The Surrogate

We were married that weekend.

The bride wore white, a white T-shirt that proclaimed

BRIDE

and stretched beautifully over her belly.

The groom was in his student-best, the button-down, Oxford cloth, pinstriped shirt, khaki pants, argyle socks, and loafers.

The matron of honor looked good in her dress, one of the bridesmaid's dresses she had kept from her wedding. It was completely backless all the way down to the cute dimples at the base of her spine, and she wore it well.

The Best Man looked pretty much like me.

The guests, including Chester and Gloria, looking like the expectant parents they were, and a few friends from school along with a few of Nancy's friends, seemed to have a good time.

Dr. Jim officiated.

We held the wedding in our backyard. Nancy's divorce settlement had gifted her with the house and it sat on a big lot. It was casual, more a small party than a wedding. By the time Dr. Jim walked to the little platform I had erected, I was, well, not drunk but pretty well-lit. Nancy, of course, was sober. No alcohol for the preggo.

Dr. Jim held up his hands, almost a benediction, and said, making me laugh, "LISTEN UP NOW!"

"We're here," he went on, "to celebrate David and Nancy getting married. So they're going to exchange their vows, Chester and Gloria are going to sign as witnesses, David and Nancy are going to sign as the newlyweds, and I, as the official officiate," that drew some chuckles, "will hand deliver the papers to the County Clerk tomorrow."

He paused then, dramatically, and then said, "David and Nancy, COME ON UP!"

We went to the platform, hand in hand, turned to face each other in front of Dr. Jim, and took each other's hand.

"Well," he said, chuckling, "Say your words."

We both hesitated for a few seconds and then I got to my knees, still holding her hands, looking up at her past the great rise of her belly.

"Nancy," I said, "I didn't expect to get married. In my mind, my life was going to be alone, well, moving from girl to girl. But then I met you and by the third date I knew you were the one."

I paused then, my own dramatic effect, and I liked that I saw tears overflowing her eyes.

"You

ARE

the one for me. I know that. No doubt. So I give myself to you. I hold nothing back. I am yours if you will have me."

I was pretty proud of that little speech. I'd been thinking about it for a couple of days.

I stood, still holding her hands.

She got to her knees, ponderous and awkward but still strangely graceful in her movements.

"David," she said, her voice steady even with the tears flowing freely, "I was an old maid and expected to be an old maid. Then some crazy young man came into my life and I was lost. I never imagined a future with a husband, and now I can't imagine one without one."

And then she mirrored my vows.

"I give myself to you, freely, gladly, joyously. I hold nothing back. My heart is yours. My body is yours. My very soul is yours if you will have me."

She stood.

"I will have you," I said.

"I will have you," she said.

"And DONE!" Dr. Jim said. "Chester, Gloria, come on up and sign this stuff. The rest of you, party and celebrate. I recommend heavy drinking."

It was a good party.

As the Kris Kristofferson song goes, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. I hadn't planned to drink a lot but there had been toasts and dancing and flirting and toasts and pleasant company and toasts and flirting and toasts. So I rolled up and sat on the edge of the bed, waited for the world to stop spinning slowly, and then made the dangerous expedition to the bathroom, survived, and sat to pee.

Done with that and still alive, I washed my hands, brushed my teeth, and went in search of my missing bride. The strange image flashed through my mind, that she had gone into labor, and even as I fiddled with the Keurig machine to get a cup of coffee going, was delivering the baby.

Then movement caught my eye and I saw her in the backyard, picking up party debris.

Jesus, she looked like a giant wood nymph. The backyard has a privacy fence and apparently, she trusted it because she was moving around, picking up napkins and those red plastic cups that about 20 people had managed to use about a hundred of, as well as assorted detritus.

And she was naked except for the white tennis shoes she had on her feet. It was a warm July morning so she didn't, you know,

need

clothes, and I loved that she didn't seem to want them either.

When the machine stopped and my coffee was ready I walked out onto the deck, sat, and just watched her.

"Are you gonna help, sleepy butt?" she asked.

"Not until my heart starts beating," I said and she giggled and went back to what she was doing.

And I watched.

She finished, put her hands on the small of her back, leaned back, stretching and relieving tired muscles, and did a slow turn.

She grinned, picked up the garbage bag she had been using, and came to where I was sitting.

"You know," she said, bending and kissing me, "you owe me a wedding night you drunk."

I laughed and said, "Give me ten minutes and I'll ravish you energetically."

She laughed. "God," she said, "no more literature classes for you."

Up close I could see an odd little line of those coarse, thick, wiry hairs that cropped up on her, driven by the hormones in her blood. These ran up from her swollen mons to the bottom of her belly button. There were a couple of dozen in a distinct line. I brushed my finger across them, chuckled, and said, "But I'll pluck you first. These could scratch."

She looked down but couldn't see what I was talking about.

"Trust me, wife," I said, the coffee taking hold, my headache fading, and the earth back on its normal axis.

She smiled and said, "With my life, husband," and headed inside.

I followed and ran my hands over her back, enjoying those soft pads of baby fat, as she washed her hands.

Then I followed her into the bedroom.

"Better make this good," she said, grinning a very wide grin.

"I always try to," I said over my shoulder as I started into the bathroom to get those fancy tweezers.

"No, Honey," she said, "better make this good because I felt a twinge out there and I'm pretty sure my contractions will be starting soon."

And in an amazing display of stupidity, I started running around like all of those movie fathers-to-be you've seen in a dozen rom-coms.

"Where's the bag? Let's go!" I was saying as she looked on, bemused.

Finally, I stopped.

"I'll tell you when we need to go," she said, "but for now, get me plucked. I don't want to look like a gorilla in the delivery room."

For some reason, that calmed me.

"Ummmm," I said, chuckling, "should I shave you too?"

She smiled at that. "If you want the smooth look, you can wax me in a week or so but I don't want to be tender for what's coming and I DAMN sure don't want a nick down there."

I was calm by then, so I took her hand, kissed her, and then led her into the bedroom.

"Lay back, beautiful," I said and went into the bathroom for the tweezers.

I started at her belly button and worked my way down, plucking each of those heavy coarse hairs.

At her pussy I couldn't resist. I kissed each full lip separately and then lifted the fatty pad of her clitoral hood to find that hard little pink button of her pleasure and began flicking it gently with my tongue.

I damn near lost it when I saw something, I imagined it was a heel, slowly move across her belly right at my forehead.

And the thing is, I felt no urgency to find my own release. I began licking, enjoying the feel and the taste of her, loving the way her hips rocked in response.

This close to delivery, her pussy had changed. She was one smooth line from her belly button down to the crack of her ass, her

gluteal cleft

. And she was overflowing, her love nectar thick and white and sticky, overflowing and running almost like warm Vaseline. I flicked her clitoris with my tongue over and over, watching as the speed of her hips rocking increased before burying my face in her and sucking those delicate inner lips into my mouth.

She was very ready. She came like a fountain and I bathed my face and hair in her pleasure.

She smiled and said, "What about you?"

"I'm okay," I said.

She shook her head and said, "Take my mouth."

So I moved around so that her head could lay on my thigh as I sat back on my feet, offering her what she wanted.

She went rigid for a second, a grimace on her face, and then she smiled.

"Hold that thought," she said, giggling, and rolled over and picked up her cell phone from the bedside table.

She scrolled and then tapped and then said, "Mornin' Martha. Tell Dr. Jim I'm in labor and he needs to get Gloria and Chester started. I'll be there in about an hour."

Pause. Laughter.

"Yes, Martha, I'm sure. This ain't my first rodeo."

Pause.

"Okay, Dear, see you in about an hour."

She laid the phone down, smiled at me, and took me into her mouth.

I later learned that it was the hormones raging through her body as labor started that made the feel of her saliva subtly different. It was somehow slicker and yet sticky too as she used that educated tongue to slowly bring me along and her lips slid over my shaft when she slowly pulled off and then took me back.

While she was doing that I was rubbing her belly and feeling the way her pussy was distended as her body worked to get ready for her ultimate job. I used her nectar, the product of mucus membranes and Bartholin's and Skene's glands like fine skin lotion, working it into the stretch marks of her belly.

We were both taking our time and it lingered. Once I felt the sudden hardness in her body as a contraction struck, but she assured me they were still over 20 minutes apart so there was no hurry.

When I came she pulled off suddenly and accepted what she called my "gift" on her face and in her hair. She held me, gently stroking through three hard pumps, three distinct jets onto her, and then the final thick drop that she caught with her tongue.

She held me while I softened and I watched her face. God, she seemed almost content.

She took a deep breath, let it out, and said, "Okay, come on honey, we need to shower and get to the office."

So we showered and dried each other and she picked up a small bag, well, what I think they call a "train case," a miniature suitcase, and we headed for Dr. Jim's office/clinic.

"Are you excited?" she asked.

I thought about it.

"I'm excited and curious and interested and, God, I don't really know what all," I said.

She giggled and said, "Good. I can't wait to see how you react. Maybe you'll want a divorce."

I laughed at that but didn't say anything.

At the clinic, the lady at the front desk, "Martha" I assumed, said, "Good morning, Mama. Head on back, you know the way."

Nancy gave her a finger wave and I followed.

Room 121 was bigger than the exam room with two fancy hospital beds side by side. As we walked in we were greeted by Gloria's groan. She was already in one of the beds, Chester by her side with her hand in his. He was, it seemed to me, saying all the right things as she did that weird whistle-breathing I associate with Lamaze classes.

"You're doing great," he said, "Breathe. Stay in that happy place." You know, shit like that.

I helped Nancy undress and then got her into one of those weird hospital gown things that is open in the back, and helped her into bed.

Another woman came in, this one young, I guessed her at about 21 tops. She was wheeling one of those chrome stands with a bunch of arms on it. From one of the arms, a big red bag hung and from it, a white hose hung.

"Ummmm," the new woman said, "I'm supposed to give her an enema."

Nancy said, "It's okay, Doris. David will do the honors, just leave it and make sure Dr. Jim knows we're here."

When Doris left Nancy crooked her finger, beckoning me, and when I started she giggled and said, "Bring the stand."

She smiled and took my hand when I got to the bed.

"Here's the thing, Honey," she said, "When the time comes to push the muscles I use are the same ones I use to fight my constipation so unless we want even more of a mess than what you're going to see, I need an enema."

"Okay," I said, feeling even dumber than usual.

She giggled.

"You've never done this before, have you?" she asked.

"No," I said.

She sighed theatrically.

"It's not rocket surgery," she said, "Just slip the end into my butthole and then undo that little clip on the hose. When it's empty, walk me into the toilet. Easy, peasey."

She rolled over onto her left side.

So I did as she directed. I lifted her right cheek, found her butthole with the tip of the syringe, and slipped it in. Okay, I liked watching it go in, and the way she seemed to squeeze on it.

I figured out how the little clip thing worked, just a clamp to block the hose, and opened it one click.

"That's right," she said, "Nice and slow."

I realized, then, that Gloria, in the next bed over, was in the same position, and seeing that damn hose disappear between her cheeks made me hard again.

Nancy grunted and then started doing that weird whistling breathing and it seemed perfectly natural, almost instinctive, to start telling her she was beautiful, she was doing good, and how much I loved her.

And then things got

REALLY

surreal.

"David," Nancy said, "you need to switch places with Chester. He should be the one to take care of the mother of their child but Gloria will need help too. That's your job for today."

When I didn't move for a few seconds she said, "Go on, now. She's going to need to go to the bathroom soon. Help her."

So I did. I walked to the other side of the other bed and smiled, shook hands with Chester, and, feeling foolish, said, "Your baby needs you."

He grinned like he was the third-string quarterback and had just thrown the game-winning pass, kissed Gloria a quick peck on the lips, and said, "Duty calls."

She smiled weakly and said, "I know, honey, go on."

Gloria smiled up at me and said, "Tell me I'm beautiful."

And there it was again, almost instinctive but I knew what I was supposed to do.

I bent, kissed her, and said, "You are gorgeous."

And she was. Her silver grey hair was sweat-damp, without her makeup every one of her 50-something years showed, and she WAS beautiful right then, doing what a woman is born to do.

Suddenly her face was a rictus of pain, she was doing that breathing thing again, and she grabbed my hand and squeezed hard enough to hurt.

I brushed her hair with my fingers and told her she was doing well.

When the contraction passed she drew a deep breath, giggled softly, and said, "Take it out and take me to the bathroom, Honey. I damn near dirtied the sheets with that one."

I was struck, as I did it, by just how intimate I was being with a woman I had only talked to for about 10 minutes in my life. I reset the clamp on the hose, waited for a few seconds to let it drain, lifted her right cheek, and slipped the syringe out, only a couple of drops of water spotting the sheet. I couldn't help but notice that she was beyond clean. She was bleached and very pink. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to kiss that pretty little rosebud.

But I didn't. Instead, I took her hand, helped her stand, and then supported her as we walked to the bathroom. When I started to leave she said, "Stay with me, David, please. I don't want to be alone right now."

So I held her hand and brushed the stray hairs away from her face and told her she was beautiful as I heard the weird splashing and plopping sounds as she emptied her saturated bowels. A contraction hit right then and I heard the volume and force of the water she was expelling increase just like what happens when you're a kid and put your thumb over the end of the garden hose forcing the same volume of water through a much smaller opening.

I almost cried out myself. The way she grabbed my hand was just right to force my knuckles to grind against each other.

"Okay, David," she said, getting her breathing back to normal, "wet one of those towels and clean me up, please."

I opened the cabinet door she had nodded at and sure enough, there were a dozen or so small white handtowel size towels rolled into tight tubes.

I started the water running until it was hot, something that didn't take long in this building, and then soaked it.

"Okay, toots," I said, and she giggled at that, "get up and I'll hose you down."

She rolled off of the bed and since I wasn't helping her right then I could watch as she walked the few steps to the sink and vanity. She was even bigger than Nancy and had to lean back farther to balance her new center of gravity. For about the bazillionth time since I met Nancy, I realized how sexy a woman was at full term.

"Hands here," I said, pointing to the edge of the vanity, and she put her hands there, bending over, allowing the gown to drop away and I saw just how HUGE she was. Her belly hung almost to her knees in that position and those very pale stretch marks made a sexy, feminine girdle that ran around her waist across the small of her back. Her ass and the backs of her thighs were wet and, well, dirty. It wasn't like they were shit stained. More like some slightly dirty water had run down them.

So I wiped the surface of her thighs and her ass and then parted her cheeks with my left hand, thumb and forefinger spreading her, and washed that sexy pink orifice.

I grabbed a second towel and dried her before looking around, finding the container for the dirties, and then walking her back to bed.

Well, halfway to bed before she stopped and did the whistle-breathing thing again. I rubbed her back, told her how good she was doing, and told her how beautiful she was.

Dr. Jim blew into the room, exuding masculinity and good cheer.

"How are my girls doing?" he asked.

Chester replied, "We're doing fine, Doc."

Dr. Jim went over and handled Nancy like a piece of meat, lifting and poking and prodding. He tossed the bottom of the hospital gown aside, patted her thighs so she spread her legs, used his fingers to open her up for a look, patted her belly, and said, "Moving right along."

"And this one?" he asked, casually tossing Gloria's gown aside, exposing her belly and pussy.

"Working hard and looking beautiful," I said, stroking her hair and caressing her cheek with my fingertips.

He did the pat-the-thighs and open-her-up thing, took a look, patted her belly, patted her pussy, and said, "Yep, moving right along."

He moved to the door.

"You guys stay on top of this. When the contractions are down to a minute apart come find me," and he was gone, leaving as he had come, moving like a force of nature.

It's funny how focus changes things. For the rest of the day, I was so completely focused on Gloria that anyone observing would have thought she was my wife, not the brunette in the next bed. And from all appearances, Chester was just as focused on Nancy. We both wiped foreheads with cool damp cloths, fetched ice cubes, told our women how beautiful they were, walked them to the bathroom, wiped their asses and pussies when they were done, and kept track of timing.

Contractions were about five minutes apart when Gloria started saying she needed to push.

"No, Honey," Nancy said from her bed when she stopped that breathing thing, "it's too soon. Hang in there, you're doing great."

"I have to," Gloria said and with the next contraction, she pushed.

"Oh, shit," Nancy said, "David, watch what's happening down there. Chester, go get Dr. Jim."

So I moved around until I could see what was happening down there. Her legs were spread, her knees were drawn up, and I could see the way her labia were bulging out and her very pink cervix, the entrance to her uterus was right there.