Page 100 of Labor of Love

I can’t bite him until he’s bred and carrying my child.

The desperate need to breed him isn’t just fueled by my biology. By his scent and his cries and his need. It’s also driven by my frantic love for this man. A love I’ve nurtured since we were kids. A love that grows every single minute and becomes far more reckless with each day that passes without him conceiving.

Our time is almost up.

I close my eyes and lose myself in Iri’s heat. In his body and in his grip. In his love. I fuck my lover until our bodies are satisfied before collapsing on the bed and taking him with me. My cock is still locked in his tight hole, keeping me in position. Keeping my seed inside him, facilitating the maximum effort for conception.

Iri sighs. I brush the sweaty hair stuck to his face aside and kiss his neck, just below his ear. He hums quietly. Contentedly. Completely satisfied.

My finger itches to touch his stomach. I used to. Months ago. I used to rest my hand over his empty womb and beg the universe to put my child there. I stopped because it was making him feel broken and like he was failing me. He feels like it’s going to be his fault that we are torn apart.

It’s not his fault. If anything, it’s mine.

My oldest brother works in the lab that studies our genetic codes and chooses the best possible match based on genetic compatibility for conception between a breeder and a breedable. We have a year to conceive, and if it doesn’t happen within that time, the pair is split up and repaired.

My brother showed me how our genetics don’t align for conception. He gave us less than a three percent success rate. I begged him to lie and match us. I begged him for my entire childhood. My teenage years. I begged him right until Iri reached his breedable maturity.

He agreed. He’s convinced it’s going to end in heartache. I was determined to prove him wrong. We simply need to breed more. Often. Constantly.

It’s not like it’s a hardship.

Iri is just as determined as I am to make it happen. He’s loved me for just as long. We want to be together. That should be an option.

The frustration of this situation has a constant growl lodged in my throat. The only reason I’m not growling right now is because I’m purring. Comforting my breedable. My sweet, precious love.

I will lose my shit if someone takes him from me.

Hours pass, and I breed him once more before we get up for the day. Iri has to go to work and I have plans to make. As he showers and gets ready, I make his breakfast and lunch. Then he’s in front of me with his arms around my neck and a beautiful smile.

I rest my forehead on his. “I love you. Have a good day.”

His smile widens as he sighs. “Love you too.”

There were days when we’d share that we thought this time was different. We’d insist that we felt the difference. That there was magic in the air this morning when we fucked.

Those words just hurt later when it wasn’t true. We’ve stopped saying them.

I sit with Iri outside on the porch as we wait for his ride. He tells me about his students and that he’s planning a pop quiz this morning. He has some smart kids this year, so he’s sure they’ll do well. Iri is a great teacher. I’ve listened to his classes a few times through the parent portals, and he’s a very engaging, positive, fun teacher. Every year, his students adore him.

Pru pulls up alongside our house, and Iri kisses me long and somewhat wild. He’s worried. He knows our time is nearly up. Iwon’t let him see or feel how scared I am of that. We won’t be split up.

I won’t allow it. It’s not going to happen. I already have a plan.

I watch Pru pull away and the taillights disappear down the road before stepping back inside. I lift the basket on the table just inside the door and pick up the envelope from theCouncil for Breeding Initiative. I don’t need to open it to know what I’m going to find. I open it anyway.

Three-month notice.

There’s a short informational paragraph about what’s to come if Iri doesn’t conceive within the next three months. Tips on how to divide our household. How to begin separating our lives. There’s a phone number to talk to a therapist who will guide us through the emotional toll of the separation process.

I ball it up and toss it in the fireplace. It’s not a cold day, but I start a fire anyway. Just to see it burn. No one will take my breedable. Fuck that. Fuck them. I’ll burn the entire fucking city down to keep him.

Pulling out my phone, I give the guys a quick text.

I received the three-month notice today.

Immediately, three small circle avatars drop below the message as they read it. Dots dance as they respond.

Hakan

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