I checked into the hotel on a snowy February afternoon, and I didn't notice her at all. I'm sure she looked sexy in the professional way I'd soon come to appreciate so deeply, but it didn't really register. It was a nice hotel with plenty of shiny things that catch your eye, and as many of these places as I'd visited over the past decade on my employer's dime, I never really tired of taking in the décor upon first entering. The individuals that comprised their uniformly welcoming staff didn't really distinguish themselves in my mind until later, once my jet lag had been slept off and I could navigate the hotel more easily.
As Spring began to assert itself at the start of April, she caught my eye from behind the front desk as she forcefully tried to cover her midsection with her button-down top. The effort was, it seemed, in order to conceal a bit of pudgy flesh just above her waistline. Beyond this round bit of skin, though, she was exceedingly thin. I wondered, my interest in this member of the hotel's staff rapidly rising, whether she might be pregnant and trying to keep it hidden for the moment. "Can I help you, Charles?" she asked as I approached (I routinely insisted everyone call me by first name so as not to be constantly reminded of my unpleasant father).
"Yes..." I glanced at her nametag for the first time, "...Frances, I would love some help. Could I please reserve a table for one for dinner tonight?"
She smiled and nodded as she entered my reservation into the system. "All set!" She leaned in conspiratorially: "Eduardo's making his lamb chops tonight. I'd get on that if I were you..."
I laughed and promised her I would, then headed back upstairs to the impressively well-appointed Ephyra Suite. I took a dip in the terrace jacuzzi, a nice blast of warmth in the cool early Spring air. A few minutes into my soak, I wound up idly playing with myself under the water, thinking about that sliver of Frances' skin I'd happened to see. The ridge of thick flesh only made sense if this very thin woman was expecting, I was sure of it. Mothers-to-be always seemed to draw my interest in public.
I'd nursed a preoccupation with pregnant ladies since high school, when I'd occasionally see classmates bellies start to grow and hear judgmental peers and prudish adults alike start relentlessly besmirching them. Pregnant seemed to be about the worst thing a person could be. They were forbidden fruit, shameful outcasts, and the increasingly visible evidence of their moral failings inevitably grew more and more blatant. I could not take my eyes off them, forced to go to school as everyone openly observed their curvy expansion; noticing these things during the early years of puberty definitely made some interesting brain connections, and I've had a bit of a thing for pregnant women ever since. I wasn't exactly sure how ejaculating underwater would work, so I got out of the jacuzzi and finished myself off in the shower as I rinsed off.
Every time I went through the lobby during Frances' usual shifts (typically weekdays first shift, though she seemed to pick up a good deal of overtime), I purposefully approached the front desk from the side to get a look at the day's outfit and growth progress. Unlike a lot of the staff at the hotel, Frances, presumably thanks to her elevated position as a supervisor, did not have to wear a uniform. She was unfailingly professional in her attire, though the attractive, modern business-wear she clearly favored was not succeeding at keeping her maternal condition a secret...at least, not to someone constantly looking for evidence. The buttons of her close-fitting button-down tops strained against her inflating stomach. The seats and thighs of her fitted dress pants became more like sausage casings each time I saw them, ass cheeks more and more distinct each time I managed a glance from behind her. A woman of modest bosom, her choices of top suggested she'd never really had to consider whether she was displaying too much cleavage; I had to wonder, now, if she even realized just how much of her swelling chest she was currently baring to the world. In short, she was getting ever more attractive to me, and I was continually more convinced that the continued growth I was able to notice in her nearly every day indicated a progressing pregnancy. More masturbation sessions in my suite followed. I tried underwater, eventually; it wasn't all that exciting, though zero cleanup was always nice.
One slow Wednesday afternoon, lobby largely devoid of other staff, I again saw her pointedly adjust her skirt to bring it below her bulging bump. As I approached from the side while she did so, she turned and saw me out of the corner of her eye. She blushed dramatically. I smiled and asked her about a dinner reservation (my usual pretext, by this point). I didn't say anything about what we both knew I'd witnessed, but I could tell there was a new, still unspoken knowledge shared between us. Clearly, she didn't want to talk about it, or want it known amongst her staff. That was fine with me, naturally, though I couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement at what sure felt like a confirmation of pregnancy. The blissed-out smile never left my lips during our interaction, while the nervous smile never left hers. I was excited to see much more of her development over the coming months; she, I would guess, was worried about how little was left of this period of being able to hide her growth. I felt slightly guilty to be reveling in something so uncomfortable for someone else, but thought maybe some even friendlier attention going forward may help Frances appreciate the experience of being publicly expectant.
The next week, after a particularly late dinner and the plentiful drinks that followed, I tipsily walked through the lobby at about 2:45 AM. Surprisingly (and luckily), Frances happened to be running the front desk in the middle of the night. I could see no other staff around and was feeling pretty loose from the alcohol, so I didn't think twice about approaching. She, alone in the quietest of times, had removed her navy blue blazer and draped it over a the desk chair behind her. The top she was still wearing, not at all expecting a visitor, was a classy, dark orange tank top. She'd also loosened her brunette bun, the casual flop of it exciting me in a weird, behind-the-scenes way. Most excitingly, her bump was the most obvious I'd seen it, and I was, of course, totally floored. As I got closer and she remained unaware of my presence, I even saw her cradle it in her right arm for a moment. God damn, was this a welcome sight. "Frances, good evening!" I exclaimed from ten feet away.
She jumped a bit, then quickly replaced her look of "shit, I've been caught!" surprise with a professional smile. "Charles," she managed pleasantly, "how may I help you?"
"I love your top." I couldn't quite seem to help myself; her face reddened instantly and she nodded away the compliment. "You're here all alone like this, so late? Everything okay?" Notice, even with my considerable inebriation, that both my compliment on her tank top and "like this" comment could be half-believably ascribed to something other than her swollen pregnant body; always good to have a bit of plausible deniability baked into an early attempt to flirt with someone.
"Oh, it's fine, not a problem. Someone called out for tonight, I have to cover for them. No biggie." She seemed to notice the not-entirely-balanced way I stood and swayed in front her desk, smiling as she likely realized she had me at as much of a disadvantage (soused) as I had her (knocked up). "Fun night, Charles?"
"Please, call me Charlie - I like that more."
