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The third day’s bizarre, mortifying, and ultimately transcendent bathroom ritual didn’t become a one-off event. It became the cornerstone of our new reality. Elise, the former Queen of a twisted ideal of beauty, had discovered a new, far more visceral obsession.

It began on the fourth morning. I felt the familiar, seven-fold pressure building within our shared form, a low internal orchestra tuning up for its morning symphony. Before Josh or I could even begin the difficult process of corralling our sleepy-headed crew, the bedroom door opened and Elise slipped in.

She wasn’t sleep-addled. Her eyes were bright, alert, burning with a familiar, ancient fire, now focused with laser-like intensity. Without a word, she padded across the floor, her gaze fixed on ours. There was no hesitation, no morning-after awkwardness. There was only intent.

She climbed onto our lap with the practiced ease of someone claiming their throne, settling back against our chest just as the first involuntary, sleep-induced fart escaped us.

“Shhh,” she soothed, her voice a throaty whisper. “Let it happen. All of it.”

She wasn't a passive participant this time. She was a conductor. As our body struggled through its groggy, musical chairs routine of failed attempts, she didn't stiffen or try to flee. She began to move. A slow, subtle undulation of her hips, a gentle clench and release of her internal muscles that seemed to guide our own disjointed efforts. It was as if she was tuning our body, playing our embarrassment like an instrument.

When the inevitable, massive release finally came, she didn't flinch. She pressed down, a soft, satisfied sigh escaping her lips as she received it, her head lolling back onto our shoulder. The sheer force of it, the helpless vulnerability of it, was clearly her new, potent aphrodisiac.

And then, as the last tremor subsided, she would empty her own bladder. It was no longer an accident. It was the second movement of the symphony. A deliberate, steady stream that seemed to signal the end of one act and the beginning of the next. The sound was her starter’s pistol.

The moment she finished, her hands would snake behind her, guiding our already-stirring penis back inside her. The mornings of clumsy, sleepy fumbling were over. This was a ritual, and she was its high priestess.

This addiction of hers—to the raw, unfiltered intimacy, to the power exchange, to the sheer taboo of it all—became the engine of our existence. Her stomach, after that second, cataclysmic impregnation, had settled into a permanent, beautifully rounded swell, a testament to the life growing within her. But it didn’t stop her. If anything, it seemed to fuel her hunger.

Weeks passed. Her morning impalements grew more intense. She would ride us with a languorous, desperate energy, her swollen belly a proud banner of our union. The release she craved, and the one we gave her, was never small. Each morning, as we climaxed inside her, her stomach would distend further, swelling for a few glorious minutes to a truly breathtaking size, a taut globe of life and pleasure, before slowly subsiding back to its beautifully pregnant state.

One morning, as she was swaying on our lap, lost in the rhythm, the bathroom door, which we never bothered to lock anymore, quietly opened. Nagai stood there, holding a tray with two steaming mugs of his alien tea. He observed the scene for a silent moment: the former enemy warrior queen, now heavily pregnant, riding her fused husband-wife entity on the toilet, in the aftermath of their shared morning relief.

He didn't blink. He simply set the tray down on the vanity, gave a small, approving nod that seemed to say, “The equilibrium is stable,” and left as quietly as he came.

Elise, never breaking her rhythm, let out a throaty laugh. “He approves of our… sustainability.”

She collapsed against us afterward, spent and dripping, her massive belly pressed between us. She was addicted. And we, her vessel, her husband, her willing, multi-souled participant, were hopelessly enraptured by her addiction. Our bizarre, perfect life had found its strangest, most intimate rhythm. And not a single one of us would have had it any other way.