What do I truly feel as a woman when a man's seed spills deep into my fertile womb ?

My pussy is still all swollen, throbbing, when he finally pulls back halfway, just enough for me to feel the first big hot gush burst against my cervix. It's as if a burning, thick, living jet had just hit the small opening of my uterus directly. Not just wet... no. A heavy heat, almost too heavy, that spreads within me, that seeps in, that forces its way thru. I feel my stomach tighten a little, as if my body instantly understands: there's too much, it's going to overflow... but I clench my muscles, I want to keep everything, swallow everything.

His last spasms make his tail pulse against my walls, and with each contraction, I swear I feel the next ones coming: shorter, deeper bursts, as if he were pumping directly into my fertile belly. My uterus seems to open, awaken, become greedy. I imagine it there, that little pear-shaped muscle, drinking, eagerly sucking every thick drop it offers me. I tell myself it's ridiculous... and yet I feel it: this warmth that rises, that spreads, that fills corners I didn't even know existed.

And then there's this fantasy that drives me crazy: I imagine the millions of hungry tadpoles pouring out all at once, like a white and living tide. They jostle, they wriggle, they swim frantically in the thick mucus that my cervix has prepared for them. Some die quickly, stuck, burned by the acidity... but the strongest, the most vicious, those who truly carry its essence, they head straight for the tubes. I close my eyes and imagine this mad, silent, desperate race. Thousands of tiny tails whipping, propelling themselves toward that round, vulnerable ovum, all pink and swollen with hormones.

And there... fuck, there I fantasize about the moment when the winner touches. A tiny electric shock, almost imperceptible, but that my body would know. Like a spark deep inside me, a micro-discharge that makes my uterus twitch. I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, some women feel that: that tiny shiver, that heat that changes in nature, that becomes denser, heavier, more... promised. As if my belly was whispering "he's entered, he's there, he's marked me."

I remain still, thighs pressed together, short of breath, so as not to lose a drop. I want him to stay inside me as long as possible, for his seed to take hold, for the survivors to make their nest. I caress my lower abdomen and whisper dirty things to this imaginary egg: "Go ahead, take it." Let him fill you. Let him transform you.

And in this delirium, I rejoice once again, just at the thot that my body, at this precise moment, might be choosing the life it will carry... His life.

And then... silence. The apparent calm. You breathe. You adjust your underwear. You maybe get up. You walk. And yet, inside, a slow, invisible migration has already begun. Tens of millions of tiny, blind, frenetic entities begin to move in absolute darkness. They cross the sticky barrier of the cervix, swim up the cervical canal like an army of tiny salmon fighting an impossible current. They swim for hours. Then days.

While you're laughing at a joke at the restaurant, waiting for the subway with your headphones on, putting on makeup in front of the mirror, catching the eye of a stranger on the street... they're there. They wind thru the corners of your uterus, brush against the pink and warm walls, explore the tubes like conquistadors lost in a cathedral of flesh.

And the most disturbing thing: You hardly feel them anymore. Just sometimes... a very slight, very diffuse feeling of fullness. Or maybe just the idea that you're carrying it. A burning biochemical secret that no one, absolutely no one around you can guess. You can talk politics, eat a salad, answer emails, wear a sensible dress... Meanwhile, deep inside you, a slow, persistent, almost romantic hunt for life is taking place.

It's a strange vertigo: knowing that your belly has become, for a few days, the largest ocean in the world. A tiny and internal ocean where foreign legions swim tirelessly toward an island that may not even exist yet. Toward that suspended ovum, haloed with cellular light, waiting, royal and indifferent.

Sometimes you almost think you can feel them. Not really pain, not an itch either. Rather... a presence. A diffuse tremor, as if your lower abdomen was breathing at a different rhythm than yours. A biological murmur, a whisper of possible life that continues its work while you pretend to be just an ordinary woman in an ordinary world.

And if the ovum is there, lurking somewhere in the fringes of the tubes, then these relentless little intruders have only one mission: find the round and smooth door, pierce it, rush in, and do what billions of men before him have dreamed of doing throughout the ages: leave an irreversible mark in the continuity of your flesh.

It's both very animalistic... and curiously sacred. An instant of animal lust that triggers a patient, silent, and potentially creative microscopic dance that can last for days in the darkness of your belly. And you, you carry that. With a somewhat distant smile sometimes. As if you knew something the whole world doesn't.

And when you really think about it, when you sit there, still, your hand on your stomach, you touch the invisible:

the territory where your momentary pleasure turned into a long, silent, desperate, and magnificent expedition.

Where potential lives are played out every second, without fanfare, without witnesses, in the absolute secrecy of your flesh.

A secret you carry alone.

A warm, sticky, stubbornly alive secret.

For fiew days.

Or forever, if the alchemy decides to come to fruition.