"Don't be ridiculous," she said, "this ain't my first rodeo."
"But it
is
mine," I said, taking the plastic compact from her, popping the first pill from its little plastic bubble, holding it between the tip of my forefinger and my thumb, and moving my hand toward her mouth.
She rolled her eyes but opened her mouth and I laid the pill on her tongue.
After she swallowed, I took both of her hands in mine.
"Nancy," I said, leaning toward her and holding her eyes with mine, "I'll do whatever you want. But you need to understand that this is something special to me, something I want to be part of in every way I can."
She chuckled softly.
"Gonna hold my hair while I'm puking my toenails up every morning," she asked, smiling.
"Nancy," I said, "I'll hold your hair and kiss you
before
you brush your teeth if that's what you'd like. I'm serious, I want to be part of
all
of it."
Her tears were sudden and intense. She didn't sob, but the tears flowed like a faucet had been turned on behind her eyes.
"What?" I asked. I had no idea what I had said or done to start that.
She sniffled, wiped at her cheeks, and then dragged her forearm across her nose which had started running.
She took a deep breath.
"David," she said, "I LOVE being a surrogate. I love being pregnant. Hell, I even love being in labor. But it's something I've always done alone, you know? You're kind of overwhelming."
I waited for her eyes to meet mine again.
"I am NOT going to back off," I said.
"We'll see after you've watched me puke up a combination of strawberries, Braunschweiger, and broccoli," she said, giggling.
I smiled and said, "Hell, I'll have been the one to bring you the stuff to satisfy your weird cravings, I might as well see it all."
She smiled at that.
"Pervert," she said.
"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing," I said and she giggled again.
"Okay," she said, "you win."
"Good," I said, shaking a pill out of the bottle marked "Lupron" and putting it on her tongue.
After she swallowed I opened the envelope on one of those Estrogen patches.
She smiled, turned, and pointed to a spot low on her back.
"I don't know that it matters," she said, "but I've always put them here, over the ovary."
So that's where I put it.
And that is how the next 29 days went.
Nancy had promised she was as regular as a clock and she was. She would finish the last pill on the 28th day, be so horny she would leave me exhausted and panting on the 29th day, and then her period would start that night.
And old Fred the mutt would take over my libido.
Intellectually, I get it. I know it was that combination of pheromones and hormones that got to me physically, and the fact that I was head over heels, crazy, stupid in love got to me emotionally. I get it. And I accept it.
I wasn't sure how I'd react that first night but as the first whiff of her menstrual scent hit me, well, "compulsion" is the word.
But it's not like Nancy was offended. She cooperated, laying back, her legs parted, knees up, offering herself to my mouth.
And God help me, I found her to be delicious. That first flow was the heaviest and somehow, well, the "richest" is the word. It was thick and tasted of blood, of course, but so much more. I drank her. I nursed at her flow. When she came the sweet honey of her pleasure was like the dessert on a fine meal.
Finally, spent and full, wondering if my stomach would rebel at how much of her I drank I released her and put one of the Tampon Pearl Ultras in. Then I crawled up the bed to kiss her with bloody, slick lips. She kissed me back hungrily.
"Is it wrong that I fucking
LOVE
when you do that?" she asked.
"No wronger than how much I love doing it," I said.
"Wrong or not, I do love it," she said.
I felt my stomach rolling over.
"I need milk," I said, latching on.
She smoothed my hair as I suckled, feeling my stomach settle as her warm milk finished filling me.
She hummed a lullaby and then, when I was sated and released her, squirmed down and took me into her mouth.
And then it was my turn to relax and let her do the work.
I think she finds menstrual oral sex as good as I do. Anyway, she sure knows how to make a blow job world-class.
For two of her cycles that's how our lives went. Then one afternoon I got home from class and she greeted me dressed in a smile and nothing else, holding a bottle of champagne in her hand.
"What are we celebrating?" I asked, smiling, looking her up and down, and accepting the offered champagne flute.
"I got a contract," she said.
I had to laugh with her but also at myself.
At those words, I sprang erect.
"Good," I said, "you're getting way too skinny."
She giggled at that.
"I'm hardly skinny, Honey, especially the way you keep my belly big," she said.
I played with the soft flap of her postpartum belly and then her heavy breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples and expressing a few drops of milk.
"Too skinny," I said, adding a pat to her thigh and hip.
"Wellllll," she said, clearly enjoying the attention, parting her legs and offering herself, "I'll be fattening up before long."
"And I can't wait to help," I said.
We made love that afternoon, having an indoor picnic, taking turns popping little bites of cheese, apple, and sausage into each other's mouths.
When we were full and a bit drunk on champagne and then plain old beer when the bottle ran dry, I took her anally, laying on the thick rug with one of the
Fast and Furious
movies playing on the television. There was no hurry and I stayed inside of her while the movie went on. We took a break to pee and then returned to the rug and I returned to her rectal vault.
She liked this position because it gave her what she called "a deliciously full feeling" that she couldn't get with vaginal sex or even with one of our toys.
I liked this position because I could hold that deliciously soft and warm postpartum belly in my hand while nuzzling her neck, feeling that thick mass of her hair around my face, or I could play with her heavy breasts.
We stayed like that for the whole movie, except for that bathroom break, enjoying the casual intimacy of our joined bodies. She would come every few minutes, not the hard squirting orgasm I could coax from her but a gentle flow, a sudden tension, and a delightful tightening where I was inside of her, while I held still, holding that wonderful belly in my hand and urged her on with soft words delivered directly to her ear.
As the movie wound down, Dom and the crew surviving the final crazy chase leaving a trail of wrecked, flaming cars in their wake like breadcrumbs, she began rocking her hips.
"Come on," she said, capturing my hand where I had been gently milking her nipple, and kissing it, "finish up, Baby. I want you to take me out, show me off, and get me drunk tonight. I won't be drinking for nine months."
"We're already drunk," I said, chuckling, and starting to match her rhythm.
"No, Baby," she said, a soft gasp as her final orgasm approached, "We're taking an Uber and getting falling down, puke-on-your-shoes drunk."
"Puke on your shoes?" I said, chuckling, trying to hold off now, but she was taking me right to the edge by then.
She made retching sounds and the sudden tightness of her sphincter around my erection finished me.
I came, reaching down and probing, finding her clitoris, and bringing her with me.
We were laughing as I softened and slipped out and she turned, showing that odd athleticism she put on display sometimes, and took me into her mouth. She said it was the natural way to complete anal sex and, well, let's be honest here. Who am I to argue with the woman who captured my heart?
She held me like that, licking and sucking, what she called "cleanup duty," until I was fully soft.
Then I completed our anal sex by rolling her onto her belly, using my hands to part her cheeks, and licking her clean. I no longer found this "off-putting" as they say. I had been surprised the first time she wanted this but now, well, it was just another intimacy we shared.
Finally, sated, she did one of those athletic things, pulled her feet up, and then rocked forward, standing in one smooth movement.
"Come on, Lightweight," she said, giggling and reaching down, offering her hand.
"Oh, God," I moaned, throwing my arms out dramatically, "You've already exhausted me, you insatiable wench."
"Hey, Lightweight," she said, giggling and holding that position, "I'm getting drunk and getting laid tonight." She paused for dramatic effect and added, "With or without you."
"Adulteress," I said, laughing, and offering my hand.
"That's up to you," she said, pulling me to my feet. She's a strong woman.
"Let's clean up our sweaty selves first," I said and she nodded in agreement.
We showered and laughed. We washed each other. I shampooed that great mane of her hair then worked conditioner into it.
"Shave, Gorilla Face," she said, giggling and disappearing into the bedroom.
So I started working on my face, smoothing my cheeks, and making sure the lines of my goatee were straight. While I was at it and operating under orders I got my little weirdly shaped hair trimmer and did my ears and nose too.
My wife isn't all that good at deceiving me and it had been pretty clear that she was trying to get rid of me for a while so I took my time.
And it was WORTH it.
She was standing, well, "posing," in an outfit I had never seen before. Christ, she looked like a hooker. A pretty hooker with big tits, heavy thighs, and a soft pot belly that hung over the little scrap of cloth that served as a skirt.
Well, starting at the top, here's what I saw.
Her hair was piled country singer high. The salt and pepper mass was curled and had some glitter in it. Her makeup was overdone, the eyeshadow very bright blue and heavy with very black eyeliner leaving long points at the corners of her eyes. False eyelashes I had never seen before, butterfly wing lashes I think they're called, almost laid on her cheeks when she closed her eyes. Her lips were in a scarlet shade of lipstick I hadn't seen before.
Her shoulders were bare, hell, she was practically naked to the waist. The top wouldn't even qualify as a bra. It was a bright blue titsack, her heavy breasts unsupported and her big nipples hard and pointing at me through the material. The stretch marks across the tops of her breasts almost glowed they were so white.
Her soft postpartum belly was displayed with the stretch marks and soft folds of the overstrained skin on display and her belly button was so deep it looked like I could make love to it.
The tiny skirt was the same shade of blue, a wide belt of the same material giving her the impression of a waist. It was pleated, suggesting a Catholic schoolgirl, but no Catholic schoolgirl EVER, not once in the history of the world, looked like my Nancy did just then.
