Motherhood [Mature]

She lay atop the sheets, sweat and blood cooling her naked skin. A hand wiped across her brow left a red smear across her forehead, and she heaved a satisfied sigh. The children would be happy tonight.

Thinking back on it, she ran one hand down her breasts, and gasped as her fingertips grazed her nipple, still hard and tender. Her lover had been merciless with the whip, one of the sort who needed to tell her what she was while he hurt her.

"Harlot," he'd panted. "Slut."

It bothered her, sometimes. Not what he did to her body, not the bruises he'd left nor the welts on her breasts, back, buttocks... those never got to her, though her lover tonight had been rougher than most.

It wasn't the hypocrisy, either, as he called her "filth" while his cock was rammed down her throat. She'd barely had time to get his flabby body out of the priest's frock before he'd twisted her arms behind her and thrust himself into her, snarling "whore".

It bothered her that she liked it.

It was heady, exciting, taking her lovers to places like this. Every dark desire, every corruption, the things that they would do to her that they would never imagine doing to anyone else, not to wife nor betrothed nor anyone... these made her ache inside. She loved it, wanted it, needed it; she had to hollow them out of all their goodness, of all their humanity. Let them spend their frustrations on her, indulge their worst, basest needs until there was nothing left of the men they were.

Because her children were hungry. And mama needed to feed them, yes she did.

He'd just been on the cusp of finishing, his bulk pinning her to the bed, tongue panting out obscenities in her ear as he yanked her head back by the hair with every thrust, when she could take no more. He could feel the change inside her, paused for a moment. Casually, she'd slipped her hands from the manacles he had used on her, thinking her tied helpless to the bed. She caressed the side of his puffy face.

"Shh..." she said, "mama's here."

And then the screaming started, the pulling and flailing as he desperately tried to pull himself out from her. But her legs were wrapped around him, and tiny as she was, her strength was many times what it should have been. He gurgled and moaned and plead and coughed blood, and through it all, she just crooned to him, over the gnashing sounds emerging from within his body, and stroked his face.

"Hush now, little ones. Eat well. Mama's here."

And eventually, when it was all done, and her newest baby was flexing itself into the sack of skin that was left behind after it and its still-unborn siblings had eaten their fill, she sang to it in a tongue long forgotten by those who should perhaps remember. She told it of their people, and of their fall, and how the humans had usurped their place in the world. She watched as its movements gradually became smooth and natural, and she fussed with its banded collar and smoothed over its hair.

She'd done well, she could see. The memories her baby had eaten from the meat sack it now occupied would not taint it with any feelings of brotherhood for the humans around it. The darkness in this one had been palpable to begin, and letting it work itself to an animal frenzy on her had left a perfect hollow for her baby to fill. She smiled, and told it that she knew it would make mama proud.

It was only after it had left her, going out in the world to spread misery and despair to the humans and hasten their own fall, that she had begun to feel the ache in her limbs.

How many was it, now? Dozens? Hundreds? She hadn't kept count, but she remembered each one, their faces, their scents. They were out there, her children, doing their good work. She would not see them again. She missed them terribly.

That's the curse of motherhood: you love them all, so much.