EROTICA: 10 GROUP MMF FIRST TIME TABOO BRAT SEX STORIES (MEGA COLLECTION BUNDLE: Man of the House, MFF, MMF, Alpha Men Gang, Menage Romance — BONUS FREE BOOK: Stepbrother Forbidden Romance)

by Sophia Taboo

  I thrust back, using my thighs to accentuate his movements, getting the most friction out of every move. My head was spinning and I could feel my mouth and my pussy watering. I was panting with high-pitched squeals and he was moaning, preparing to cum in me, shaking with pre-orgasmic delight.

  “Cum inside me, baby,” I said, my voice either barely audible or a scream.

  “Oh, yes,” he groaned.

  “Cum in me!” I moaned back. “Do it, baby. Do it to me, do it to me!” My breathing was out of control, the panting was making me so dizzy I could barely see; every muscle in both of our bodies tightened at the same time as we spasmed together, cumming in unison. His hot semen shot into me so hard I could feel it hit the walls of my uterus and bounce. It was incredible. We’d been making love for years, but this… this was something else. We lay there, sweat soaking into our wedding attire, the bed sheets falling off around us, in pure ecstasy. And as far as I can actively remember, that’s how it was for the next six days.

  Chapter 2

  The years rolled on and as Timothy was well into high school, we decided that things were stable enough now that we wanted to try having a child of our own. We’d been fairly careful up until that point (except for that first week, of course), but we figured it was time to bring a child into the world who would be half him and half me.

  The first few months were disheartening, but expected. After all, most of our friends who had kids had tried for months, even years in some cases, before getting pregnant, so we weren’t worried yet. But slowly, devastatingly, the couple of months became six months, and those six months became a year. And suddenly, we had been trying for two years and were still having no success. I talked with a few of my girlfriends and they were, of course, full of concern and advice.

  “Oh my God, Susan, what if you can’t get pregnant?”

  “Don’t say that to her, Carol!”

  “What? What if she can’t?”

  “Well I know ‘what if she can’t’ but you don’t say that!”

  “Well someone has to say it, Mindy.”

  “Let it be a doctor, then, for shit’s sake!”

  “I think it should come from a friend. And that’s exactly what we are, Susan. We’re your friends. And we want the best for you.”

  “I know that,” I said weakly.

  “And no matter what we will support whatever decision you choose to make,” Carol continued.

  “Thank you,” I said, choking back rage and tears.

  “Shit, Carol,” Mindy said, “You have absolutely no tact at all, do you?”

  “I have plenty of tact!”

  “You wouldn’t know tact if it walked over and punched you in the nose.”

  This went on for some time. Minutes? Days? A decade? I don’t remember. Eventually, though, I realized that I really should talk to my doctor and find out if there was something wrong with me. Weirdly enough, I hoped there was something wrong with me. Robert wasn’t the easiest man to correct when he was wrong, and he certainly didn’t take it well when he actually did something wrong. Not that being unable to have kids means he’d done something wrong, but I knew, I just knew, that’s how he’d take it.

  So I talked to my doctor. He arranged a time for me to come in to have my eggs checked, and everything else. It was horrifying. I was living in constant terror until I found out the results. Not only because I couldn’t tell if I wanted to be fertile or to be pointedly not fertile, but also because I hadn’t told Robert anything about the tests, or that I’d even had them. For some reason, I wanted to wait to tell him until I knew for certain whether or not our lack of success was my fault.

  Finally, I got a call asking me to make an appointment for my earliest available time to come in and discuss the results of my tests. I was there the next morning at 7:00 AM.

  “Well, Mrs. Killian,” my doctor said neutrally (how do they do that, by the way? That complete lack of emotion, the way they give nothing away like that!), “I have the results of your tests right here.”

  Then just hurry up and fucking say it, already, I thought to myself

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Mrs. Killian, I’m pleased to inform you that your eggs are quite healthy and you are, if anything, exceptionally fertile.”

  My world crumbled. I should have been thrilled, I should have been overjoyed, but I knew the kind of conversation this would lead to with Robert.

  “Okay, so what now?” I asked.

  “Well, next,” my doctor offered, “you can have your husband make an appointment with me and we can run the tests on him to determine his fertility. It may turn out that your not getting pregnant has all been a fluke, but I have to say, I find it highly likely that, given your level of fertility, there may be something at work here that is related to your husband’s sperm. I can’t, of course, say anything for certain until I run the tests, but that would be my guess at this point.”

  “Okay,” I said, already thinking through each version of the conversation I would likely be having later that evening.

  “So you’ll have your husband call me, right?” the doctor asked. It looked like he’d dropped that neutral mask of his ever so slightly to imply that he didn’t trust me to talk about this with my husband.

  “Yes,” I said firmly, finally giving him my full attention. “You’ll hear from him very soon.”

  “Wonderful. Well take care, Mrs. Killian,” he said, and with that, he flourished out of the room and off to see the next broken person on his list.

  The entire drive home I was nearly in tears. I tried to come up with the best way to broach the subject, but I couldn’t think of anything that made sense. Maybe I should have made his favorite dinner, maybe I should have let him have a few beers first, I don’t know what I should have done that could have made it easier, but the conversation went terribly. We were in the middle of our Hamburger Helper dinner and Timothy was over at a friend’s house for the night. Without any warning I just blurted out,

  “I had Dr. Lucas run some tests on me, and I’m exceptionally fertile.”

  Why the hell did I just say that? I thought, reproaching myself immediately.

  “I’m sorry,” Robert said through a half-chewed bite of pasta.

  “No, I’m, shit, I’m sorry,” I stammered, trying to recover and start over.

  “Did you say ‘exceptionally fertile?’” he asked.

  “I did, yes,” I said, “but what I meant –“

  “Why would you say it like that?” he asked.

  “I didn’t mean to imply –“

  “Well what, exactly, did you mean to imply?” he said, standing up and beginning to pace, that old obstinacy coming out in full force, no thanks, I was sure, to my awkward tactlessness.

  “Can I start that over?” I asked.

  “Start… what?” he looked at me as though he’d never seen me before in his life. “What the hell is going on?” he nearly shouted.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m very nervous about this conversation and I didn’t know how to start.”

  “Well if you’re saying what I think you’re saying,” he said, staring at me, “that wasn’t it!”

  “I know,” I said. “Can I start again?” I genuinely asked. He took a deep breath, looked around the room at I don’t know what, exhaled, blinked a few times, sat down, moved his plate to the side, folded his hands in front of him, looked at me and said,

  “Fine.”

  “I went to the doctor,” I began, “because I wanted to find out if we weren’t getting pregnant because there was maybe something wrong with my eggs. So he ran some tests last week, and I got the results today. The exact wording he used was ‘your eggs are quite healthy and you are, if anything, exceptionally fertile.’ That’s why I said it that way, but I didn’t mean anything more by it than that.”

  “Okay,” he said skeptically, trying to lead me to what this all meant.

  “So,” I continued, “Dr. Lucas recommended that you call him tomorrow
to make an appointment to take a fertility test as well so we can have all of the information in front of us before we decide how to proceed with trying to get pregnant.”

  “So it’s all my fault, is what you’re saying?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “No,” I exclaimed. “Not at all! I’m just saying that we should both be tested so we know one way or the other.” He didn’t look convinced. “Robert,” I continued, “I want to have your baby. I want to grow a little bit of you inside me, and give birth to it, and name it, and love it, and raise it together. But, sweetie, it’s been two years and we haven’t even gotten close. I just want to know if there’s something more we can do.”

  He looked at me for what felt like a thousand years, took a deep breath, and said, “Fine.”

  I waited for more of an answer, but I knew deep down I wasn’t going to get one.

  “So you’ll call tomorrow?” I hazarded.

  “I said I would,” he snapped. He stood up, took his plate to the sink, washed it far too thoroughly, and went upstairs without another word. I sat there alone for a while before cleaning up the rest of the dishes and watching television until I fell asleep on the couch.

  Chapter 3

  Stubborn though he is, Robert has always been a man of his word, and the next morning, first thing, I heard him on the phone with Dr. Lucas asking to come in for a fertility test. The next day, we went in together. His results would be ready within a couple of hours, so we waited together. It was torture; sitting in that waiting room flipping through Readers Digests and National Geographic’s without a word from either of us. Finally, a nurse came out and asked us both back into an exam room.

  “Alright,” she said, practicing her neutral face for the day she, too, would be a doctor. “I have your results right here.” She wasn’t as good at is as Dr. Lucas. I could already tell that something wasn’t right.

  “Okay,” Robert said, tonelessly.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Killian, I am sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Killian, your sperm don’t seem to respond to the normal stimuli that would indicate fertility. I’m afraid that it is extremely unlikely that you will be able to achieve a natural pregnancy.”

  Robert stared at this girl for some time, then stood up and said, “Thank you,” then walked out the door. I rushed through a few questions before chasing him down to the elevators.

  “What are our next steps?”

  “Well,” she started slowly.

  “Quickly, please,” I urged her.

  “Oh, uh,” she stammered, “Well in-vitro fertilization is an option. If the two of you could find a willing donor your eggs are quite healthy so that is very viable.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Aside from IVF? I don’t think so, no. I’m sorry, Mrs. Killian. Your husband’s sperm just won’t get you pregnant.”

  “Right,” I said and ran out the door. I paused, poked my head back in and said, “Thank you,” and then ran to catch up with Robert. I caught him just as he was getting in the elevator to head back downstairs.

  “Robert,” I said, “we still have options. This isn’t the end of the world.”

  “My sperm work fine,” he said sternly.

  “Okay,” I allowed, “and we have options that could get us the child we have been hoping for.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we do. We keep trying until it works.”

  “Okay,” I allowed again, “but we also have the option of in-vitro fertilization.” “What a donor?” he scoffed. “Some other guy’s sperm? No.”

  “It’s been two years, honey,” I began.

  “And it may take two more,” he spat. “Or four, or ten! I don’t care – we’re doing this the natural way. My sperm. Your egg. Our baby. Not someone else’s.”

  “Robert, I think that we should at least talk about it.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” he snapped. “We’ll keep trying and that’s that.”

  That old stubbornness. It used to be so sexy. But now, I knew that there was no way to change his mind. He’d settled that the doctors were wrong and that he was right. I was at a loss. I knew now, empirically, that I was fertile and my husband was not. I could get pregnant in a heartbeat with fertile sperm, but he was so dead-set now on a “natural pregnancy” that there was no way I could convince him to get a donor. I mean, I would have to sneak around him to get the IVF done, and the donor would have had to be his twin. The guy would have to be identical to Robert, so alike that he’d never be able to tell that I’d tricked him. I mean he’d need to basically be Robert’s clone!

  Then it hit me like a brick to the face.

  Timothy.

  Chapter 4

  The next day, thank God, Robert worked late at the shop. I waited for Timothy to get home from school, more nervous than I’d ever been. He was a senior now, and had been driving himself to and from school and rugby practice for the last two years. College was on the horizon and he’d already been drafted by Notre Dame. With summer fast approaching and his imminent departure soon to follow, I knew that this was the time to bring up the question so he’d still have some weeks to think it over before deciding. I didn’t want him to feel pressured, but I was stuck between a rock and a stubborn-ass husband.

  The lock clicked as his key turned in it and there he stood in the doorway, the mirror image of his father only eighteen-years-old and covered in mud and sweat-salt from practice. Robert would be home in a couple of hours, so it was now or never.

  “Hi, Timothy. How was practice?” I asked as convivially as I could.

  “Sucked,” he grunted. “Coach wouldn’t put me in hardly at all. Said it was time some of the other guys got a chance to play, which is bullshit-“

  “Language.”

  “Sorry, which is… ‘BS’ because if they deserved to get more play time then they need to put in more effort in practice!” He was obviously not in a great mood; not the normal post-practice glow of a future college all-star.

  “Well, soon enough you’ll be playing with the big boys and this will be a long-ago memory,” I said, trying to smooth things over and fluff his ego a little to butter him up.

  “I guess,” he said, dropping his bag in the hallway and forging forward into the kitchen to feed.

  “So, Timothy,” I began, “I have something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Can it wait until after I eat?” He asked, digging a loaf of bread, peanut butter, and a pan of leftover chicken out of the fridge.

  “We can talk while you put your food together,” I said.

  “Okay…” he grumbled, tearing open the bread bag.

  “Your father and I,” I started, realizing too late how many directions that into could go and deciding to force the conversation forward as quickly and efficiently as possible to cover my bases.

  “Your father and I have been trying to get pregnant for some time now,” I stated.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know. I’m not deaf.”

  I was slightly taken aback, but I marched on.

  “Right. Well, we’ve been trying for a couple of years now, and we’ve been unsuccessful up until now. We had some tests done –“

  “Are you sure you want to be telling me all this?” he asked, a look of worried disgust on his face.

  “Absolutely, just, please, let me finish. We had some tests run and it turns out that, with the combination of the two of us, we aren’t going to be able to get pregnant.”

  I took a breath and it seemed like the entire world paused with me, everything hanging in stasis like that moment before a sneeze or just before your car slams into a telephone pole.

  “It’s not hopeless, though,” I continued. “We do have the option of in-vitro fertilization.” I let this hang in the air for a moment to gauge his response. He was giving me nothing. Like father like son, I guess. “However, your father is not in favor of that route. He’d much prefer we continue to try the ‘natural approach.’”

  I could see his face twist with discomfort
at the thought of his father and stepmother going at it night after night. But Robert would be home any time now and I had to put this question on the table before he arrived.

  “Unfortunately, there is no way that the ‘natural approach’ will work. So, I’d like to go forward with IVF, but it has to be kept a secret from your father, and it has to be from a donor who looks enough like your father that he’ll never know the difference.”

  I could see in his eyes he was starting to see where this was going, but he wasn’t ready to let himself believe that I was about to ask what I was about to ask.

  “I’m not trying to trick him,” I assured his son, “but I want to give him a child, I just can’t succeed unless I have a donor. And more specifically, a donor who looks just like him.” I took a deep breath, steadied my voice, and said,

  “You.”

  His face fell a thousand miles and his jaw hit the floor with a deafening thud. He stood there, staring at me like I’d asked him to kill the Pope. His mouth gaped and bounced up and down like a fish out of its bowl gasping for air.

  “Are you actually asking me…” he trailed off, hoping that I would finish his thought for him and deny what he now knew I was asking of him. I said nothing.

  “Are you asking me to donate my, my, my… my…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. I helped him out.

  “Sperm,” I said. “Yes. That is exactly what I’m asking.” He stared. I continued, “It would be very objective,” I assured him. “You go to the doctor’s office one day. I go the next. And nine months later, you have a little brother or sister. There’s no genetic problems or overlap, so it’s very safe for the baby, and this way, your father and I get the new child we’ve been trying for, but he’ll never know that this is how it happened. He’ll absolutely believe it’s his, because it’ll look just like him.

  He slammed down his peanut butter and chicken sandwich and paced the kitchen.

  “Oh man,” he exclaimed. “Are you kidding me? I can’t do that to my dad! With you? You’re, I mean, you’re like my mom!” He was in a panic. Something else was going on here but I couldn’t tell what it was. “You’re asking me to lie to him, to trick him with this? No way!”