Pennys Promiscuity Ch 43 45

Chapter Forty-Three

So it was that, just before my fifty-second birthday, my career and Hot Wife lifestyle went on hold, I took maternity leave and for the fourth time in my life became a new Mum.

It was to within a week, the anniversary of my first seduction by Tony. In a mere twelve months I had gone from being a faithful-if-slightly-kinky wife and mother to what I was now; the promiscuous, unfaithful bearer of an illegitimate lovechild.

In a strange way, I was very happy. Pete was happy. Despite it all, we were still very much a couple.

Being so premature, they kept Leanne and me in hospital an extra two days to make sure she really was healthy despite her early arrival. But there was nothing to worry about; however close to its Best Before date my egg might have been, Darren's sperm had been young, fresh and perfect and had done its job well.

The evening before my birthday, Pete brought us home in his car. A happier father could not be imagined - neither could a more nervous one. But my husband's concerns were not just for the wellbeing of his new daughter. Although the more dangerous, physical part of our problem was over; the more enduring problem of bringing up a child at our ages was about to begin.

And with that child so obviously not my husband's, who knew what might happen?

Cards, gifts and flowers flooded in from friends and family, including my favourite chocolates from Julie and a hand-delivered card from Tony, which I concealed from Pete inside a book in our bedroom.

The message inside the card congratulated me on my 'miracle baby' and hoped to hear from me 'as soon as I felt up to getting together.' The idea was outrageous but made me tingle every time I read it.

Leanne's brothers and sister also put in appearances, if only briefly, including to my delight, our reclusive second son Timothy who arrived in a smart sports car driven by Thomas, an impressively built, six-foot-three, rugby-playing friend from college, whose physique made my own son look positively frail in comparison.

The new baby gave Izzy an excuse to come home from University too. As her boyfriend Jack had deliberately arranged to be home at the same time, their presence around the baby was sporadic and Izzy looked permanently flushed in the face and chest all weekend.

Enough said about that. At least whatever they did - in bed and out - took place in Julie's house, so I didn't have to listen to it. Interestingly, neither of them ever visited Jack's father Tony. Perhaps his flat lacked the privacy their excessive libidos required.

Predictably though, the first problems were all practical. In some ways, Leanne might as well have been my first child, so much had changed in terms of what I was supposed to do to look after her 'the right way'. Things we routinely did with our first three children were now frowned on; things we thought ill-advised were now obligatory. It was baffling.

It didn't help that most of the so-called advisers were decades younger than me and were full of good ideas about how an older parent like me should bring up my child.

I had to bite my lip on many occasions.

As the first few weeks passed it became clear that Leanne's olive-gold skin was not just a birth phenomenon; it was going to stay and if anything, was becoming more obvious. Her eyes seemed to become an even deeper shade of brown and her hair grew darker too, which added to the exotic nature of her appearance and made her look even less like Pete's daughter. But to his credit, my husband carried on regardless.

The general assumption among the childcare experts looking after me was that Pete and I had been having IVF for years and had finally struck lucky at an advanced age. I suppose the disparity in looks between Leanne and her father might have suggested a sperm donor was involved too, but I doubt the real nature of that third party ever crossed their minds.

Pete and I did nothing to correct this impression, but the look of shock and surprise on the experts' smug faces when they met one or more of our adult children was pleasing to see.

Even then, the assumption was that our grown-up kids must be products of previous marriages and that Pete and I had been desperate to have a child from our new relationship. The thought that a woman my age might have conceived naturally simply did not enter their minds. Fortunately, this made the deception that much easier to continue.

Still, it could have been a lot worse, I reflected as I stood in the doorway of Leanne's room, a mug of tea in my hand, watching her sleeping in her travel cot. Six weeks into my fourth attempt at motherhood, things could hardly have gone more smoothly. Yes, I was exhausted. Yes, I was sore, and in places I had forgotten could be so sore, but compared with my worst nightmares, being a Mum in my fifties had so far been tolerable.

A month premature, Leanne had weighed less than five pounds. Though not ideal, it wasn't a very worrying weight, but it had made the actual physical process of giving birth that much easier. The much-lamented lack of tightness in my vagina had probably helped too so, unlike with Isobel, I had not torn during childbirth.

In fact, the damage between my legs had been minimal enough for Pete and me to make love a week after the birth. Having been seen in the ultimate indignity of childbirth once again, I desperately needed to feel close and attractive to my husband again.

It hurt, but after a few gentle thrusts, I began to derive some pleasure from it as well as the intimacy I so badly craved.

It also became clear that my tummy wasn't going to recover anything like as quickly as my vagina. I still looked at least three months pregnant which did little for my self-esteem. And no matter how much cream I rubbed in, the number of stretch marks on that tummy was definitely going to increase. I tried to hide the worst evidence from Pete but to his credit my husband seemed neither to notice nor care about them.

Regaining my skinny figure would take quite a bit longer. Once Christmas was out of the way, a lot of attention to diet and exercise would eventually take care of that.

When out with the buggy, we were often mistaken for new grandparents helping our son or daughter with their first child and were congratulated on our new status. If we knew the person concerned at all, we corrected that misperception but after a few strange reactions, we decided to take the path of least resistance and said nothing.

Everyone who saw Leanne said how beautiful she was and how tiny she was - both of which were true and very evident. She had a lovely, placid nature too and most of the time, was full of those facial expressions we like to believe are smiles but are usually wind.

What everyone must also have seen was that much of her undoubted beauty came from the equally obvious fact that she was of mixed race. She wasn't black, she wasn't even brown but the shape of her face, the colour of her eyes and her remarkable olive skin made this obvious to any moderately observant visitor.

But it simply was not mentioned.

Over the years, a lot has been said about the British stiff upper lip and our ability to keep calm in the face of adversity. A lot of it is clearly rubbish or propaganda, but in this case, I have to say that if it wasn't for the traditional British desire not to cause a fuss, my life would have been unbearable.

It was truly extraordinary how it all happened. Despite the obvious in-your-face evidence that I had given birth to another man's child, none of our friends mentioned it to me at all. I have no doubt that behind our backs we were the main topic of conversation for many months but the worst crime that a Brit can commit is to create problems socially, so no-one did.

Only my daughter Isobel dared to mention to my face what I believed everyone was saying behind my back; that her new baby sister did not look like Pete's child at all. But even Izzy didn't voice the inevitable inference that if that were so, I must have been impregnated by a man who was not my husband, which in turn meant I must have been unfaithful at least once.

On the rare occasions any observations arose, I pointed out the many cases where babies had been born as genetic throwbacks to previous generations. The internet was very helpful in perpetuating this form of deceit. I also pointed out that babies often changed considerably as they grew up. Izzy's own brother been born blond and blue-eyed but now had dark hair and his eyes were brown. Family photos helped with this deceit too but despite all this, I could tell my daughter remained unconvinced.

Fortunately, the fact that my husband accepted the new arrival without comment and was behaving just as if Leanne really was his daughter added a great deal of weight to the misinformation we were putting out.

Predictably our son Josh was too tied up in his own imminent change in status to express any real opinion of his parents' predicament.

The person I least expected to react badly was our middle child Tim. Normally placid and slow to take or give offence, he seemed troubled by the whole affair as if something important was on his mind. If that was so, his didn't share it with me but as his mother, I could tell something was amiss.

Interestingly, the person I thought would be most upset about her mother's embarrassing new offspring - my daughter Isobel - turned out to be the most supportive. Though I knew she was both baffled and highly disapproving, Izzy was a godsend as far as Christmas was concerned. What with all the nocturnal activities associated with new babies, the lack of sleep I believed I had left behind twenty years ago and the constant need to feed Leanne, I was exhausted.

Despite her obvious distaste for this evidence of her mother's bedroom activities, when she wasn't in bed with her boyfriend, Izzy stepped into the breach calmly and without fuss, relieving me of most of the kitchen drudgery and changing her sister's nappy with only the slightest look of revulsion on her face.

I could tell that at first, the sight of her fifty-two-year-old mother breast-feeding made her stomach churn, but she hid it well.

Breast feeding! Oh my God I had forgotten about breast-feeding.

Like all new Mums, the pressure on me to feed my new child naturally was intense. I knew full well that it was by far the best start in life for a child; indeed all three of my previous children had been breast-fed for many months and I wanted nothing less for Leanne. So, despite my reservations, I had vowed to try my hardest to make it work.

All I can say is that twenty years with only my husband's and the occasional feel of a lover's lips on my nipples was no preparation for the eager demands of a hungry baby.

My tiny boobs had gained two cup sizes during pregnancy but were still relatively small, especially compared with those of my son's generously proportioned girlfriend who in only a few weeks would join me in being a new Mum. Nevertheless, I was determined to do the right thing and persevered through all the nips, bites and cracked nipples until eventually, after more than three weeks of sheer agony, my body finally tuned in to the new demands being placed upon it.

Fortunately, when it happened, the transition was quick and so, so welcome. To my relief, by the end of the fourth week, the agonising chore of breastfeeding had been miraculously transformed into what the books said it should have been from the start; a period of profound peace and closeness between a mother and her child.

The difference was extraordinary. As my body finally tuned into Leanne's considerable demands, my nipples toughened, and my boobs became accustomed to filling and being suckled. The soreness and pain soon became genuine pleasure. Even the night feeds became manageable; sitting in a comfortable, high backed chair in the darkness of the nursery with the wonderful, tiny creature milking my aching breasts until both of us fell asleep.

Often during those moments in the darkness, my mind would fill with memories of how this tiny creature had been conceived; during a sordid, one-night stand in her father's dirty, unmade bed in his untidy, unclean room, surrounded by used, smelly sports kit. The all-night series of copulations that had resulted in my daughter's conception was at the time, the most intense sexual experience of my life.

Even today, it still amazes me that something as beautiful as Leanne could come from something as squalid and dirty as that night; not so much a lovechild as a lust-child, but all the more special for that.

But it wasn't only memories that could cause a major problem with seat-wetting. No, that would be too easy.

As the pains of breastfeeding faded into pleasure, what soon became clear was that it was not just my baby daughter that was enjoying the feeding process; my middle-aged body was getting in on the act big-time too.

As an erotic author, I knew only too well how much has been said on the subject of sexual arousal during breastfeeding. As someone in the medical world, I knew that at least some of it was based in physiological fact but believed the rest merely to be pornographic hype.

Whatever I thought I knew, I was wrong and completely unprepared for the extraordinary intensity of arousal that feeding Leanne began to produce.

It started mildly, with a low but pleasant stimulation of my nipple and breast, then I soon became very much more aware of my slowly shrinking uterus and recovering cervix. This was all as I had expected; breastfeeding was supposed to help those parts of the body recover their former elasticity, but it was much more intense a feeling than I had felt with my previous babies.

What I had most certainly not expected was the new and alarming sensitivity that was appearing and rapidly intensifying in my now permanently swollen clitoris.

The more I fed, the more intense the feeling became. The more intense the feeling became, the more I thought about it. The more I thought about it, the more intense it grew again, the sensations rippling through my belly, into my breasts and back in what at work, I would have called a positive feedback loop.

It was as if a delicate, gossamer-thin thread now passed unbroken from my nipples, through my breasts, across my chest and heart then straight into my womb, cervix and finally my clitoris before passing up my spine and into my nipples again.

The constant, repetitive stimulation of my teats by Leanne's suckling sent electric sensations throughout every quintessentially female part of my body with every single feed.

There had been a hint of this when I was feeding the boys, a stronger effect with Isobel, but nothing like the powerful surges of arousal that my youngest child's mouth on my breast now routinely invoked.

As my beautiful child drew milk from my ageing breast, just picturing the intense sexual and emotional feelings that accompanied those remembered inseminations led me to wet whatever seat I was sitting on so often that I now never fed my baby without a folded towel beneath my bottom.

I would rub myself brazenly against it when the sensations grew so intense that only a real, wet climax would release me.

The first unassisted orgasm this phenomenon produced came entirely unexpected, shaking me both physically and emotionally, leaving me stunned, gasping and with a powerful undercurrent of shame. This shame prevented me from telling Pete any of this, but it did lead me to feed Leanne in private as often as possible.

Of course, the scientist within me had to look into this phenomenon. To my astonishment I found that as many as forty percent of nursing mothers experienced significant arousal during feeding - not always as sexual as mine - but that it was one of the least well known and least discussed aspects of the whole childbirth process.

At least I was not alone, even if it did lead to some highly embarrassing situations in cafés and restaurants.

Driven by this near-constant state of arousal, my erotic writing simply surged too. Used to early rising and thanks to our reliable and long-suffering cleaner, I found I had plenty of time and more importantly, plenty of inspiration to return to my laptop when released from domestic chores and Leanne's demands.

Ideas for new erotic stories simply poured from me and, though many remained half-written, the number actually published grew and grew weekly. Although the main subject of those stories remained that of wife sharing and cuckolding, I explored other themes as well. Some emerged from places deep in my past that I had thought were long gone, others came from places so deep in my psyche that I had no idea they even existed.

Inevitably, the number of troll attacks grew too, especially in response to the cuckolding posts.

I had long ago ticked the box online that prevented anonymous messages being posted either as comments on the stories or emails to me. That had reduced the number of troll attacks by perhaps two thirds but there was still a hardcore of troubled individuals whose campaign of hate mail continued.

It's perhaps the online author's greatest puzzlement; why anyone would deliberately choose to read a story very obviously written on a theme they hate, and then post horrible, offensive comments saying how much they hated it. I can only assume it's a form of masochism. Surely if something upsets you, you should stop doing it; it's truly baffling.

Most of the negative comments are ill-written and easy to ignore but others can be simply vile. Some make personal attacks but as these are based on a platform of ignorance, they seldom have the hurtful impact their composers clearly intend.

Still it was always with a feeling of trepidation that I opened my writer's email inbox early every morning after the first feed of the day. Usually I would find pleasing and welcome messages of encouragement and constructive criticism, but among them would be one or two messages that were hateful.

Most were clearly from men, but among them there were one or two whose style definitely felt more feminine. But whoever they were from, I was getting much better at ignoring them now I had a new daughter to keep my mind on the good things in life.

What I could not ignore were the infrequent but deeply unsettling messages from Tony that appeared on my phone, reminding me that he and I still had unfinished business. I should have simply blocked his number, ignored the invitations and got on with my life, but something inside me would not let me do it.

Something within me wanted that door to remain if not open, at least ajar.

But there was no imminent danger of revived infidelity; my battered body was in no condition to be revealed to any man but Pete, especially if that man was a former lover. This gave me a reason to keep putting Tony off, but deep down inside I was beginning to worry how my feelings might change if and when morally weak, promiscuous Penny ever recovered her skinny figure.

Meanwhile, my long-suffering husband Pete was doing his very best to service my erratic needs. His long, slim cock was now even less tightly gripped by my even more capacious vagina as it struggled to recover some of its pre-baby elasticity.

Fortunately, his oral skills were well up to standard and, thanks to Adam and Eve, my back passage with its dry but much tighter sphincter was now freely available without pain allowing him to reach ejaculation if not in my vagina, at least somewhere inside me.

Chapter Forty-Four

The Christmas period was very strange that year to say the least. With a tiny baby in the house for the first time in over twenty years, it was always going to be different but with the baby's status being so controversial and with our first grandchild due to be born in a matter of weeks, there was a surreal atmosphere in the house throughout.