said. "I want to be in the house. Even if I can't be in the room."
"Of course."
"And I want you to... to be safe. To choose carefully."
"I know who I'm choosing." I'd been thinking about it for days. "Marcus and Isaiah. They're the strongest. The healthiest."
"Two?"
"Better odds." I stroked his face. "And it needs to happen during my fertile window. That's next week. Five days."
He swallowed. "Five days."
"Five nights." I kissed him. "And then we never speak of it again."
Night One: Marcus
Marcus is twenty-six years old.
Six-two, dark-skinned, built like the tractor he drives. He's been working our farm for three years, and I've caught him looking at me more than once—at my body, my curves, the way my sundress clings when it's hot.
I called him to the main house after dinner.
"Mrs. Holbrook." He stood in the doorway, confused. "You needed something?"
"Close the door, Marcus." I was sitting on the edge of our bed—mine and William's bed. "I have a proposition."
He said yes faster than I expected.
Maybe he'd been wanting this. Maybe he didn't care why. But when I explained what I needed—what William and I both needed—he nodded like it made perfect sense.
"You sure about this, ma'am?"
"I'm sure." I reached for the buttons of my dress. "And call me Jolene."
My dress fell.
I'm not small. Never have been. Two-sixty since I turned forty, with breasts that hang heavy and a belly that curves out soft and round. Stretch marks from years of weight fluctuation. Thighs that touch from hip to knee.
Marcus looked at me like I was water in a desert.
"Goddamn," he breathed. "You're beautiful."
"I need you to fuck me, Marcus." I lay back on the bed. Spread my thighs. "Hard. Deep. As many times as you can tonight. I need every drop you have."
He was naked in seconds.
He was huge.
Thick and long and already leaking when he climbed over me. I gasped when he pushed inside—stretched, filled, claimed.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said.
"It's not enough." I wrapped my legs around him. "Harder. I need you deeper."
He gave me harder. Gave me deeper. Pounded into me while the bedframe slammed against the wall, while I screamed loud enough for William to hear in the next room.
"Gonna come," Marcus warned.
"Inside me. Every drop. Don't you dare pull out."
He buried himself to the hilt and roared. I felt it—hot and thick, flooding me, filling me up. His cock pulsed again and again, pumping his seed into my waiting womb.
"Good." I held him inside me. "Now catch your breath. We're going again in ten minutes."
We went four times that night.
Each time, he came inside me. Each time, I kept my hips elevated afterward, letting gravity help. Each time, I thought about the baby we might be making—William's baby in name, Marcus's in blood, mine in every way that mattered.
By morning, I was dripping with his seed.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, pulling on his jeans.
"Same time. And Marcus?" He looked back. "Send Isaiah in on your way out."
Night Two: Isaiah
Isaiah is different from Marcus.
Older—thirty-one. Quieter. He's been on the farm since William's father ran it. He knows things, sees things, says nothing.
When he walked into the bedroom, he already understood.
"Mrs. Holbrook." He didn't ask questions. "You want me to breed you."
"Yes."
"Marcus wasn't enough?"
"Marcus was wonderful." I was already naked, already waiting. "But I want the best odds. Two men. Five nights. As much seed as I can take."
He undressed slowly. Deliberately. His cock was different from Marcus's—not as long, but thicker. Curved upward.
"Lie on your stomach," he said. "Face down. I'm gonna go deep."
Isaiah fucked like he farmed—steady, relentless, thorough.
He took me from behind, his thick cock hitting places Marcus hadn't reached. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back onto him with every thrust. I screamed into the pillow while he worked.
"That's it." His voice was calm despite the pace. "Take it all. You want this baby, you're gonna earn it."
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
He came with a groan, his cock pulsing deep inside me. I clenched around him, milking every drop, desperate for every last bit.
"Stay there," he said after. "Don't move."
He reached for his jeans. Pulled out his phone.
"What are you—"
"Calling Marcus." He was hard again already. "You said you wanted the best odds. Let's give you both of us. At once."
Night Three: Both
They came together.
Standing over me while I lay on the bed, naked and spread and dripping from two nights of breeding. Marcus was already hard. Isaiah was stroking himself.
"How do you want us?" Marcus asked.
"I don't care. Just—both. At the same time. Fill me up."
They exchanged a look. Some silent communication.
Then Marcus climbed on the bed, lay on his back.
"Ride me," he said.
I straddled him. Sank down onto his cock. Moaned as he filled me.
Then Isaiah was behind me. His cock pressing against my ass.
"Ever done this before?"
"No."
"Relax." His hands spread my cheeks. "I'll go slow."
He pushed in.
I've never felt so full.
Two cocks inside me—one in my cunt, one in my ass. They moved together, alternating thrusts, filling me completely with every stroke. I couldn't think, couldn't speak, could only take it.
"Fuck." Marcus's voice was strained beneath me. "She's squeezing so tight—"
"She wants it." Isaiah's hands gripped my hips. "Don't you, Jolene? Want both of us to fill you up?"
"Yes." It came out as a sob. "Please—both of you—come inside me—"
They did.
I felt it—both of them, pulsing at once, filling both my holes with their seed. My whole body shook with the force of my own orgasm. I collapsed onto Marcus's chest while Isaiah stayed buried in my ass.
"Again," I heard myself say. "We go again."
Nights Four and Five
A blur.
I lost count of how many times they took me. How many times they came inside me. They fucked me separately, together, in every position I could manage. My cunt was raw, my ass was sore, and I was overflowing with their combined seed.
On the last night, I lay between them—both men exhausted, both spent.
"You think it worked?" Marcus asked.
"I hope so." I placed a hand on my belly. "We'll know in a few weeks."
Isaiah's hand covered mine.
"If it didn't work," he said, "we can try again."
I smiled.
"I'll let you know."
Six weeks later
The test was positive.
I showed William first. He cried—happy tears this time. Held me and promised to love our baby, no matter where it came from.
Then I walked out to the bunkhouse. Found Marcus and Isaiah playing cards.
"It worked," I said.
They both stood. Both smiled. Neither asked whose it was.
Maybe they knew it didn't matter. Maybe they knew that whatever grew inside me belonged to all of us—to the farm, to the family, to the strange arrangement we'd made one desperate spring.
"Congratulations, Jolene." Marcus hugged me. Isaiah did too.
"Thank you." I held them both. "Both of you."
Nine months later
A boy.
Healthy. Strong. Brown-skinned with his father's—with someone's—eyes.
William holds him like he's made of glass. Loves him like he's blood.
And when Marcus and Isaiah come to visit the nursery, I see them looking at the baby with something like pride.
Our secret. Our family. Our child.
Some things are worth breaking the rules for.
This was one of them.