Breaking Vows Pt. 2 (Patreon)

This is a Patreon-exclusive continuation of "Breaking Vows: A Lesbian Mind Control Story" which is available on Amazon. If you haven't read it yet, please do so before reading!

A little more than a year had passed since Brianna showed up at the Channel 8 news station, convinced star morning news anchor Leslie that she had always been in love with her young, curvy blonde colleague, Ashley.

With just a few choice words and directives, Leslie and Ashley are throwing their lives and reputations away in order to fuck each other in the lobby and declare their love for one another. And, as a parting gift, Brianna gives Leslie an idea about what to do with her frozen embryos. (Another pregnant lesbian fuck session? Yes.)

So, now we get to see if Brianna's idea took root, and if the lucky women were able to keep their careers and their perverted relationship.

Spoiler alert: of course it all worked out. Brianna's just that good!

Hope you enjoy!

Breaking Vows Pt. 2 (Patreon Exclusive)

“Look at you. Just look at how incredibly perfect you are.”

Leslie’s voice was a dark, husky whisper, rough with exertion and heavy with an intoxicating, possessive adoration. The sound of it alone was enough to send a fresh, electric shiver racing down Ashley’s spine, a jolt that traveled straight from the base of her neck to the aching, molten core of her body.

“Leslie… please…” Ashley whimpered, her hands tangling in the older woman’s dark, sweat-dampened hair.

“I’m right here, my queen. I’m giving you exactly what you need.”

The rhythmic, leathery creak of the harness was a steady metronome in the dimly lit expanse of their master bedroom. Leslie was positioned perfectly over her, hovering in a predatory yet profoundly worshipping missionary stance. 

With every slow, patient, and deliberate forward drive of her hips, Leslie proved her devotion all over again. The solid, unyielding pressure stretching inside Ashley’s body was like a physical manifestation of Leslie’s love.

Deep, profound, and fucking intense.

Ashley’s platinum-blonde hair was a wild halo across the silk pillowcases, her flushed cheeks glowing under the soft amber light of the bedside lamp. 

But it was her changing body that commanded the room. Her skin was flushed, slick with the sheen of their shared sweat, and her beautiful, burgeoning belly stood as a magnificent testament to their shared commitment. 

At six months pregnant, Ashley had never felt more vulnerable, yet she had never felt more worshipped. Leslie’s dark eyes roamed over her wife’s swollen breasts, the blush pink peaks sensitive and aching, down to the beautiful curve of her stomach, carrying the life they had created together.

“You are so exquisitely beautiful like this,” Leslie praised, her breathing growing ragged as she pulled back, only to drive into Ashley once more with a firm, deliberate push. “My gorgeous, pregnant queen, taking every inch of me.”

Ashley let out a fractured gasp, her hips instinctively bucking upward to meet Leslie’s downward thrust. 

It had been a little over a year since the afternoon when their entire world had been rewritten in the lobby of the Channel 8 news station. A year since a mysterious, sandy-haired woman named Brianna had shattered the illusions of their heterosexual lives and stitched them together in a tapestry of unbridled lesbian devotion and profound, undeniable love.

The immediate fallout of that day still played in Ashley’s mind, often flashing behind her eyelids when Leslie had her pinned to the mattress, just as she did now. 

She remembered the frantic, almost feral hours directly after their lobby encounter. They hadn’t even made it to their respective homes. Instead, they had locked themselves in Leslie’s dressing room, tearing at each other’s clothes, silencing their moans against the brightly lit vanity mirrors. 

They had explored each other’s bodies with an insatiable, ravenous hunger for days. It was a near-constant, dizzying cycle of sexual exploration—in the downstairs bathroom at the news station, in shady hotel rooms, in the back of cabs. 

Every touch, every kiss was a confirmation that they had been starving their entire lives and were only just now being fed.

But eventually, the honeymoon phase ended. At least, when the wreckage of their past lives came to the surface to be faced.

Ashley remembered the surreal detachment she felt when she stood in front of her fiancé and handed the ring back. He had wept, begged, and screamed, demanding to know who the other man was. 

When she calmly told him that she was leaving him for her female co-anchor, the look on his face was hard to describe: part anger, part shock, part embarrassment, part arousal. He begged her to explain how and why it all happened; she didn’t have a sufficient excuse. 

She and Leslie were in love, they were going to get married, and Ashley was going to carry her children. That was all there was to it.

The terrifying part wasn't the breakup itself; it was the chilling absence of guilt within Ashley’s own heart. She felt sorry that she didn't feel sorry. She felt a phantom guilt for lacking any true remorse over destroying his life. 

But even that fleeting shadow of shame was instantly, miraculously vaporized the moment she returned to Leslie’s arms. The slide of Leslie’s hands down her back, the press of Leslie’s mouth against her collarbone—it soothed every anxiety, washing her brain in a tidal wave of pure, unquestioning devotion.

Leslie’s separation had been far colder, the surgical separation of a twenty-year mistake. She had marched into the suburban home she shared with David, packed her bags with terrifying efficiency, and met his confused, angry stare with an ice-cold glare of her own.

“Start a new life, David,” she had told him, her voice devoid of any warmth. “Consider yourself lucky. Be happy you’re not married to a lesbian anymore.”

She didn’t tell him immediately that they would be keeping the embryos they made together. The ones he apparently no longer wanted. She eventually got him to waive his rights after her lawyer contacted her lawyer. A mysterious phone call from a woman he didn’t know apparently played a role in his decision—Leslie didn’t care to ask more. 

And just like that, the past was dead, and they were free to build the future they wanted together. At least, the future that Brianna made them want to want together. 

“You’re lost in thought, my queen,” Leslie murmured, snapping Ashley back to the present with a sharp, rolling grind of her hips that forced a high-pitched squeal from the blonde’s lips. Leslie leaned down, her chest brushing against Ashley’s swollen breasts, and captured her lips in a deep, wet, bruising kiss.

“Just… thinking about us,” Ashley panted against Leslie’s mouth, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of Leslie’s shoulders. “Thinking about how my life is nothing like I planned. Nothing like I thought I wanted.”

It was true. If someone had told a younger Ashley that her destiny was to be the doting, pregnant wife to a woman nearly two decades her senior, she would have laughed in their face. 

She had always feared that domesticity would be at war with her ambitions, that settling down meant sacrificing her career. Instead, it was a glorious, harmonious symphony. She spent her mornings on television, basking in the adoration of the city, and then she spent every subsequent hour of the day enveloped in the obsessive, protective love of the woman who shared the anchor desk with her. 

They were a unified front. They were Channel 8’s dynamic duo. And the moment the cameras stopped rolling, they were even more perfectly in sync.

“And are you happy, my sweet, perfect girl?” Leslie asked, her voice dropping an octave as she reached down, slipping her hand between their bodies. Her thumb found the slick, swollen bundle of nerves that was driving Ashley to the brink of insanity, applying a steady, torturous pressure that perfectly timed with the internal stretching of the strap.

“Yes! God, yes, Leslie!” Ashley cried out, her head thrashing against the pillows.

She was more than happy. She was addicted. 

The pregnancy, which had been achieved using the frozen embryos Leslie had kept in storage, had sent Ashley’s hormones into a terrifying, wonderful overdrive. But even more than her own physical craving, it was Leslie’s reaction to the pregnancy that fueled Ashley’s fantasies. 

She loved the way Leslie looked at her changing body with a mixture of reverence, extreme lust, and dominating pride. It had ignited a desperate, glowing fantasy in Ashley’s mind, to give another woman the family she’d always wanted, to completely surrender her body and soul to her.  

She wanted to be barefoot, beautiful, and filled with Leslie’s children, just because it made her wife look at her with such consuming, predatory hunger.

“Good,” Leslie growled, her thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and significantly faster. The leather straps slapped lightly against her thighs, a rhythmic, percussive soundtrack to their lovemaking. “Because I want you to be happy. You’re my queen. You’re my trophy. My beautiful, pregnant prize.”

Leslie loved to brag, especially when Ashley was teetering on the edge of an orgasm. The dirty talk was a faucet she never turned off. It was a constant stream of validating, possessive praise that fed Ashley’s ego and thoroughly melted her mind.

“Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?” Leslie whispered, her lips grazing Ashley’s earlobe, her breath hot against the delicate skin. “I look at you, carrying my seed, growing our family, and I feel like the most powerful woman on earth.”

“Leslie…” Ashley gasped, her internal walls clamping down hard around the thick silicone stretching her.

“You are the ultimate prize,” Leslie continued, her voice practically vibrating with smug, dark satisfaction. “The most beautiful woman on television, who every morning has tens of thousands of men watching her on their screens. They lust after you. They dream about you. They see your gorgeous face and those perfect curves, and they think about what they would do to you if they ever had the chance to touch you. Your pathetic fiancé had his chance. But I took you right out from under all of them.”

Leslie’s thumb circled faster, relentlessly chasing Ashley’s climax.

“But you know what my favorite part is?” Leslie growled, her words dripping with a filthy, loving arrogance. 

Ashley could only shake her head, her eyes rolling back, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps as the pressure built to a nearly unbearable crescendo.

“My favorite part,” Leslie purred, sliding her hands up to fiercely cup both of Ashley’s heavy breasts, “is showing you off on TV every single morning. I love sitting at that desk, letting the whole world look at you, knowing that when the broadcast ends, I’m the one who takes you home. Me, the older woman, the brunette news anchor who used to be the ‘it girl’ of local TV, before you showed up… I’m the one who strips you down. I’m the one who straps on this fake cock and fucks you senseless until you can’t remember your own name.”

The words, coupled with the brutal, targeted friction of Leslie’s thumb and the relentless driving force inside her, pushed Ashley straight over the edge. It was her third orgasm of the evening, and yet it hit her with the force of a freight train.

“Leslie!” Ashley screamed, her entire body locking up in a rigid bow of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The walls of her sex spasmed violently, milking the strap with involuntary, crushing force.

Leslie groaned in deep, sympathetic satisfaction, riding out the violent tremors of Ashley’s climax, her own body tense and vibrating as she drove deep and held herself there, pinning her pregnant wife to the mattress. Ashley sobbed through the pleasure, the sheer magnitude of the sensation overloading her senses, leaving her weeping tears of profound, chemical joy.

As the aftershocks slowly began to subside, leaving Ashley a limp, quivering mess of nerve endings and sweat, the predatory dominance in Leslie’s eyes melted into an ocean of profound, maternal tenderness. 

Ashley had quickly learned that her insatiable, demanding wife was incredibly gentle in the aftermath of a climax.

Leslie carefully, painstakingly withdrew, the sound of the separation loud in the suddenly quiet room. She unbuckled the leather harness, tossing the damp apparatus to the floor without a second glance, before immediately collapsing to the mattress and pulling Ashley’s heavy, exhausted body flush against her own.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Leslie murmured, her voice soft as velvet now. She wrapped her arms securely around Ashley’s back, pressing kisses to her sweaty forehead, her temple, her tear-stained cheeks. “You did so well, my sweet girl. You’re so beautiful. So perfect.”

Ashley nuzzled her face into the crook of Leslie’s neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of their shared exertion. “I love you so much,” she slurred, her voice heavy with sleep and absolute satiation.

“I love you more,” Leslie replied, her hand gently stroking the swell of Ashley’s stomach. “You are the perfect partner. The perfect anchor. And the perfect mother of our children. You are my entire world, Ashley.”

They lay there in the heavy, golden afterglow for what felt like hours. The room was silent save for the sound of their synchronized breathing and the occasional, lazy smack of their lips as they engaged in a slow, meandering makeout session. 

It was the kind of kissing that lacked urgency, fueled only by a deep, abiding need to remain physically connected. Leslie’s fingers lazily traced meaningless patterns up and down Ashley’s spine, while Ashley’s hands rested warmly against Leslie’s chest.

Eventually, a restless energy began to twitch in Ashley’s muscles. Her body, still thrumming with residual adrenaline from three earth-shattering climaxes, wasn't quite ready for sleep. Slowly, carefully, she slid her legs off the edge of the plush mattress, intending to grab a glass of water from the en-suite bathroom.

From the bed, Leslie watched her move. Her dark eyes were heavy with a drunken, thoroughly satiated lust, tracking the sway of Ashley’s hips, the curve of her pregnant belly, the glowing flush of her skin. The older woman looked entirely spellbound by the young beauty she had claimed.

Ashley paused in the doorway of the bathroom, catching Leslie’s ravenous reflection in the vanity mirror. A slow, wicked smile spread across the blonde’s lips. The lingering tendrils of Brianna’s psychological rewiring flared brightly in her mind, a spark of pure, uninhibited dominance igniting within her chest.

She didn't go for the water.

Instead, Ashley turned on her heel and padded slowly back to the bed. She bypassed the mattress, her bare feet silent on the carpeted floor, and stopped where the discarded leather harness lay in the shadows. With a graceful swoop, she picked it up, the buckles clinking softly in the quiet room.

Leslie’s eyes widened slightly, the lazy haze of afterglow instantly evaporating, replaced by a spike of sharp, eager anticipation.

Ashley stepped up to the edge of the bed, the harness dangling from her fingertips. She looked down at the older woman, the powerful, successful news anchor who had rearranged her entire universe, and felt a surge of commanding power.

“It’s your turn,” Ashley whispered, her voice surprisingly firm with a dark promise that sent a shudder through Leslie’s lithe frame. Ashley gestured to the mattress with a flick of her wrist. “Bend over.”

Leslie’s breath hitched. A submissive, eager whimper escaped her throat as she scrambled to her hands and knees, turning her back to her young, pregnant wife, offering herself entirely.

Ashley secured the leather straps around her own waist, the weight of the silicone settling intimately against her body. 

She placed her hands firmly on Leslie’s hips, her thumbs digging into the soft skin, grounding herself. She took a deep breath, aligned herself, and thrust her hips forward, making solid, unyielding contact.

At the exact moment of penetration, a violent, blinding sensation erupted behind Leslie’s eyes. 

It was a sudden, neurological explosion in addition to the surge of physical pleasure. Bright, flashing bulbs strobed in Leslie’s vision, identical to the harsh, glaring intensity of the Channel 8 studio lights. 

A phantom, familiar voice—calm, direct, and impossibly smug—seemed to echo in the cavernous space of her mind. It was a long-forgotten reminder of the psychic architecture that had built their love. 

The blinding white flash consumed her entirely, leaving nothing but the overwhelming, manufactured reality of the woman driving into her puckered asshole from behind.