My Fertile Secret

It's too hot under the covers, so I pull them off of me, but I still feel a hot flush in my face and throughout my whole body. I don't think it really is that hot in the bedroom, it's probably just my hormonal flushes from being six months pregnant.

I'm wearing cotton panties and a loose t-shirt in bed, and I caress my swollen belly pensively as I lie sleepily on my side. Most of the time, I'm happy to be full of life again. I'd almost forgotten how exciting it is to have a new Human being growing inside me. It's almost enough to make me forget the night that Human being was conceived.

Almost.

I turn my eyes to the bedside clock and see there's still another fifteen minutes before the alarm goes off. I'm so tired I resent the idea of moving an inch, let alone getting up and getting ready for the day; but that might just be the hormones, too.

I hear a rustling next to me and feel the person with whom I share the bed sidling up to me and wrapping his arm around my body, his hand resting on my gravid stomach. The man to whom I'm lawfully wedded and the father of our two daughters leans in and kisses my neck.

"Did you sleep well?" he murmurs into my ear.

"Well enough," I grumble. We both want all the rest we can get before the new baby arrives.

He holds me in silence like that, stirring the part of me that feels guilt and shame. I never told him about that fateful night, and apart from denying him sex for over a week after he returned, he never sensed that anything was wrong.

He's always been a caring and attentive husband, even though our sex life had declined after the birth of our second daughter. He's just as caring and attentive as a father, and I know he'll be just as caring and attentive when I give birth to what he thinks is our third child.

At the same time, there's something in me that feels a perverse thrill at the secret growing in my belly. A sexy alpha male had fucked me and bred me, planting his potent seed in my fertile womb. Now his baby was making my belly swell, and my cuckold husband was none the wiser.

Maybe that's just a screwed-up way of assuaging my own guilt at the lie gestating at the heart of my marriage, but the secret knowledge of my unborn baby's true paternity gives me a feeling of perverse power. The kind of power only a woman can wield over a man.

"I was thinking," my husband spoke up, "would you prefer a home birth this time?"

"Definitely," I answer immediately, "I need to feel comfortable and calm for when I give birth, and I can't be that with a dozen strangers in scrubs examining my crotch with beeping machines and hot lights and telling me to push like I don't already fucking know what to do--"

I stop myself in mid-rant. I'd actually been meaning to tell my husband about the kind of birth I wanted to have, and I'd had that little speech prepared in my head for weeks now, expecting him to push back against it in case something happened which needed medical attention.

"I understand," he said softly, leaning over and planting another kiss on my cheek. "I was just thinking that because the doctors said the pregnancy is healthy and low risk it might be better."

"I'd much rather give birth at home with people I know around me." I reply, wrapping his arm around my pregnant belly like a blanket.

I also don't want him to leave me stranded at the hospital if the baby doesn't look like him.

"That would be wonderful." My husband agrees. "We can use the big jacuzzi tub as a birthing tub. There's plenty of space and you can relax in the warm water while you're delivering."

"You mean that jacuzzi you spent nearly two grand on?" I say with a grimace.

"I got a big bonus and wanted to treat the family." He justified himself unrepentantly.

"Well, at least it actually works," I respond, "unlike that ceiling fan that keeps breaking down."

I try to turn my head so I can scowl at the black plastic contraption bolted into the ceiling above our marital bed. It's too uncomfortable to twist my neck that much, so I end up scowling at his big nose and narrow eyes -- narrow because he has to squint without his glasses.

"That was over six months ago." He reminds me patiently.

Around the same time the event happened. The reminder makes me shift uncomfortably.

"I'll try and get the fan fixed." My husband assures me.

"I'd much rather we focus on preparing the baby's room and the other things we need." I tell him pointedly. "We should also focus on getting ready for the delivery."

"You're the boss, sweetheart."

He's so patient with me. It makes my guilt over the secret in my belly even more poignant.

"Would you like a doula?" He asks me, "I could hire a professional nurse who can be a doula but also step in if something happens."

"Maybe." I murmur. "To be honest, I'd much rather just have the family present. You and the girls while I give birth to their new baby brother."

"That would be lovely." My husband agrees. "But are you sure you don't want a dozen doctors and nurses watching the baby slide out of your vagina?"

It's a ham-fisted attempt at a joke, the kind he's not ashamed to make.

"Yes," I intone, "I am 100% sure that I don't want that to happen. Ever again."

"Fair enough." He answers, and I'm sure there's a smile on his face when he says it. "It would be quite an event for them to witness if the baby came out black."

"That's it." I announce as I abruptly remove his arm from my body and lower my feet to the floor. "Enough of your gross birthing jokes. It's time to get up and get ready for the day."

***

It's another hour before everyone is dressed and has eaten breakfast. The girls are always full of energy in the morning, and I try my best with them before my dear husband steps in to make sure they're ready for school. The school bus pulls up and we kiss them both goodbye before they run off with their backpacks and climb aboard.

Fifteen minutes later and my husband has driven off to work, which means that I finally have the house to myself. There really aren't that many chores that need doing today, so I can lounge around the house and enjoy being pregnant.

After snacking on some yogurt, I do some Pilates and pelvic floor exercises. They helped immensely in making the first two births easier, and I know they'll make the third birth easier. This delivery is going to be very different from the other two, and the more I think about it, the more the anticipation sets off butterflies in my swollen stomach.

The anticipation is increasingly turning into worry. I'm looking forward to meeting my new baby, but this baby isn't my husband's baby. It was fathered by my rapist, and I have no idea what he looks like. My mother is Japanese, making me mixed-race, and my husband is fully White. If my rapist looks much different from my husband, there's no way he won't notice.

I finish with my exercises and have another yogurt as a snack before heading upstairs. Yogurt is my main food craving during pregnancy, but I also can't stand having the taste linger in my mouth, so I brush my teeth and rinse with some mouthwash.

Next, I strip naked and examine my pregnant body in the mirror. I admire my big belly full of life, along with my swollen breasts, ready to nurse the baby in my womb. I also grimace at my swollen feet and the way my spine curves inwards. There's a little tuft of hair on my crotch, and I smooth the hair down as I wonder if it's worth shaving it off.

My fingers wander a little lower to the folds of my sex, teasing my clit and letting out a little gasp of pleasure. My mind returns to the mysterious man who got me pregnant in the first place and the mental catalog of fantasies that have kept my mind at peace for the past six months.

It's time for my daily self-pleasure session. I open up my bedside cabinet and retrieve my toy from its hiding place at the very back, checking the batteries before climbing onto the bed. It's getting awkward to move about, so I set up a pillow to support my sore back.

As I lean back against the pillow and close my eyes, I spread my thighs wide and switch on my toy, buzzing it against my clit. This is the same position I'll probably be in when I give birth, and as the birth looms closer, my fantasies turn increasingly towards giving birth.

I recall the conversation with my husband about delivering at home, and I'm glad he's such a thoughtful person when it comes to these things. I don't much like what he thinks pass for jokes about it though, but his comments do give me a delicious idea for a fantasy.

I can just picture it now: after hours of contractions, the moment finally arrives when the baby's head appears, its skin a rich dark-chocolate hue, poking out between my ivory thighs, squeezing out between the pale skin of my stretched pussy lips. One last push, and the baby slides out of my vagina, right into my husband's waiting hands, who stands there staring in amazement at the jet-black baby that just squeezed out from between his wife's lily-white labia.

I can't help but grin with evil delight even as I moan with pleasure. That would be one hell of a surprise to drop on hubby. And there'd be no denying that another man had fucked and bred me, not after pushing the evidence right out of my vagina.

This is the first time I've entertained this particular fantasy, but it's not the first time it's crossed my mind what would happen if the baby clearly doesn't look like my husband. In fact, I'm now convinced that our deepest fears underwrite our darkest fantasies.

In the weeks after the rape, my greatest terror was of horny home intruders with big cocks and uncontrollable libidos ravishing me in my own home, the one place I'm supposed to be safest. So, my fantasies revolved around big strong men forcing themselves on me and thrusting hard inside my wet pussy until I cum and then they cum, flooding me with their potent seed.

I've never dated or slept with a Black man in my life, so I don't have any sort of preference or fetish when it comes to race. But as my belly swells and my due date looms, my darkest and hottest fantasy is giving birth to a Black baby in front of my husband. So, is my deepest fear birthing a Black baby? No.

My deepest fear right now is of getting caught.

Maybe I should have told my husband what happened to me that night. Maybe I should have run to the drug store and grabbed some Plan B. Maybe I should have gotten a termination and never told him I was ever pregnant. But it's too late for all of that. One way or another, this baby is coming, and since I have no idea what my rapist looks like, I can only hope and pray that he looks like my husband.

If my rapist is White, I'll have bought myself a couple of years at least. Maybe I'll be able to take this secret all the way to my grave. But if the baby comes out Black: game over.

More like 'marriage over'. At a minimum, I'll have a lot of explaining to do. Who's the real father? Why didn't I tell him about the rape? Why should he believe me when I swear it wasn't an affair? Then the divorce. Then the custody battle and the alimony, not to mention reporting the whole thing to the police. The prospect of all of that fills me with dread.

And if there's one thing I've learnt from this ordeal, it's that the best way to deal with this kind of deep-seated sexual fear is to eroticize it.

In any case, I remember kissing my rapist and running my hands over his face. I remember feeling his small, thin nose under my fingertips, so I'm pretty certain he's not actually Black. The Black baby birth fantasy is just the most taboo version of this fear. I've had all kinds of different versions of this fantasy, all involving some physical feature that the baby inherits which gives the deception away to my husband.

My husband's big nose is the most obvious one. It might be a while before he notices, but the baby's nose will probably be a lot smaller than his. Babies usually don't come out of the womb with strong, masculine jawlines -- we already know it's going to be a boy -- so, once again, my husband need not notice until the baby is a toddler.

Sooner or later, however, he will surely notice our baby boy growing up to resemble someone a lot more masculine than himself. And then the suspicions and questions will arise, followed by the inevitable paternity test. Once the results come back: 'marriage over'.

There's a ticking time bomb underneath the foundations of my marriage, but fortunately, the timer is set to go off years from now. In the meantime, I'm still teasing my clit with the sex toy buzzing between my legs.

I try to conjure up the older fantasies of big, strong, muscly barbarians with thick cocks and even thicker biceps bursting into my bedroom and taking turns as they ravish me. Before my belly really started showing, I would picture them gangbanging me in a randy masculine contest to see who could breed me, each one taking turns to fuck me and fill me with his seed.

Now that I'm obviously heavy with someone's child, the fantasy unrealistically twists the gang of rapists' behavior to be gentle with my gravid belly as they enjoy running their big rough hands over my pregnant body. They grope and fondle my swollen breasts, pawing at my giant stomach while kissing and licking my clitoris before taking turns fucking me, their long, thick dicks pounding against my cervix, knocking on the doors to my womb.

I don't usually consider it worth adding my husband to these fantasies. He wasn't there during my actual rape, so why should he be present during my fantasies about it? But sometimes, it's fun to have him sitting in the corner or lying on the floor, trussed up and helpless, as a bunch of real men take turns giving his wife the pleasure he can't provide.

There's a tiny part of me that blames him for not being there to protect me. But honestly, given how big and strong my rapist was in comparison to him, I don't think my husband could have done much to defend me from the sexual predation of another man.

I also still know nothing about how my rapist broke into the house in the first place. If he were able to break and enter without leaving any damage or signs of entry behind, he must have been preparing long enough to find out when I would be alone in the house.

The thought that he had been watching me this whole time and had chosen me specifically was somehow flattering and terrifying at the same time. I'm close to an orgasm now, and I moan and pant as my toy teases my clit mercilessly.

My fantasies return to those bizarre birthing fantasies. They're even more bizarre given that I know exactly what labor is like; not something you would ever derive pleasure from.

I try to picture the scene: my husband is holding my hand as I lie back with my legs apart. My brow is glistening with sweat and my whole body is trembling as I moan and struggle to push another man's child into the world. It's an incredible experience, but not the kind that a normal woman would masturbate to.

Then again, my repressed sense of shame reminds me that a 'normal woman' wouldn't orgasm during her rape. Nor would she fantasize about her rapist while masturbating. So, it's probably not a big step up to fantasize about one of the most grueling ordeals she can undergo.

Given how much his cock stretched me out and given how much more this baby will stretch me out, I start to wonder if it's possible for some women to orgasm while giving birth. Before I can think too deeply about the concept, a real orgasm hits me.

A cry of pleasure escapes my lips, enough for the whole floor to hear -- if there was anyone else at home -- and I feel a little squirt of pussy juice leak out of me onto the sheets.

I recline against the pillow, savoring the orgasm as it wafts through my nether regions. I even feel the baby shifting inside my womb, stirred by the pleasure its mother gave to herself. I smile and caress my belly lovingly, happier than ever to be pregnant, regardless of the circumstances that got me pregnant in the first place.

There'll be a reckoning for what happened that night. Even if my husband is none the wiser at the baby's birth, it will only be a matter of time before he notices 'our' third child's features don't match his own. Sooner or later, I'll have to tell him the truth.

But for now, I'll enjoy the pleasure and power this secret gives me.

***

After my morning masturbation session, I clean my toy and wash my hands, then prepare a big lunch in the kitchen. Once I'm full -- as full as you can already be when you're six months pregnant -- I start worrying about the logistics of welcoming a new baby into the household.

We already have a room set up for the baby for when he's old enough, but for the first year of his life, we'll be keeping him in a crib next to our bed. The old crib we once used for both our daughters is too old and worn to be used again -- or so I say. My husband thinks it's fine.

Seriously? He bought a new ceiling fan for 150 dollars and spent two thousand dollars on a new jacuzzi tub, but he thinks a crib we bought a decade ago is fine for our new baby?!

My new baby.

Even so, I need to nag him about that when he gets home. The hormonal pregnant wife card has to count for something.

The delivery is three months away, but I've become very concerned about making sure that the baby's room is clean and ready, even though he won't actually be sleeping there until he's at least a year old. Nonetheless, out comes the hoover until every corner of the carpet is clean.

Now it's time to relax on the couch until the girls come home from school. I pick up my favorite book and curl up on the couch in the front room. I don't curl up too much because it puts too much pressure on my increasingly swollen feet, and my bladder is getting smaller with each passing week, but I'm comfortable enough.

I do enjoy the book, but I have so much else on my mind that my eyes start to glaze over the words on the page to the point that I have to reread passages just to remember what happened. Distracting thoughts about 'the event' -- that's what I call it in my head -- keep intruding in, and it gives me the inexplicable urge to masturbate.

Finally, I give up reading and put the book down on the table. Then I pull down my pants and stretch my aching legs before spreading them as wide as I comfortably can. I don't bother with underwear when I wear sweatpants; they may as well be pajamas.

My fingers find my clit and begin to circle them at a leisurely speed. I close my eyes and recline my head back on the pillow as a new fantasy fills my mind.

My rapist -- this time White as a redneck but with the looks of an underwear model -- looms over me. His muscles are rippling and taut, just like I remember under my fingertips in the dark. His hands have the power to grip my throat as his hips rise and fall between my spread thighs, and his arms are thick and strong, able to hold me at night in place of my husband.

I can feel butterflies dancing in my stomach as my baby -- his baby -- kicks and moves in my belly. I imagine my rapist's long weapon spearing me, stretching my walls with its thickness while his balls are brimming with virile seed ready to flood my pussy, threatening to fill my fertile belly with baby after baby, all dutifully cared for by my clueless cuck of a husband.

I briefly pause my self-pleasure and turn around until I'm on all fours, one hand resting on the armrest of the couch while the other reaches around my pregnant bulk and down between my thickening thighs. I find my love button again and continue to pleasure myself.

My imagination turns up the heat. Now my rapist is entering me from behind. His strong hands grip the flesh of my ample ass as he rams his hips into my cheeks, his cock moving like a well-lubricated piston inside me. My cunt is dripping with pleasure, eager to smooth the passage of his manhood in and out of my womanhood.