The Surrogate

I called the clinic and alerted them that we would be coming in and that they should notify the baby's parents.

Since this was my second and Nancy's eighth, we were calm about things. I helped her stand, got panties on her with a pad in the crotch to protect the car seats and a nursing bra with a pad to keep her T-shirt dry, the oversized slacks she favored when she was pregnant, and the T-shirt we had purchased specifically for this day, with "FINALLY, GET IT OUT" written large across where it would stretch across her belly. I got her shoes on and tied and we were off.

At the clinic, Danny and Martha, the biological parents were waiting. Martha had passed on the

faux

baby and induced delivery option. They looked like exactly what they were, a middle-aged, he was 48 and she was 44 I knew, very prosperous couple. They were dressed like it was going to be a weekend barbecue at friends', jeans, T-shirts, and sneakers.

Martha and Nancy embraced and Danny and I shook hands and he insisted on one of those stupid manhugs, you know, arms touching shoulders and then chests bumping lightly.

About that time, Dr. Jim came breezing in.

"You," he said, pointing to Nancy, "clothes off, gown on."

The funny thing is, it didn't strike me as a bit strange that my wife started casually undressing with four other people in the room.

"You," Dr. Jim said to Martha, "tits out for inspection."

When she hesitated he said, "Oh, Honey, they ain't yours anymore, now get them out."

Danny said, "Hey," and Dr. Jim wheeled on him.

"Listen," he snapped, "against my recommendations, you chose not to do the full program but now," and he stopped. "Oh, fuck it," he said, "keep them locked up."

So, I went through labor and delivery with Nancy, and it was a hard labor. We arrived at the Clinic a little after four o'clock in the afternoon and the baby wasn't born until after seven in the morning.

I did the cool washcloth to the forehead thing.

I did the ice chips to her lips thing.

I offered her a hand while she did the let's-see-if-we-can-make-him-scream-by-crushing-it thing.

I rubbed her back and wiped her ass.

I told her she was beautiful.

I fed her.

I rubbed her back.

I masturbated her when she asked me to.

I rubbed her back and then dug a Charlie Horse out of her calf.

I walked her to the bathroom and wiped her when she was done.

It was a LONG labor.

The sun was coming up when Dr. Jim finally said, "And we're fully dilated," using the same tone I heard horse track announcers as the gates opened and the horses started running.

And I watched, for the second time, as she cried out, almost a war cry, her face a blazing red as she stretched and brought a new tiny human being into the world.

"You are SO beautiful," I said, softly, washing her face with a cool washcloth.

"Yeah," she said, "I'm the fucking

Mona Lisa

." But she was smiling when she said it.

Danny at least managed to summon enough interest to cut the cord and Dr. Jim carefully collected and froze the cord blood.

I massaged her cramped uterus and told her, again, that she was beautiful.

Then I watched her as she slept, finally relaxing, and washed her face, wiping tear stains away and snot from her upper lip while she snored away.

She napped for an hour or so.

I was standing there, looking at her, as her eyes fluttered open.

She smiled, stretched, winced, and pressed on her belly.

"Everything seems to still be there," she said and grinned at me, "so take me home and make love to me."

I grinned.

"Insatiable," I said, offering my hand and helping her to stand.

Well, helping her start to stand.

Dr. Jim breezed into the room, laughed, pushed her back on the bed, and said, "Not so fast."

She sighed theatrically and said, "I'm okay."

"I'll be the judge of that," he said.

He patted her legs and said, "Spread 'em."

She sighed again and parted her legs as he lifted the gown and laid it up onto her belly.

I watched, fascinated, as he handled my wife like a piece of meat. He pulled each of her labia, not gently either, and looked carefully.

"Push," he said and she grunted and her cervix peeked out.

He looked, bending close, and then straightened.

"Okay," he said, "That was a pretty long labor but everything seems okay. You're clear to go home."

This time when she moved to stand, Dr. Jim didn't stop her.

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

"Now," she breathed into my ear, "take me home and make love to me."

I stuffed her bra into my pocket, and helped her into her panties, jeans, and T-shirt, making her giggle when I jiggled the flap of now empty belly flesh that hung over the waist of her jeans.

I got her shoes onto her feet, already less swollen, tied them, took her hand, and we started out to the car.

I was solicitous, probably overly so, holding the door and then her hand as she sat.

She was oddly quiet as we drove home.

She was silent as we walked into the house.

Inside she turned and slapped me.

I was so shocked I couldn't even take a fighting stance. Hell, I made no attempt to block and that is NOT like me.

"What?" I asked.

She was in full rage. Christ, it felt like the days of rage all over.

"What?" I asked again, this time moving close and grabbing her in a clinch. Not an embrace, a boxer's clinch to keep her from hitting me again.

"I'm NOT a delicate flower, goddam it," she said, and I was happy that at least she wasn't yelling in my ear.

"I know, but," and that's as far as I got.

"Okay," she said, pushing me away, "okay. Sorry, a bit of hormone overload. But I'm NOT delicate, dammit. That was my eighth delivery. It was a bit rough, yes, but I'm okay and I'm fucking HORNY."

I wrapped her into an embrace, not a clinch, an embrace, and kissed her.

"Is it okay if I'm gentle?" I asked.

She giggled.

"Not TOO gentle," she said, nipping at my ear, "but I AM a bit sore."

So I reached down, caught the hem of her T-shirt, and peeled it up while she held her arms straight up over her head, helping me.

"Great tits, toots," I said, lifting her heavy breasts, full with postpartum milk, ready to feed her baby.

She said nothing, just smiled.

I bent and kissed each nipple, watching the erectile tissue of her areola tighten, pushing her nipple up, and then sucked gently on each, tasting as her milk started flowing.

She was dripping as I got to my knees and untied and took off her shoes, one at a time, holding her foot in my lap as I did it.

I stayed on my knees as I worked the button of her jeans and then the zipper. I unzipped her and worked the jeans down, her panties coming with them.

That big soft wrinkled flap of belly where she had been stretched so many times drew me like a moth to a candle and I kissed it. I lifted it, kissing her belly button in its deep slot, feeling the warmth of soft skin on my cheeks as I buried my face into her.

Under that heavy flap she hung, loose nether lips stretched badly after last night and those inner lips dangling free. I kissed them.

And I felt her fingers dig into my hair.

I sucked, gently, feeling her respond in my hands laying on her ass, holding her to me.

Her fingers twisted and I heard, as if from far away, "Not TOO gentle, Baby."

I sucked harder, my hands pulling her to me, and began rooting with my mouth and bumping where she was still swollen and tender with my forehead like a calf bumping his mother's udders to get the milk flowing.

She came.

It was very liquid in my mouth and I could taste a hint of blood.

I swallowed, noisily, looking up at her across the soft flap of her belly.

She smiled and pulled me away.

"That's better," she said, "now take me to bed."

God, I LOVE her body immediately after she delivers. Her waist was wider than her hips right then, the baby fat still all there. There was a roll at her shoulder blades and the backs of her arms were soft and swung gently as she walked.

When she turned to face me, her belly, was no longer stretched by the baby but all of that skin and subcutaneous fat was still there. It hung, almost an apron, and was so sexy I wanted to play with it.

So, I played with it as I helped her into bed and kept playing with it as I masturbated her, bringing her to a second orgasm.

I made love to her then, in the missionary position, facing her, kissing her, telling her I loved her, and telling her she was beautiful. And I meant every word of it.

I love making love to her this soon after a delivery. She's so loose and wet that there's hardly any friction, making it hard for me to achieve my release while ensuring that I will last for her.

And last I did.

I took her through four more orgasms until I was sweating and panting, straining to finish. When I finished it was wonderful. I filled her and she overflowed, saying, "Thank you, Baby," over and over.

Finished, I slipped out and then snuggled against her and started nursing in earnest. I was suckling when I heard her start to snore softly and felt the relaxation of sleep take her. I was still nursing when I drifted off.

I woke with her hand squeezing my erection.

"I will never understand," she said, grinning and swinging her leg over me.

"Those women who," she said, lowering herself to impale herself on my erection.

"Say they don't like sex for weeks after the baby is born," she finished, settling onto me, taking my full length into her body.

"Were you this horny after the first time you delivered?" I asked, not at all surprised anymore to be having such a conversation while making love to my wife.

She paused in her movements and those "I'm thinking" lines appeared between her eyebrows.

"Until you came into my life," she said, holding my eyes now, her body still, "I slept alone when I came home." She giggled and said, "And yes, I masturbated about six times a day for the first week after I delivered."

"Oh," I said, making my eyes big, "Six times?"

She giggled.

"Oh, honey," she said, "I don't expect that from you but, well, Dr. Jim CAN get you some Viagra."

I laughed and kissed her.

"I am yours to command," I said, as I rolled her onto her back and slipped inside of her.

I like those postpartum weeks.

She was demanding and that meant sex at least three times a day for the first two weeks and a couple of times a day for the next month.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I ain't bitchin'. But as wonderful as it was, it was exhausting as well.