by Alexis Angel
As for the smell of wet cunt on her when she came over to shake my hand…
For my own sake, I’m telling myself I imagined that.
I feel like I ought to apologize, even though it was just one hell of an erotic coincidence. But as it turns out, Hallmark doesn’t sell cards that say, Sorry for accidentally seeing your tits.
I gave her my lab coat, which seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do.
And now I’m folding her laundry, which I’m hoping makes up for the rest.
I used to be such a fucking playboy in my youth. I think that’s why I enrolled in med school in the first place, truth be told. I fancied myself Doctor Playboy, thank you very much.
Figured that I would have sexy nurses and adoring patients swooning over me left and right while I played the hero and saved a shitload of lives.
It’s funny how shit changes as you get older. Wiser. Less fucking cocky and more in tune with the responsibilities of the life your younger, dumber self chose for you.
I wouldn’t change it for the world, of course…
Even though I’ll always regret never becoming a dad.
It’s a reality that hits me twice as hard as I finish folding the last of Laundry Room Aphrodite’s La Perlas…
And unearth what has to be a pair of maternity pants.
Christ. Either Dryer Sheet Venus is one yummy mummy…or some lucky bastard has knocked her up already.
Of course, her body doesn’t look like she’s ever had a kid, and it’s not like she’s started to show.
But it would explain why her tits were so full and big and fucking brilliant.
And why her skin had that insane fucking glow.
The rest of her clothes are the furthest thing from maternity-wear, so I’m willing to entertain the idea that these could belong to a friend…
But a woman like that is probably spoken for already, and if her boyfriend or husband or whoever the fuck has knocked her up, I can’t even blame the guy.
If she were mine, I’d put a baby in her the minute she even entertained the idea.
Which is a pretty fucked up thing to think about a woman I only just met an hour ago.
I guess there’s just no denying it, though. The heart wants what the heart wants—and my heart wants to be a dad, even though in my head I know it’s a complete no-go.
And what my dick wants…
I fold the maternity pants up and place them in her laundry basket.
What my dick wants is irrelevant right now. I ought to thank her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck for the privilege of seeing her like that at all.
And then I ought to stay the fuck away from her—because if I let myself fantasize any harder about this Botticelli hottie, I won’t have any other choice but to steal her away from the poor schmuck.
Still, there’s no denying it…she’s going to be a hot mom.
And she’ll be needing a maternity doctor.
I figure that’s the final step of my apology. I pull out my prescription pad and scrawl her a quick note:
Sabrina—
Sorry for the laundry mishap earlier. If you need recommendations for a good doctor, feel free to drop by.
—Rainier, Apt. 21A
If I knew where to take the laundry, I’d bring it to her doorstep…but maybe that’s for the best.
Because then I wouldn’t just be tempted to talk to her again.
Then, I’d want to steal her away in the fucking night.
Her husband or boyfriend or whoever the fuck probably doesn’t deserve her anyway.
Christ.
I grab my own basket of clean clothes and head back up to my place.
But while the clothes might be clean…there are nothing but dirty thoughts about that gorgeous blonde goddess in my mind.
Sabrina
I’ve got the maternity pants in one hand and Rainier’s note in the other, a blush on my cheeks and a swear on my lips.
“FUCK.” I crumble the note up and shove it in my pocket. “Fuck, fucking fuck fuck fuckity…fuck.”
Which sums this situation up pretty fucking perfectly, if you ask me.
Look, I’m super not pregnant, okay? I’m like, the total opposite of pregnant. If I wasn’t late for work already, I’d head up to 21A and bang down the door to tell him so myself.
I’m like, the opposite of pregnant.
I could be the poster girl for not fucking pregnant.
But now that he’s folded my fucking maternity pants—not to mention my entire collection of La Perlas—fat fucking chance that he’ll believe that.
I know how it looks. Like, why the hell would a very-not-pregnant woman my age be rocking around with a pair of maternity pants in her dirty laundry, right?
Never mind that I only wear them when I’m on my period and totally bloated and need them to hold a hot water bottle in while I sit at my desk all night.
Try explaining that to a dude, and you’d hear fucking crickets, man.
Which is exactly what I would hear from Paging-Doctor-Hottie…if I even had the time.
Which I don’t.
“Fuck!” I yell again as I toss the laundry basket onto my bed.
I dig around in it for a clean shirt, pull it on and race out the door.
By the time I get to the station, I’m still wondering why the fuck I even care what Rainier thinks about the current status of my uterus.
He’s a dude who saw me naked in the laundry room last night.
…A really hot dude.
With a body that I kind of want to put my tongue all over.
Okay. So by the time I pull my headphones on, I know exactly why I care: I want to ride Dr. Rainier McDreamboat’s dick until we both pass out from sheer fucking ecstasy, which isn’t going to happen now unless he’s one of those guys.
Considering that his note said he wanted to recommend me a maternity doctor, not stick his dick in me where the sun don’t shine, I would guess that’s not the case.
“Sinful Selections, you’re on the air,” I say into the mic as the last song fades out.
If I wasn’t a good fucking DJ, I would bitch about this to my listeners.
But since Dr. McDreamboat seems like the up-all-night type as well…fuck, with my luck he’s probably a listener to boot.
Instead, I just take the fucking call.
“Hey, Sabrina,” an attractive male voice says on the other end of the line. Not Dr. McDreamboat attractive, admittedly…but I bet he’s somebody’s type. “I’ve got a song request for you. A special one, actually.”
I laugh a little into the mic. “What’s your name, buddy? You sound a little nervous.”
He laughs back, which is a good sign. People get weird when they’re on the air sometimes—especially when the calls are coming in this late at night.
“Evan,” the caller tells me. “See, I’m here with this girl I’ve been seeing lately, and she thinks I’m too afraid to commit—so what I’m thinking is, maybe if I say it live on air to everyone in the Big Apple still awake at four in the morning, she might fucking believe me for once.”
“I’ve got your back, Evan. What’s the song?”
He tells me, and I set it up for him, keeping the volume on low so the listeners and I can hear what he has to say.
“Emilia…you’re the mouthiest fucking woman I’ve ever met. You drive me crazy. You’re so stubborn it makes me want to pull all my hair out and live the rest of my life as a bald man. And if I fuck you any fucking harder, one of these days we’re going to end up breaking my goddamn bed…
“But I love you, babe. I’m in love with you. And if you won’t be mine…I’m going to keep calling into every radio station in the city requesting this song so it haunts you for the rest of your fucking life.”
I’m seriously grinning like crazy right now. If this was any other radio station at any other time of the day, we would have had to bleep out like every third word this dude just said…
But as far as professions of lo
ve go, it’s a winner in my book.
“What do you say, Emilia?” I ask, leaning into the mic.
But the sounds that are coming from Evan’s end of the line now are…well, frankly they’re the kind that we do have to bleep.
“Horny little shits,” I laugh. “That sounds like a yes, folks.”
I turn the volume up and let the music play them out.
By the time my shift is over, the sun is coming up. I’m fumbling around for the keys to my door when I find Rainier’s note again.
Gah. This shouldn’t still be bothering me, dammit!
Except that it is. It totally is.
I shove it back into my pocket and head for the elevator.
If Evan and Emilia are getting their happily ever after…
Then dammit, I’m going to set this right.
Rainier
She was on my mind for my entire shift.
It’s strange how a single, simple memory of a hot naked blonde waiting for her clothes to finish drying got me through twelve grueling hours of work…but it did.
It got me through the emergency appendectomy that we caught just in time.
Through the careful extraction of three quarters that a sobbing four-year-old decided to stash up his nose.
Through the five minutes I spent wrestling a loaded pistol from the hands of a Wall Street fat cat who had put all his money on the wrong company, and through the hour I spent talking him down afterward before they could find a bed for him in the psych ward.
It even got me through the awkward explanations of a man who accidentally sat on a 12-inch vibrating dildo, accidentally getting it stuck up his ass.
Poor fucker vibrated the entire way to the ER, too.
So, yeah. I thought of Sabrina’s tits for twelve hours straight.
Even I can admit that it wasn’t healthy, but even I can’t deny that it helped me get through the day, either.
By the time I get home, all I want to do is start knocking on doors. The Bradford is a tall building with a lot of apartments to cover, but I figure if I do a few every night, eventually I’ll either find her or come to regret it.
But even if I did find her…I don’t know what the fuck I would even say.
Hey, Sabrina, congrats on your pregnancy. I knocked on every door of this building because I’m in love with your cunt. Wanna leave your husband for me and hop on my dick?
Not fucking likely.
Instead, I slump down on my couch and consider my options.
She still has my lab coat.
And she’s got my apartment number.
It’s something. And I’m grasping at straws here—so something actually means a lot.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I hear the knock on my door.
She’s wearing a pair of black jeans and a t-shirt with some obscure rock band’s name on it. I recognize them from the laundry I folded last night.
So I can’t help but wonder which La Perla she’s wearing beneath them. Red? Pink? Black?
God, I hope it’s black.
“Hey,” she says, biting her lower lip. “So, I just wanted to tell you that, like…so I know how it probably looks, but I’m super not pregnant.”
That should have hit me hard. After all, whatever little sliver of hope I might have had with this woman just got a lot fucking bigger.
But as soon as she says it, something else gets a lot fucking bigger, too.
And here’s the thing about erections: sometimes they can make a man say things that maybe he shouldn’t. Things that he maybe might come to regret.
So when Sabrina tells me she’s not pregnant, I pull the biggest dick move ever and I ask her…
“Would you like to be?”
I’m fucking kicking myself before the words are even done coming out of my mouth. But I’m straight off a twelve-hour shift. The sun is coming up, my cock is hard, and the woman of my dreams is standing on my doorstep, telling me the best news I’ve heard all fucking night.
To my surprise, she doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, she narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.
“How serious are you about that?”
My cock twitches.
“Very,” I say. Without thinking. Again.
But either Sabrina is some kind of karmic gift from a gracious god, or she’s not thinking either, because her next move is one that makes my dick throb and my heart skip a beat.
“Get your fucking clothes off, then,” she says.
She puts her hands on my chest and kicks the door shut behind her.
We spend the next few moments in a frenzy. She tears my shirt off of me, sending buttons flying all over my hardwood floors. I get her jeans undone and her shirt off over her head.
God help me.
The La Perlas are black.
At some point in our desperate scramble toward nudity, her lips meet mine.
It’s fucking fireworks.
No. It’s beyond fireworks.
It’s Disneyland, New Year’s Eve as the clock strikes midnight on the cusp of a new millennium. Mickey Mouse has just announced the end of world hunger, and Donald Duck has just brokered world peace.
“I need you,” she gasps against my lips.
Before she can ask me again, I’m on my knees. My lips move against her body, giving her a different kind of kiss altogether, and her little black La Perlas have been tossed with reckless abandon across my living room floor.
“Fuck!” she moans as I slip my tongue against her clit.
Not only is she wet—she’s fucking sweet.
Like honey. Like ambrosia. Like a fine fucking wine that ought to be savored…
But I can’t stop myself for long enough to slow down and enjoy the taste.
I need more of her.
Now.
I hook her calves over my shoulders and lift her against my mouth. The hours that I’ve managed to squeeze in at the gym pay off as I carry her to my bed like that: riding my face and smearing her juices all over my lips.
“You’re fucking ovulating,” I tell her, breathing heavy as I toss her into my bed. “You’re in heat—I can taste it.”
“Fucking good then,” she snarls, crawling across the mattress to me. “Put your baby in me!”
She’s on all fours, clawing at my belt in an instant. She wants my cock so bad, her fingers have forgotten how belts work. That only makes me harder. I have to push her back on the bed and watch her pout while I unbuckle it myself.
The button, though. And the zipper.
Those, she figures out for herself.
Her mouth on my cock feels desperate. Hungry. She laps my pre-cum up with an animalistic eagerness that makes me want to shoot my cum down her throat until she’s gagging on it.
Instead, I grab a fistful of bleach blonde hair and pull her lips away. My cock exits her mouth with a satisfying POP!
“That’s not gonna get you pregnant,” I growl with need.
She grins up at me, eyes hooded with that same need.
“No?” she asks, faux-innocent. “Then by all means, doctor—show me how it’s done.”
Sabrina
Personally, I blame hormones.
The same dangerous cocktail of chemicals that left me acting like a sobbing mess a week ago—and a heinous bitch the week before that—has now made me literally fucking insane.
Like, there’s some idiotic trigger-happy piece of grey matter deep within my lizard brain that’s overriding every rational thought I might have right now.
Every part of me that should be telling me that I’m crazy—that this is some truly ridiculous bullshit, and that sane women don’t go having babies with strange doctors who fold their laundry—those parts of me are apparently hanging out back with the rest of my freshly pleated La Perlas.
Because every part of me in Rainier’s bed right now is spread across his mattress and dripping onto his sheets while I look at him like a wild animal freshly uncaged.
“Fuck me! Fuck me pregnant like you
fucking mean it!” I yell at him, sitting up and leaning into him.
He doesn’t say anything back. He just takes a fistful of my hair in one hand and his cock in the other. And he smacks me across the fucking face with it.
A mix of my saliva and his precum smears across my cheek on impact.
He’s big enough and thick enough, and he hit me with his dick hard enough, that I’m knocked back onto the bed after his shaft connects with my cheekbone.
He puts his palm down on that little space in the center of my belly, just between my ribs, and holds me down while he moves between my thighs.
As for me? I’m just laying back, seeing hearts and stars.
A man like Rainier can smack me with his dick any day.
“Is this what you want, Sabrina?” The heel of Rainier’s hand massages the lowest of my ribs, then moves in a circle around my belly to show me where our child might grow if he succeeds. “You want me to put a baby right here?”
“What I want,” I tell him, wiggling my hips so my cunt can press up against his massive dick, “is for you to put your cock inside me—”
Expertly, I grind my pussy up his shaft. I’m so fucking wet that I slide right up—and when I slide back down, I’m impaling myself on his cock.
“Oh, fuck,” Rainier grunts as he feels his man meat enter me.
“That’s right,” I urge him. “Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me, cum inside me, get me pregnant, and then—”
He grabs me by the throat.
By the fucking throat!
His fingers hold it just tight enough that everything goes all soft and glowy. It makes my cunt feel like a bowl full of gummy bears that have just been nuked in the microwave: hot and gooey and sticky sweet.
“No.”
He uses his hold on my throat as leverage to thrust his cock really fucking deep inside me, like balls deep. As deep as a dick can go—and since he’s the biggest I’ve ever had (easily)—he’s totally going where no man has gone before.
Oh, yeah. It’s a full Neil Armstrong kind of fuck.
All I can do is whimper, pant, and try to keep my wits about me for long enough to milk his cock with my pussy.