After two weeks, her body was back to normal. Well, as normal as a woman's body can be after delivering seven healthy babies. She was shedding the baby fat and the stretch marks weren't quite as livid. Her boobs were bigger, her milk had fully come in. They looked like cantaloupes now, captured in skin-colored bags, with oversized, very dark nipples almost constantly dripping. She was truly Earth Mother prepared to feed the world.
Between her legs, she was even more perfectly the image of a fertility goddess.
Her outer lips, the thick, meaty
labia major
was still heavy, leaving the portal to her sex obvious when she stood. Her pubic mound was big and round, almost as if half of a softball had been inserted under the skin. Her
labia majora
formed a long cleft, and it was clear why one of the cruder names given to a woman's genitalia by junior high school boys was a "clam."
But more than anything else, more than the saggy leaking breasts, more than the incipient belly apron with its tracery of stretch marks, more than the baby fat she still carried, it was those inner lips, the delicate pink
labia minora
that held my attention. She didn't just dangle. She hung. Those inner lips hung free, wrinkled and pink and beautiful, looking so much like lips that I kissed them a lot.
Like now.
I was out of school for the year. I wouldn't be back in class until August and was working part-time in a small engine shop, fixing lawnmowers and chainsaws.
I liked coming home and finding her naked. Her house, well, our house now, had a swimming pool, her surrogate gig really did pay well, and she was pretty casual about clothes.
When I got home, I found her busy in the kitchen, naked.
When I moved toward her she yelled, "OH NO! You get your ass in the shower before you touch this," and she made that motion, both hands starting at her chin and sweeping down, that women seem to master with their first pair of real panties.
I laughed and said, "Yas'm," and headed for the shower.
My hands were dirty, it's a dirty job as Mike Rowe might say, so I started with the
GoJo
with pumice.
Hands clean, I stepped into the shower. I wasn't surprised when I felt her hand cover mine, grab the soap, and start on my back.
The shower was sensual and fun. She washed my back and then I did hers. We soaped and giggled and spit water on each other with abandon.
After the shower, we dried each other and then she said, "If you don't take me to bed right now I think I might explode."
"No, Br'er Fox, not the briar patch," I said, and led her into the bedroom.
She laid back, relaxed, her legs parted slightly, and said in her thick bedroom voice, "Make me cum until I beg you to stop, Baby."
I wasn't about to start hurrying things at this point.
I laid beside her, snuggled into the crook of her arm, and found her nipple. As I was getting ready to latch on and drink my fill, giving me the pleasure of nursing and her the pleasure of feeding me from her body, I let my hand run down her belly, giving that soft belly apron a squeeze before I filled my hand with her inner lips, hanging free from her body now.
"Push," I said and latched on.
As her milk started flowing I felt her belly muscles tense and then her firm core was in my hand.
I gently massaged her uterus then, as I nursed.
I was struck, as I was every time we did this, by the perfect intimacy of what we were doing.
When we were both satisfied with our, well, unique foreplay, I patted what I held gently and watched it retreat into her body. And that left those beautiful
labia minora
, those delicate pink inner lips so stretched out from her profession, hanging loosely.
I lifted and kissed them, my tongue tasting that delicate salty taste that was always there at the true portal to her sex. And she responded, her breath catching, powerful muscles deep in her belly twitching. I sucked, slowly drawing those nether lips into my mouth, tasting as her love honey, her natural lubricant, changed. The slightly salty taste of her at rest became hot and thick and oily and I sucked gently, encouraging her.
I used my hands on that soft round flap of her belly, gently lifting and playing with it, my fingers digging in gently in that way I knew she liked.
Sex between us was no longer a hurried thing, that frantic, almost desperate need for release, evolution's demands all that mattered.
We were past that and enjoyed the foreplay almost as much as the climax. Honestly, I'm pretty sure we both enjoyed the foreplay more than the climax. I know I did.
So I sucked gently, feeling those special lips swelling in my mouth, feeling them getting fuller, harder. When she started to flow, I drank her, greedily, loving her taste and the oily feel of her in my mouth.
I didn't finish her. When I started feeling the little quivers of her impending orgasm I pulled away, sat back on my heels, and just looked.
She was Gaia. She was the Venus of Willendorf come to life, her sex hanging loose almost touching the sheet where those beautiful pink lips drooped, pendulous in her arousal and from what I was doing. Her readiness showed in the thick white nectar that was forming a little puddle where she flowed so freely.
I reached down and cupped her sex in my hand, warm and slick with her body's preparation to be impregnated again.
"Push," I said, recognizing my own excitement in the thickness of my voice.
Her body was such a perfect baby-producing creature that it required only a bit of effort and I held her uterus, the very core of her womanness, supported in my hands.
She was pushing 40 pretty hard (I had finally thrown away my fake ID when I hit the Big Two-One a couple of months before) and had delivered seven children vaginally. But what I held was timeless. It was pink and firm, slick with her natural lubricant. As I caressed it with my right hand, supporting it with my left, it pulsated slightly. Her cervix, that doorway to where she incubated her babies flexed slightly with each tiny movement. It looked like a tiny mouth so I kissed it, drawing a shudder.
I suppose what I was doing was making love to her core as I began kissing and licking, loving the feel and taste of her even as I missed the scent and taste of that postpartum honey.
But what I was really doing was worshipping at the center of a Goddess come to Earth.
"Hold that thought," I said, gently laying her uterus to nestle in those thick labia and then rolling out of bed.
"Pervert," she said, but with a giggle.
She knew what was coming and she welcomed it as much as I enjoyed doing it.
I got the little black plastic box out of the drawer where we kept it, and laid it on the bed beside her.
"And here I thought I had experienced pretty much everything," she said, smiling, watching as I hooked the squeeze bulb air pump to the pink tube and then as I got the little pink blob situated on the probe. There was no need for the little tube of lubricant that came with it when was already wet and slick.
I chuckled at that and said, "LIttle pinch," and gently pushed the
faux
baby into her uterus.
As I started pumping she stretched, her back arching, and looking like a cat in her satisfaction.
I pumped some more, watching, fascinated, as she started to swell.
"Let me pull it in," she said, her eyes meeting mind, "and then pump it with water. God, I miss the feel and the weight."
"Your wish," I said, smiling at her, "Is my command."
I worked the little valve to allow the "baby" to deflate and then watched as her core retracted slowly, stretching her just a bit as it slipped back inside.
"Hold that thought," I said and headed into the kitchen.
In the kitchen, I looked around for an appropriate vessel. I wanted to be able to pump her up enough to show and didn't want to have to make a dozen trips.
And there it was. I took the pitcher she used to make iced tea, rinsed it, sprayed it with the bleach-based cleaner, rinsed it again, and then filled it about half full with warm water. That gave me a couple of quarts to work with and I figured I could always make another trip.
When I walked back into the bedroom I stopped and just looked.
There was my Fertility Goddess, ready to receive a man's seed and bring forth new life. She was laying back, reclining really, against a couple of pillows. Her legs were parted in invitation, not spread wantonly but simply offering herself. And the little tube I would use to fill her baby was lost in the way the folds of her inner lips hung, full and soft, almost touching the sheet below her they were so loose.
I stared.
She giggled and said, "How did I get so lucky?"
"Wrong question," I said, not moving, just looking, taking her in.
"Oh?" she asked, stretching in that way only a woman can ever pull off, working her muscles while looking like a combination of whore, loving wife, and mother to be, "And what is the right question?"
"The proper question is, 'How did
he
get so lucky,'" I said, smiling, and meaning it.
"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm," she hummed, smiling, "Now come on, lucky boy, knock me up and then fuck me until I can't breathe."
I laughed, went to the bed, sat the pitcher on the nightstand, and pulled the syringe out of the case.
"How about," I said, making a production of dipping the syringe into the pitcher and drawing the plunger out, filling it, and then turning it up, flicking it with my fingertip, and pressing the plunger enough that all air was expelled, "I knock you up," I fished the end of the pink tube out from here it was hidden among the folds of her lips and twisted the little bayonet connection to lock it before pressing the plunger home, enjoying the little catch in her breathing, "and then make tender love to you until neither of us can breathe."
Her breathing was normal, well, after that little catch it was normal, and her head was back now, her eyes open, looking straight up.
She breathed, "How did I get so lucky?"
I turned the valve to prevent the little tube from leaking, laid the syringe on the table, and crawled up so I could see her face.
"By being you," I said, my fingertips lightly brushing her face, "by being the perfect woman," I brushed a few stray hairs away from her forehead, "by being so utterly sexy I couldn't resist you."
She giggled.
"By being huge?" she asked.
I ran my hand down the softness of her belly, playing with that circle where the skin had been stretched so badly that it was nothing but a mass of wrinkles.
"Yes," I said, "by being hugely perfectly feminine."
"Oh, God," she giggled, "pervert. Now KNOCK ME UP!"
I scooted back, filled the syringe, and put another 100 ccs of water into the baby, a little under a half cup, adding about four ounces.
I did that eight times, stopping to kiss her and tell her she was beautiful after each push of the plunger. By then the baby was about two pounds.
