Page 12 of His to Watch
"Gonna get you pregnant right here," I promise, the words pouring out uncensored now. "Right on this altar where women have been bred for thousands of years. Fitting, isn't it? My little historian taking cock where ancient priestesses once spread their legs for fertility rites."
The academic reference mixed with filth seems to push her further into pleasure. Her inner walls clench rhythmically around me, her breathing becoming erratic.
"You're going to come for me," I tell her, not a question but a command. "Come around Daddy's cock while I breed you."
The altar is hard beneath her, unforgiving stone that will leave marks on her delicate skin. The thought of her carrying those impressions—temporary brands from our coupling—drives me wilder. I slam into her harder, my restraint evaporating with each thrust.
"Mine," I grunt, feeling my climax approaching rapidly. "Fucking mine."
Her body suddenly goes rigid beneath me, back arching impossibly high as she comes with a broken cry that bounces off the ancient artifacts surrounding us. Her pussy grips me like a vise, milking my cock, demanding my seed.
I give it to her, driving in to the hilt and letting go with a roar that would terrify anyone within earshot—if there were anyone else here. My release pumps into her in hot spurts, filling her womb, painting her insides with my cum. The primal satisfaction of breeding her on this ancient altar is overwhelming.
"That's it," I praise as I empty myself completely inside her. "Taking Daddy's cum so perfectly. Such a good girl."
She lies beneath me, dazed and trembling, her body limp with satisfaction. I remain buried inside her, unwilling to break our connection yet, enjoying the aftershocks that still ripple through her tight channel.
Looking down at her spread across the stone altar—my shirt rucked up around her waist, her hair a wild tangle, my cum already leaking out around my still-hard cock—I've never seen anything more perfect.
This is what she was made for. What I was made for.
To claim. To possess. To breed.
And I'm nowhere near done with her yet.
eight
. . .
Tatianna
Walkingthrough the darkened museum wearing nothing but Jerald's massive uniform shirt feels like a strange dream. My body aches sweetly from our encounters—first on the break room couch, then on the Mesopotamian altar—reminders that this night is real, not some vivid fantasy. He walks beside me now, one massive hand resting possessively on my lower back, guiding me through the Egyptian wing where golden artifacts gleam softly in the emergency lighting. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, maybe even ashamed of what we've done. Instead, I feel…protected. Seen. The ancient sarcophagi around us have witnessed centuries of human desire, of connections made and lost. They won't judge what's happening between me and this man who was a silent shadow in my periphery just hours ago.
"This one's my favorite," I say softly, stopping before a small, unassuming clay ushabti figure. It's not as flashy as the gold-plated treasures that draw tourists' attention, but there's something in the simple lines of the servant statuette that speaks to me. "It belonged to a scribe—not royalty or a priest, just someone who recorded daily life."
Jerald stands close behind me, his heat radiating against my back. "Why this one?" His voice is genuinely curious, not just humoring me.
I smile, reaching out but not touching the display case. "Most people want the dramatic stories—pharaohs and gods and elaborate death rituals. But I've always been drawn to the everyday lives. This scribe recorded grain shipments, marriage contracts, ordinary disputes. The mundane stuff that shows how people really lived."
His hand slides around my waist, pulling me gently against him. "Like you do with your cataloging. Preserving the small details others might miss."
The observation startles me. He's right—it's exactly what draws me to my work. "No one's ever made that connection before."
"I pay attention," he says simply, his beard tickling my temple as he speaks. "Especially to you."
I lean back against his solid chest, feeling surprisingly comfortable sharing these thoughts I usually keep to myself. "I was eight when my parents took me to my first museum. There was this Viking exhibit with everyday household items—combs, cooking pots, children's toys. I remember staring at a tiny wooden horse some Viking child played with a thousand years ago, thinking about how that child was just like me in so many ways. That's when I knew what I wanted to do with my life."
His arms tighten around me. "Connecting with history."
"Yes. My professors always pushed me toward the flashier research topics—wars, dynasties, famous figures. But I've always been drawn to the domestic artifacts, the things that show how ordinary people loved and lived." I laugh softly. "Not very exciting."
"It's perfect," he contradicts, turning me in his arms to face him. "You see value where others don't bother to look."
The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. How is it possible that this man—who I thought never noticed me beyond basic surveillance—seems to understand me better than colleagues I've known for years?
"What about you?" I ask, suddenly desperate to know more about him. "How did you end up here, guarding ancient artifacts?"
A shadow crosses his face. "Military. Special forces. Did things I'm not proud of. When I got out, I needed…structure. Quiet. Purpose." His scarred fingers trace my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. "Protecting valuable things seemed like a way to balance the scales."
