by Jamie Knight
“Yes, Sawyer,” she called out. “This feels so good. I love when you fill me up and cram your cock inside me.”
“And I love fucking my virgin’s tight, wet little pussy, forever.”
We came together, my hand squeezing her ass cheek while her fingernails clawed at my back. I couldn’t believe that not only did I have such an amazing wife, we also had a cute little daughter. This was only my first night away from her and I already missed her.
We would hurry back to see her tomorrow, and we would go on a family honeymoon, to Venice and then to wherever else my lovely new wife wanted to fly, in the private jet that Pat and I had just bought to help our business, as well as use for personal vacations, of course.
We were already going back on our vow to only have one child. April needed a little brother or sister. And I just might have put one in Anne’s belly tonight, on our wedding night.
Speaking of tonight, on our wedding night, I truly felt that it made me the luckiest man in the world, no matter what else had happened to me in the past.
I held Anne close as her warm, curvy, soft body shuddered beneath me in the afterglow, her pussy filled with my cum that I hoped would knock her up again – what a happy change from how I had felt the first time around when I had foolishly been telling myself that I didn’t want to be a father – and gently nuzzled her neck, so happy and so in love I could cry.
THE END
Little Firecracker
A Fourth of July Secret Baby Romance
Copyright © 2020 Jamie Knight Romance.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
All rights reserved.
Chapter One - Ada
Nothing is real. Concrete reality exists but is subject to prescription. There is no reason for anything to be the way that it is. Everything is subject to the power of your mind. Everything is subject to the power of your mind. Everything is subject to the power of your mind. Everything is –
I kicked the CD player as hard as I could manage without taking off my seatbelt. The NYPD were hard asses at the best of times. Why give them a reason to be vindictive pricks? Something that came off as particularly hilarious from the ones playing cowboys on horseback.
The horn blast came out of nowhere, making me nearly jump out of my skin. I had the urge to pull up over the six whole inches that were suddenly an island and then back up suddenly, stopping just short of the honker’s bumper.
Instead, I switched out the CD and turned up the volume. The sweet tones of Judas Priest washed out the inevitable barrage of shouted cursing. Much of it was sexual in nature. It was always sexual in nature, the lack of creativity bordered on the farcical.
After a few minutes of torture, I inched up further in the gridlocked traffic, gaining a whole ten inches from where I had started out. A massive achievement in terms of WWI troop advancement.
Another honk came to my right, from yet another driver of a city bus under the impression they were a god among mere mortals who were all meant to get out of their damn way. Adding insult to absurdity, the advertisement plastered across the side of the metal behemoth was for a new dating site.
I could remember my last date like it was yesterday, even though it was actually five years before. I had used a site like that advertised, only one of the newer versions of what was going about in that brave new world. Back in the olden days of match percentages and actual questions about actual interests. The guy I was meeting that balmy July night had scored a 98 percent match, according to the algorithms.
The suit should have been a red flag. It was so new that it still had some of the tags on it. It was expensive but not tailored, combined with a pair of boots that looked like they had once been used to kick someone to death, polished to a mirror glow.
I had foolishly put my actual job at that time into my bio on the app. Most of the men on the site avoided me like the plague. The few who actually messaged me were more taken with my tits than my profile.
To be fair, my tits were quite impressive, and the guys were barely out of their teens and clearly virgins, laid bare by their bravado as much as anything else. A few of the guys seemed cool and even messaged me a few times like normal people before sending me dick pics. I forwarded them immediately to Amy, who made me feel better about the whole thing by writing funny captions under them.
Mike had done none of that. He wrote extensively and eloquently, discovering as much about me as I had about him. He seemed genuinely interested in me and my life.
He didn’t even flinch when the subject turned to kids. He was the oldest of five and had been around younger kids most of his life.
He also offered to pay for the entire bill and left a generous tip. He was such a gentleman. One might even say he was the supreme gentleman.
It was when we were back at my apartment that tragedy struck. I had honestly enjoyed myself and his company. So, I didn’t hesitate when he went in for a kiss.
That was when he grabbed me. I tried to say no, but his tongue was already in my mouth, making it difficult to speak. This was followed by a hand up my skirt. Switching into fight mode, I just did what came naturally.
The ambulance arrived fairly quickly. The taste of his blood was still in my mouth. It was going to be a while before he could walk straight again, and I had apparently broken his nose, which explained my splitting headache.
The cops took me in for questioning, of course. They were charming as ever, making sure I didn’t even get water before I had told them what happened at least five times so they could go through it and look for inconsistencies. Which, of course, there were. After all, only a carefully rehearsed lie could be the same every time, and I wasn’t lying.
It was only after they retrieved the security footage from the hall security camera that they actually believed me and let me go. My parents wanted me to press charges, but I wasn’t in a hurry to see him again. There also wasn’t much worry about him hurting anyone else. Or about perpetuating his assault-prone genes by having kids.
I had Kingsley to thank. Like so many of the other most useful things I knew, he was the one who taught me how to fight. His reputation was so notorious that even the bullies steered clear, having a good idea of what might happen if they didn’t. Bullying in general, quite a scandal up to that point, took a dip his junior year when it was made abundantly clear that “Killer” Kingsley would be having none of it.
Once I finally arrived at the office, I jolted back into the present, reminding myself that I had better things to focus on than bad dates of the past, and I found that parking was almost as bad as the traffic had been. The investment firm had a parking garage all to itself, but even so, space was at a premium and only the executive spots were assigned. Everything else was a free-for-all.
In a way, it was a decent demonstration of Darwinian theory. It was generally the smartest and most creative who fared the best. Like when Van Patten traded in his Lincoln for a Mini Cooper. He still had his Aston Martin for weekend racing excursions.
Finding a gap no one would have thought to take, mostly because it was too small, I climbed out of the window and up into the fog of my car. Then, it was merely a matter of strolling down the back windshield and hopping off the trunk. The eight years of ballet school my parents subjected me to suddenly seemed like quite a good investment in my future.
And at least I had made it to work on time. Or, almost at time, which was about as good as it got, with me.
Chapter Two - Ada
It really could have been closer. The up and ups had chauffeur services to ferry them from the parking garage to the office building. Then again, they were the types to literally light their cigars with twenty-dollar bills. I also had it on good authority that most of them were sporting $85 pure silk boxer shorts under their tailored suits. Just for a point of comparison, my underwear was cotton and obtained at $10 for a pack of 3.
I never really thought that marble h
ad a smell. Then I walked into the lobby of Smith & Smyth Investments, the third largest investment firm in the state, which was working very hard at becoming number one. $185 Billion was just not quite enough when it came to New York wealth. Just as ‘absolutely stunning’ fell sadly short in terms of a way to describe New York Beauty, by which standards I was maybe a 6 on a good day.
It really was difficult to tell them apart. Outnumbering the females of the species by about five to one, the men of Smith & Smyth, junior traders all, were victims of fashion.
They all wore the same brands, except for Van Patten drove the same cars, wore the same style of glasses which maybe a quarter of them actually needed, and they even went to the same barber. They ended up with the same semi-crewcut sported by the senior partners, which likely started in the 1960s when it was still genuinely fashionable.
I dressed for war, in tweed, from shoulders to shins. It was better than Kevlar in most situations, particularly when it was cold enough for me to button up my jacket. It looked a little funny in the summer, but I was mostly spared the attention of my colleagues, which I really wasn’t interested in anyway. There was only one man I could ever love, and I hadn’t seen him in nearly a decade.
“Lookin’ good today, Ms. Babbage,” Macy said, taking my tweed suit jacket and hanging it up on the hook in the outer office.
“Thank you, Macy, you’re not so bad yourself.”
This was an understatement. Macy was beautiful by any measure. She was 21 and working her way through grad school. She had the looks and intelligence to rule a sizable chunk of the city if she ever chose to. Though, I somehow doubted that she would.
It wasn’t that she lacked ambition. It was just that her particular brand of ambition didn’t include the accumulation of power and domination.
“How late am I?” I asked her.
“Ten minutes?” Macy said, glancing at the ten-dollar watch she always wore.
I had gotten her a Rolex for Christmas the year before as a thank you for all her hard work and a symbol of what I liked to think of as our friendship. She sold it, donating the money she made to various worthy causes, including a children’s hospital and an animal rescue.
When I asked why she had done it, more curious than anything else, she said that she was ‘paying it forward.’ I would have hugged her if it wasn’t a strict breach of protocol.
I was twelve minutes late when I got to the meeting. I slipped in quiet as a mouse, a skill I had learned in college, and took the only available seat near the door.
“How was it?” Macy asked, the glass still rattling in my office door.
The sound that came out of me was somewhere between a dolphin and a very pissed off velociraptor.
“That bad?’
“It was like The Stepford Guys!”
“I thought it was The Stepford Wives,” Macy said, in purest innocence.
“I modernized it. Gotta be inclusive, you know.”
“Oh, like making Alexander Hamilton black.”
“Exactly.”
“Any plans for lunch?”
“Indeed,” I said, unable to keep from grinning.
It was something I generally tried to avoid, not only because I looked like a goof but because my teeth were far from straight. All were present and accounted for and in a clear row, but the furthest thing from symmetrical.
I should have had braces as a kid, but my parents really couldn’t afford them. We couldn’t afford much of anything, which was why we lived in Park Slope. Even after entering the distinguished world of investment, I was living in a cold-water walk up on the Lower East side, which had become devastatingly fashionable in the past few years.
I hadn’t particularly planned to go into finance. My degree from Columbia University was in Fine Arts. Sadly, there weren’t many openings for painters or illustrators when I graduated. I tried cartooning for a while, but my sense of humor proved too avant-garde for a general audience.
I got some work with indie magazines and underground comix, but the amount I made fell well short of my obscenely high bills and I had to get what my dad always referred to as a ‘suit job.’ He had mostly worked from home and had a work wardrobe consisting of an astounding array of pajamas and robes, color-coded not only to the day of the week but also to the time of day. Cream white or bright yellow for morning, dove gray or red for afternoon, and blue for evening.
His evening outfits were also the ones he slept in. My mom was far too busy raising me to have a job, as well as obscuring strongly the trappings of the Capitalists system as laid out by Adam Smith. Her preference went in favor of the Calvinist-based Keynesian school of exchange in which trade was to be a public service and mutually beneficial.
So, she started an online store back when Amazon still only sold books and Etsy was not even a thought. Money could be exchanged, but it needed to be on an equal basis, much of the business on the site using a consensus bartering model in which people agreed what they would give for something else. There was haggling galore, and it was rare, but no one ever ended up getting cheated.
They both nearly fainted when I said I was going to work on Wall Street. It was only two years after Occupy and tensions were still high, wounds still fresh. Mom had been there everyday, conducting business from her smartphone.
Dad kept an eye on developments, including when mom was arrested. It took four NYPD officers to literally carry her, a cop per limb to the paddy wagon, at which point she remained laying on the floor and refused to ‘give the pigs the satisfaction.’ It wasn’t a terribly surprising development, considering the 1312 tattoo she’d had since high school.
It had been an accident and fluke of a situation. The stars aligned just right to make it so that I had a natural knack for numbers, including the meta-processing and preternatural understanding of Systems Theory to accurately predict up to 85% of the time.
One of the downtown investment firms had run an ad looking for analysts. Freshly graduated and newly mothered, I jumped at it.
It had been a pretty hard sell. A 22-year-old with no business experience applying to a top flight investment house sounded ludicrous, even to me. Though, the way I figured it the worst they might do is laugh at me, and I was certainly used to that.
Except they didn’t laugh. They called back. Apparently, the notion was just odd enough to pique their interest. At least to see what I was playing at, likely assuming that I had applied because I had something going on that wasn’t immediately apparent.
It felt like a parlor trick. Going by what I had said in the preliminary phone call, the hiring board concocted a test by which they assembled previous numbers for businesses they had already invested in to see if I could predict their later worth, up to and including the date of the test. I was right within a cent.
There were particular advantages to my position. Those who worked in numbers and tech were, with all due respect to George Orwell, the real unacknowledged legislators of the world. Not in terms of clout but rather in the far more important aspects of the function and direction of the company.
There really was no company to run without them. It was a situation which brought a particular level of freedom, which in many ways was more important than power. Those in so-called ‘power positions’ were subject to the arbitrary whims of the corporate rules, including dress code, and always had someone above them and could be fired at almost any time.
I couldn’t. I was too important, and the executives and directors bloody well knew it. I also didn’t have to wear a suit at all if I didn’t want to. Except if I didn’t, I knew that some Junior Trader or another would feel the need to correct me, thereby requiring me to explain the situation and I had neither the time nor patience.
It was tempting. My lunch break was short, and the walk was long, but I just couldn’t see trying to get my car out. Thank goodness I always kept a pair of sneakers in my briefcase for just such occasions.
“Lookin’ good,�
� Amy said, as I sat at our table.
“Seriously?”
“Sure, Victorian by way of hipster. I like.”
“You’re the tastemaker,” I said, surrendering to her superior knowledge.
Amy Apab was my most favorite person who wasn’t blood related to me. How exactly we first met was a matter of some conjecture. We were both too young to remember clearly and only had legend to go on.
According to those who were there, I was sad in kindergarten one day, heaven knew why, I’d probably seen an ant get stepped on, and Amy drew a picture to make me laugh.
She wasn’t always Amy Apab, but her self-adopted surname, an initialism for “All Politicians Are Bastards,” fit so well and had been around so long that it was all I could think of her as.
“Did you bring them?” Amy asked, leaning in and lowering her voice like a super spy.
“Of course,” I said, gently laying the portfolio on her lap under the table.
I doubted that the Smith & Smyth non-competition clause extended to illustrating covers of indie magazines, but you could never be too careful. Breaking non-competition was one of the few violations that could get me terminated, my assistance to the bottom line notwithstanding.
“Fuck,” Amy whispered, filling through the pages.
“Fuck good or fuck bad?” I inquired.
“Fuck excellent,” Amy grinned.
“Not recently,” I said.
“Naughty,” Amy admonished playfully.
“What can I say? You bring it out of me?”
It seemed like something from a comedy. Investment analyst by day, underground illustrator on the sly, trying to raise a kid alone in the big city. I would have to try and outline a draft script. It could be animated to keep costs down.
“It could work,” Amy said.