by S. C. Adams
I can’t believe how amazing he is being about the pregnancy. I’m still so confused about it all, unsure of what I really want and second-guessing each decision I make regarding it. Yet, here he is, seemingly ready for this baby already. He is so relaxed about it that it makes me jealous. Of course, he isn’t going to have to carry a growing fetus in his body for almost a year, so it makes sense to not be as stressed, but I feel sure the fear will kick in and take over. I can’t believe he is being so mature about everything.
I also can’t believe how he isn’t being a “guy” about sex. After how good it has been for us, I felt sure he was going to encourage some post-date intercourse. I believe him when he says he is fine with us abstaining. I don’t think he is plotting or trying to use reverse psychology. He is too sincere and clever to be that simple.
I don’t want to abstain from him at all, however. I want him to ravish me and take me to that special place. When we get back to his beautiful, secluded house in the trees, I intend to show him just how much I crave him.
We first sit on his couch in the living room as a preamble. He makes us some drinks, mine a lemonade, and we sip on them quickly. We are touching each other all over. I am rubbing his shoulders, neck, and the growing bulge in his lap. Meanwhile, he is caressing my naked back, lightly massaging it, while his other hand travels slowly up my dress.
By the time I’ve finished my drink, I am wet for him. His fingers are approaching my cunt, ready to wear me out.
“Did I tell you about when I found out I was pregnant?” I ask playfully. “The day I took my test—that morning, I’d woken up from a pretty intense sex dream you were starring in.”
“Oh, really?”
“Oh, yes. You were transcendent. I woke up feeling like we’d just made some of the hottest love imaginable. We were so goddamn good even in my dreams.”
“I believe that,” he says, grazing his skilled fingers up along my wet folds.
“So,” I whisper, pulling his hand out from under my dress, only letting him get a subtle touch. “I had to masturbate. Sometimes, my hand is all I need, but other times, I like to feel as much pleasure as my body will allow. So, sometimes I use toys. Are you familiar with sex toys at all, Mason?”
“Somewhat,” he answers. “I’ve only used them on a girl a handful of times. How often do you masturbate?”
“At least once a day, sometimes more,” I say. “I’ve gotten to know my body very well over my life. I like using toys because you can get that nice focus—feeling a vibrator on my clit while I insert my fingers up into my pussy.”
He is growing harder the more I talk. I am curious to know how hard he’ll become in a minute as I continue.
“How often do you stroke that fat cock, baby?” I ask.
“Depends on the day,” he replies. “You’ll have to show me your toys next time I’m at your place. I’d like to see them in action.”
I giggle, ecstatic to hear him say that. I rummage around in my purse, and I pull out one of my favorite toys. It is something small, easily transportable, and usually gives me a quick, enjoyable orgasm. He has a mischievous look on his face upon seeing me with the toy.
I put the toy in my mouth, sucking on it hard and getting it nice and wet for what I am about to do with it. I take it out, running it along my tongue suggestively before running it down my chest and burrowing it in my cleavage.
“I always carry one with me,” I tell him. “May I use it for you?”
Without saying a word and with barely even a nod, we are up off of the couch and heading to his bedroom. He grabs me by the hand and escorts me to the bed.
“I want to watch you with that thing now,” he says. “I’ll bet you look so hot. I want to watch you come, beautiful.”
And I want to come for him. I feel so sexy whenever I am around him. I’m not sure what method I will use, but I know we are going to have fun.
I start to strip off my dress, but to my surprise, he stops me.
“Could you actually leave the dress on?” he asks.
More than willing to please, I oblige him, sticking out my tongue at him. I lay back on his bed, spreading my legs slowly, preparing for my friend. I slide my panties off down my legs. I kick them off, and they land next to him.
I start playing with myself. First, I rub my wet clit with my fingers, tenderizing it for the pounding it’s about to receive tonight, not just from me. I play with my breasts as I tend to my clit, imagining him pinching them with his powerful hands.
Then, I turn on the toy, focusing it on my clit while I bury my fingers as deep inside of me as I can get them. I am moaning under my breath, breathing frantically and loving every second of it. My eyes are closed during most of my masturbation, but occasionally, my eyes will open just enough to look at the fine man I have in bed with me. I can tell he is really into it, too.
It doesn’t take long before he is removing my dress for me, trying to get me naked as soon as possible. I have a feeling he is moving fast because he’s afraid he might explode in his pants. He loves watching me with my hand up my dress, and too much of a good thing might result in a rushed production.
Once I am fully naked, I expect him to start manhandling me, but he maintains a short distance from me. He is sitting on the edge of the bed with his hand down his pants and his eyes locked intently on me as we both masturbate. I know he has to be having it rougher with how he insists on keeping his pants on.
His pants don’t stay on for long. Through the buzzing of my toy and our collective moans, I scream in carnal bliss as I come hard. It coats my fingers and sends my body into mad convulsions. Seeing me finish in such an animated way is what it takes to put him in overdrive.
He puts my toy on the nightstand. He hovers over me, watching me try to catch my breath.
He takes his pants and boxers off, but like me, he keeps a layer on, his shirt. He grabs my ankles and drags me across the mattress, pulling me to the edge of the bed. He spreads my legs apart, and he then eases his thick dick inside of me, drawing out a large breath of satisfaction from me.
“Fuck, I never get used to how big you are,” is my moan. “I can’t take it.”
He stays in for only a few seconds before pulling all the way back out.
“You’ll take it, sweetheart,” he groans. “Damn you’re so fucking tiny.”
He tortures me yet again, rubbing his glistening tip all over my pussy, teasing and painting my lap with his pre-cum. Sometimes, when he is close to my opening during the torture, he will shove his cock back up into me for a brief few seconds to jest, and then pull out to drive me crazy. He continues teasing me, watching me melt under the power of him simply rubbing his cock against my clit. I think if I didn’t stop him, he might keep it up all night.
“Please!” I shout. “What are you doing to me?”
“Should I stop?” he asks.
“You should be putting your cock inside of me, mister!” I grunt.
“You did say please.”
“You like hearing me beg, don’t you?”
“I do,” he confirms. “I like knowing how much you like it.”
“I need it,” I whine. “Give it back to me.”
“How bad do you want it?”
“So bad, baby.”
“What do you want?”
“Please fuck my pussy hard with your beautiful cock,” I beg. “Please stop torturing me. I want to feel you cum deep inside of me.”
He shoves it back in, fucking me so hard that I can feel the entire bed shake under our fit of passion. I am still not accustomed to having it this good. My body feels incredible everywhere as the intensity mounts in my pussy.
I manage to finish again while he rides me at the edge of the bed. He knows I’ve climaxed, and he isn’t going to give me any time to recover before the next one.
He pulls out and gets on the bed. He tosses his shirt off, now fully naked like me. He keeps flexing his muscles, clearly trying to look as strong as he possibly could. He lay
down where I’ve laid before him, and he holds onto his cock, keeping it steady, hard and up.
Since he is temporarily relinquishing control, I decide to give him something he isn’t expecting. I get on top of him, and I turn my back to him, facing the other way. I grind my ass onto his firm dick, making him laugh from the ecstasy. He spanks my ass hard, grabbing hold of each cheek as I tease his rod.
Then, I slide down his shaft and begin to ride him reverse cowgirl. We are both moaning like crazy, and we both love the ride. I don’t know it at the time, but he is experiencing his first reverse cowgirl position. Others have told me I am quite good, and that appears to still be true, based on the look on his face and how many times he spanks me as I sway. He keeps at least one hand on my ass, and I keep both of my hands down on his legs for balance. He pulls my hair, tugging especially hard when I am going at a speed that he particularly wants.
I’m not even sure when exactly it happens for me, but I know when it happens for him. He grabs onto my ass, squeezes harder than I’ve ever felt him squeeze, and he thrusts upward into me, poking my center aggressively and sending forth a burst of his hot cream. When we have both orgasmed, we remain attached for some time—I have slumped over with my head on his knees, exhausted; and his hands remain clasped to my ass, massaging it and admiring it.
Once we find the strength to disconnect, I roll over and stay splayed on top of the covers. Just as we pass out together, I can feel him affectionately rubbing my back. I can’t wait to see what happens in his bed next.
30
Mason
I wake up with my arms around Jillian, unable to remember when exactly during the night I started holding her. She is still sound asleep, with her blond hair covering much of her pretty face. I wonder if she is dreaming, and if so, what about? I love the way the early morning sunlight hits her sweet, smooth skin. I love how easily she fits in my arms and how it doesn’t feel strange. I don’t even like cuddling, but for some reason, I really enjoy cuddling her. It feels right holding her close.
I could get used to this, I think to myself.
Instantly, I realize what an odd thought that is. It’s already odd to me how I’m still not freaking out about the pregnancy; to feel such romance for Jillian feels bizarre to me. It scares me, even. I’ve never thought that way that fast about any girl. Even Brittany, who I thought I would end up marrying, took some time before I had thoughts like that. I become even more scared when I realize that if my brain is telling me things like that, my heart will surely terrify me if I listen to it.
I’m not really sure what to do about it. She is pregnant. I do know that. As I run my hands down to her belly, I can’t help but wonder what the baby looks like. I know that early, it will obviously not even look like a human baby, but I want to watch my seed grow. I wonder what gender the baby is, and what she—we, if I am lucky—will name it if she chooses to raise the baby herself.
Those questions and more run through my head all day. To start the day, I decide to make us breakfast. I have eggs that are going to expire soon, so I decide to use them all up and make splendid omelets. I get out an assortment of fresh fruits for her to choose from, and I warm up some biscuits to go with it. I am hungry after a night of intense lovemaking. I feel bad not having coffee to offer since I don’t drink it, but I assume she will be fine with juice.
Everything is nearly finished when I finally hear movement coming from the bedroom. I don’t want to rush her, but I don’t want her to miss out on hot, fresh food. I consider calling out to her, but I decide to wait and see if she emerges on her own.
It has taken longer than I expect, and I’ve gone ahead without her, but she did eventually appear in the kitchen ready to eat. She is wearing my shirt and no pants.
“Morning,” she says. “Aww, did you make me breakfast?”
“I did, and I didn’t mean to start without you, but I am starving!”
“That’s okay!” she assures me, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. “I’m gonna have me two of those biscuits.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the food and savoring the flavors. I am also savoring the image of her wearing one of my shirts with nothing else.
“So, I am talking to some of my friends who’ve had kids,” Jillian begins. “They’re also a little bigger than the average woman. I am reading up on this too and found out I might not show for at least six months.”
“Well, that’s good!” I say. “You won’t have to immediately run out and buy a bunch of new clothes that’ll fit.”
“And I might be able to get away with hiding the pregnancy for a while, after all,” she reasons. “I won’t get fired or have to quit. By the time I start showing, I’ll have worked for six months and saved up, so I should be good.”
After I clean off my plate, I look over at her and watch her dabbling with her food, slowing down before her omelet is gone with plenty of uneaten fruit sitting there waiting to be consumed.
“How are you feeling this morning?” I ask.
“I’m okay. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering. And you haven’t eaten much since you sat down. I thought maybe you weren’t feeling great and might not have an appetite.”
“Well, I don’t have an appetite to tell you the truth,” she confirms. “The food is terrific. I’m just having a hard time keeping anything down at the moment.”
“How so?”
“I’ve been pretty sick lately,” she says. “It’s not really morning sickness, but it’s definitely in the same family. Eh, maybe it is morning sickness, I don’t know. Maybe I’m in denial about it. I don’t want fucking morning sickness.”
“What can I do for you to make it not as bad?” I ask, hoping to help.
“There isn’t much to do really,” she says. “There’s nothing really you can do. I appreciate you looking out for me. But right now, as long as you have a toilet and garbage cans nearby, that’s all the help I need. Thanks, Mason.”
“Surely, there’s home remedies and stuff we could do to help make your morning sickness not suck so bad,” I say. “There’s got to be something we can do.”
“I’m sure there are things online that give ideas,” she says. “I am thinking of looking for these things Emma was telling me about the other day. There are apparently these suckers—like candy kind of things—you suck on them and eat them, and supposedly, they help take the edge off morning sickness. I want to look into them and test them out to see how they do.”
“Where do they sell something like that? I’ve never even heard of that—suckers that help with morning sickness? Suckers? Like what you get at the doctor’s office?”
“Yeah, a sucker—a lollypop. They don’t taste good like lollypops, but I’m willing to take whatever works.”
“Definitely,” I agree. “Do you want to try and get those today? Is there anything you need to do today? Or want to do?”
“There are a couple of things I need to do back in town,” she says. “They can wait. I’m not in a hurry.”
“Well, you can stay here as long as you want,” I tell her. “I’m not in a hurry, either.”
She bites her lip, continuing to play with her food. “So, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“How’ve you been feeling about everything?” she asks. “This is all a lot to take in and live with. I am wondering where you were lately.”
I want to give her a thought out, concise answer, but I have been all over the place emotionally and mentally since she gave me the news.
“You can be honest,” she says, reading my apprehension to answer her. “We barely know each other. If you resent me, or if you’re thinking of changing your name and moving, you can tell me. I won’t be upset, offended, or hurt. I want your honest answer, no matter what it is.”
I had fallen for the trap women often set before—the one where they say you won’t get in trouble as long as you tell them the truth; parents use similar tactics with their chil
dren, too. I want to give her the whole truth, but that is hard to do when the truth is hard to discern in the first place. So, I speak from my heart.
“When you first told me that you were pregnant, I was shocked. I didn’t expect to get anyone pregnant for a long time—if ever. It’s all still a lot to absorb, but I’m good. I think I’m past the panicking and existential crisis. Now, I think I’m at the point where I’m ready and able to do whatever I have to for you and this baby.”
She is certainly not expecting that answer. I get up, pick up our plates, and begin cleaning up the kitchen.
“Although,” I tell her, “I have to admit, this whole thing is a mindfuck.”
“Tell me about it.” She laughs.
“So, when are we heading back to L.A.?” I ask her.
She looks at me guiltily. “I hate having you drive all that way four times in a day. We don’t have to go to L.A. right now.”
“I want to get you those suckers,” I say. “Besides, I love L.A. I know where everything is, so it’s good that I’d be coming down with you anyway.”
“Okay,” she says, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re going to be with me. Thanks, Mason.”
“You’re quite welcome, happy to take you,” I say. “Besides, I can write off all this gas I’m using on my taxes. I’m taking you shopping and making money.”
31
Jillian
Mason is unable to drive us as quickly down the interstate as he had the night before because the traffic is brutal, even for L.A. I mostly look down at my phone, but our minds are connected and sharing the same wavelength. I wonder what else he is going to do to show me more of how he isn’t a typical man.
During the drive, I decide that the first thing I am going to do after I get back is get my nails done. I am looking at my fingernails and toenails in boredom during the shitty traffic, and I keep noticing the same cracks and imperfections over and over. I want to do something about them as soon as possible. It is important to my image as a model. When I tell him how I am planning to do that, he says he will go with me. I tell him he can just drop me at the salon and go back to his house or do something else in L.A., but he chooses to go with me. I am more surprised that he decides to go watch me get my nails done than I am at his calm demeanor in the face of impending fatherhood.