This is being posted to the romance section. From my point of view romance, even and perhaps especially erotic romance, does not need details such as the length or thickness of a penis. The less biological information the better, although this does not mean that one has to avoid everything biological. In my work you will probably find no mention of steamy feminine juices, delicious masculine sperm, and absolutely no mention of pre-cum outside of this note. And of course, all my characters are over 18. Most of them are over 30.
If you don't like these restrictions, there is plenty of material in Literotica to keep you happy. If you agree, welcome. We'll see how many points my submissions gain to see whether I have misjudged members wishes.
Finally, sincere thanks to my editor, Slipperywhenwet_. She said she was going to be merciless, but she was very gentle.
*****
There are a number of sensations involved when a man ejaculates inside you. The most obvious, of course, is that you can feel his penis throbbing as it pumps his semen into you. If he's not using a condom, you can also feel at least the warmth of his seed, although not all women can feel the spurting sensation.
If either of you are using contraception, then this love-making is intended solely for pleasure, his for sure, hopefully yours also. And then there's the case where neither of you is using contraception. If you don't want to get pregnant, then there is a nervosity. You are taking a risk, and you might just make a quick calculation of how long it is since your last period, and whether you can live with it or whether you'd better report to the local gyn clinic tomorrow for the morning after pill. But if you are hoping to get pregnant, then there is a feeling of excitement and hope, that maybe it will take this time, and there can be a certain sense almost of gratitude that your partner has done his part to see that your dream comes true.
When Roger ejaculated into me that Friday, there was the throbbing and the warmth. There was the pleasure, for he is thoughtful in copulation. There was the excitement and hope. And yes, there was a certain sense of gratitude. For Roger was not my partner. Not my husband, not my boyfriend, not my lover. But we finished the love-making act as we began it, with a tender kiss, several tender kisses in fact, then he kissed my breasts again, and finally began to pull out.
I was thirty seven at the time, not bad looking, taller than many men and I have two tits and a fanny, the latter perhaps a little larger than I might wish, the former two sort of average. I run the family company, which I had inherited from my father some years before his death. It's doing well, but it has taken a lot of my time. And that had kept me from the social circuit.
I've had three boyfriends since I left university with my PhD in electronics. The first two gave up on making an honest woman out of me when they realised that the company was my first love. The third I had decided was not husband material. I met him at one of the concerts which I go to each month. He seemed interesting when we met, erudite, though not always right, but I was beginning to realise that he could be a bit of a bore, so I was planning on letting him go.
The problem was that I had been feeling the passage of time, and that my window of opportunity in which to become a mother was beginning to close. Oh, I suppose that, in this day and age I could theoretically give birth up to around my fiftieth birthday, or whenever the menopause sets in whichever should happen first. But that would mean I would be seventy-ish when my child was getting ready to start university. And Peter, my then current 'boyfriend' was not someone I thought I wanted to have children with.
I was mulling this problem over on one of my weekends at my summer place, and I didn't like my options. When I got rid of Peter, it could take me a year or more to try and find a partner I could feel comfortable with, and then the best part of another year to produce a child. I was beginning to worry about missing the boat.
As it happened, the following weekend I was host to a small group of my university girlfriends. We try to meet every other month or so for a long weekend of girl-chat. All of them are or have been married, and all of them have children. I decided to run the idea by them and see if they had any good ideas.
They did. Adopt. Artificial insemination. Whistle someone off the street and take pot luck. None of them ideas I was particularly enthusiastic about. And then Jenny made the connection.
"As you say," she said. "It would take you at least a couple of years to find your ideal partner, get pregnant and give birth. But supposing you already know someone who you think would be good father material, even if he's already tied up elsewhere."
"How do you mean," I asked. "Break up a possibly happy marriage? I don't like that idea."
"No, good heavens, you don't have to marry him. With your wealth, he's not going to have to keep you during your pregnancy and after. You just need the loan of his gonads."
"I still think you need to explain this in a bit more detail," I said, and the other girls agreed with me.
"Think about it. You've been talking about finding a person with whom you'd feel right about having children. You'd be looking for certain characteristics which you think you would like the potential father of your child or children to have. If you know someone that you can say that about, it's just a case of asking him to give you some of his seed. You can even get a gyn clinic to do the transfer for you, take a sample of his seed and inject it into you. Bingo!"
"That's okay except for the fact that I'm not really so enthusiastic about having someone stick a blunt needle into me and squirt someone else's life-giving fluid into me."
"So ask Mr Right to just fuck you. That will work at least as well!"
We all laughed at Jenny's solution, and the conversation moved on. It was not until later that night, when I was lying in bed, that it popped into my mind again. Silly idea, but let's play a thought game. If I were to consider it, do I know anyone whose characteristics I think I would like my child or children to inherit? And that's when Roger's name came up.
First I went over my social contacts, which didn't take much time and left me empty-handed. The group I knew best, and which gave me the largest sample to select from was, in fact, my colleagues at work, my employees. And there I found my candidate immediately. I had been his mentor during his undergraduate years at university, whilst I was working towards my PhD. Then I had advised him when he headed for his own higher degree. By the time he finished that, I had left academic life and was running my father's business, now mine. I had head-hunted him for the company, and had seen him work his way up until he was now one of my trusted lieutenants.
The big problem was that he was engaged now, to a young lady who in earlier times would have been called a society dame. I had found her somewhat cold and calculating on the few occasions on which I had met her, but
chacun a son gout
, as the french say. If Roger was happy, that was his problem. My problem was how to approach him.
I went to his office on the following Monday, after having done some elementary maths on dates.
"I've got a private project I would like to get started," I told him. "But I'd like to get your input and I don't want to do it here. Can you come out to my summer place the weekend after next, do you think, and stay for the whole weekend?"
"I'll check my calendar with Eleonora," he said, referring to his fiancée.
