Fat future mommy deep in her pregnancy

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Fat future mommy deep in her pregnancy. We had tried for months. But eventually, “it’s going to happen” became “will it ever happen?” and then “let’s talk to a doctor” and then, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but you will never have a child without medical help. I can point you to a clinic. They’re good”.

And here we are. Or at least, here I am today. It’s the day I “drop my sample off”. Which is fancy medical jargon for “I jerk off and hand the container off to a …” … well, to a beautiful lady with the mane of a lioness and the eyes of a tiger, it seems after all.

My wife couldn’t make it. I don’t know if she truly was “stuck at work, important meeting, I have seen it all, it’s not like they don’t have magazines for you, why do you need me there anyway?” or if she just isn’t quite ready to accept the reality, and is trying to escape it. But that’s a discussion for another day.

Oh well, “hi, Doug Durban, here to drop a sample”, I say as I smile at you and try to avoid feeling the awkwardness of the entire situation.

You’re warm, friendly, cordial. “Hi Doug. Name is Lara. I will be your assistant for the day. Here’s the container. Let me walk you to the room. Do you know how the process works?”

I do. A few Google searches made sure of that. I can’t help but catch myself thinking that your hand would be so much better than those lousy 90s videos they usually give you, with the sticky remote nobody ever cleans. But maybe I shouldn’t say that…

You continue, without skipping a beat. “Here’s the room. Feel free to take your time. We know this can be awkward sometimes. Here’s some magazines”, you say with a sly smile. “Here’s DVDs. And we just updated our system” you add gleefully, as if you were mentioning the new breakfast all day menu at a restaurant, “you can now connect to the Chromecast and show your own favorites on the screen. No shame, that little dongle has seen it all already”.

“Ah, if only these walls could talk” I try to blend in the generally cheerful mood of the occasion. Apparently having an infertile wife is a moment of celebration. After all, it keeps this place in business, doesn’t it?

“Well, can I grab you anything before you get started?” you add, your back already turned towards the door, ready to move on with your day. I could have said “I am good”, I could have asked for a cup of water. I could have said so many things. But for some reason I blurted out the truth. “Yes, you could put your hand right here”, I say, pointing at my crotch, as I begin to unbutton my pants.

You really thought you’d seen it all. But this? This was new. Everyone assumes everyone else hits on the ladies at the fertility clinic. And it’s not like people don’t. But most are at least a little sly about it. They pretend to be subtle. Plausible deniability and all that. But not like this. Not outright asking for it. You are taken aback. Speechless. This, this no amount of training prepared you for.

Your first instinct is to blush. To be mad. But something, some force deep inside of you, it overrides that. Some deeper programming takes over, if you will. You look at me. My cock hard and ready, veiny, erect. The door of the room shut, nobody opens these without knocking anyway. I am still fairly young, desirable, and a bit of a dad bod has never been a turn off for you. What would it hurt? It’s not like anyone would find out. “Ah fuck it”, you say, as you approach me.

You close your warm long fingers around my shaft. You start stroking softly, a gentle slow motion up and down, your hand just perfectly tight around me. You get close to me, your lips so close I can almost taste your breath, smell your hair, “like that?” you whisper, letting out a gentle moan.

Was I expecting it to work? No. Definitely not. I just forgot to have a filter, and let my thoughts out. And now here we are. Your gaze deep and penetrating, your mouth so sensual, your scent so feminine. And your hand, your hand so perfect around my cock, teasing me, giving me gentle jolts of pleasure with its every motion.

I want more. My hips thrust against your hand. You tell me to slow down. To relax. You’re in charge. I am putty in your hand. The tip of your tongue reaches for my lips. It savors them. Your lips are ever so close to my ear. I can feel you softly blowing air in my ear. I can feel the tip of your tongue following the contour of it. It drives me wild. I didn’t know an ear could be so sexually sensitive. Your hand is slow, methodical, precise. Your motions controlled. You truly are in charge. I want you. I crave you.

“I am wet” you whisper. “I am soaking. For you”.

You raise your skirt, revealing yourself commando. Your pussy as bare as can be, only a well kept patch of hair adorning it. You lower yourself onto me. I gasp as I feel myself deep inside of you. You are tight. Warm. Your feminine core ever so pleasurable.

“Your paperwork says your sperm is perfectly fine. And I am as fertile today as ever. Try for a baby with me”, you moan as you ride me without pause. I know I shouldn’t. I know I can’t. I know I mustn’t. I had come here to fill a container and make a baby with my wife. And now you are fucking me, and begging me to impregnate you instead. To do as nature intended. To cave to our biology’s ultimate demand: the desire to breed.

I say nothing. You ride. Harder. Faster. Deeper. You let my hands on your breasts, you make me squeeze them. Your head reclined, your eyes closed. You chant a song of moans. You beg for a baby. Again. And again. It is a song of ancient men sitting by a fire in prehistoric times. It is the song of drones that mate and die. And now it is our song. It is the song of a man about to betray it all, for a beautiful moment of ultimate pleasure and ultimate risk.

I cave. Without ever saying that I would, I cave. Your hand. Your moans. Your dirty words. All is just too much. “Make me swell with your baby” the last words I hear, before erupting in nature’s container. The plastic one on the table laying there unopened, unused, as your pussy milks every drop of my sperm in its own orgasm.

We say but a few words as we clean up and become presentable again. “I will have to come again to drop my sample, I am guessing”. “Yes, I’ll reschedule you in a couple of weeks”

As I make my way to the clinic again, you’re not there. This time the sample is dropped with no further ado. But a few days later, a text during a meeting reminds me of what happened. It’s a photo. Of a stick. “Pregnant” it says. It happened. I will be a father. To Lara, a beautiful lady with the eyes of a tiger and the mane of a lioness.

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