My Fertile Secret Ch 03

One more week.

I have one more week until my due date, and now that I'm on my third pregnancy, I can say with certainty that due dates are bullshit. At best, they're educated guesses by obstetricians to calm the fraying nerves and flaring tempers of heavily pregnant patients and their anxious husbands bemoaning their sore backs and shrunken bladders and wondering when it will end.

Both my two daughters were born almost a week after what should have been their respective due dates, and I'm pretty sure this one will be a few days overdue as well. That doesn't really help my own increasingly stretched nerves, especially given that the big day might spell the beginning of the end of my marriage.

I'm lying in bed on a Saturday morning while my husband takes the girls to the park. I'd love to join them, but not when I'm so tired and aching. I manage to get in my daily steps going up and down the stairs, and I manage my Pilates and pelvic floor exercises just fine, but walking for hours with my aching back and swollen ankles is too much.

My husband was considerate enough to keep the curtains closed when he got up, so the thin rays of light creeping at the corners of the curtains aren't enough to disturb me. What disturbs me is still 'the event'. It's been nine months to the day since 'the event' and I'm still haunted by it, not to mention my shameless reaction to it.

I'm lying on my side with no clothes on. My basketball-sized belly makes even simple tasks like putting on pants and a t-shirt a lot harder, and as helpful as my husband is, there's something a little undignified about him helping me get dressed. So, I sleep in the nude. Not that he minds, since it gives him another excuse to touch me.

I start feeling the need to touch myself, and I run my hands across my pregnant belly, swollen with new life and ready to pop. My touching descends lower until I locate the wild little tuft of pubic hair that crowns my crotch.

It's awkward to masturbate while lying on my side, so I muster my strength and scoot backward until I'm in the middle of the bed and then I roll onto all fours. Supporting my gravid body is a struggle, so I bury my face in the pillow and reach under my belly and towards my crotch.

My fingers slide through my pubes -- which I really ought to shave at some point -- and locate my little button of pleasure. I gasp silently as I tease my clitoris, rubbing it in tight little circles while conjuring up a stimulating fantasy to indulge in.

I've indulged in all kinds of wild birth fantasies during my pregnancy. I even had an incredibly wacky dream about giving birth to my already fully grown rapist who proceeded to rape me on the spot once again. That one was so twisted it got me off for weeks.

But the closer my due date, the less appealing those birth fantasies have become. In fact, they just make me even more anxious about what awaits me. If the baby looks starkly different from my husband, he'll know that something is wrong.

Instead, I imagine my rapist again. He's kneeling down behind me, poised to mount me from behind like a hound mounting a bitch. That comparison conjures up scenes from the first season of Game of Thrones, when poor Daenerys is fucked doggystyle by her Dothraki husband -- the same way Dothraki fuck slaves, as one character informs her.

I spin those half-remembered scenes from the show into a fantasy of my rapist in the guise of Jason Momoa penetrating me from behind. His long, thick manhood thrusting in and out of my birth canal, his strong hands gripping my ass as his fingers dig into the flesh of my cheeks.

I'm moaning aloud, now. There's no one in the house to hear me shamelessly fantasizing about the man who violated me and whose baby is growing in my belly, threatening to turn my life upside down. All I can think about is that big cock pumping furiously into my pussy, stretching my walls out to the max while making me wet with desire for more.

I picture his hips slamming into my ass with force my husband could never muster, his ample sack brimming with virile seed poised to flood my love tunnel and fill me with another baby. I so badly want to be fucked like that again, even if I'm never not pregnant or nursing again.

Will he come back for more? I haven't forgotten how I caught him spying on me masturbating a few months ago -- it had to be him; who else could it be? Is he planning to rape me a second time after I give birth? Will he try to claim custody of my baby? I'm terrified of his return, and yet a deep and primal part of me yearns for it.

The pleasure growing between my thick thighs is growing in intensity, the pressure building to the point that I feel like I need to pee, but I keep going. I rub my clit harder and faster, picturing myself as a helpless slave girl in a luxury dungeon, totally at the mercy of my muscle-bound beast, just a warm body with a wet hole ready to receive his potent seed.

I can feel the baby moving inside my belly as I masturbate, responding to the stimulation of my clit and eager to get out into the world -- him and me both. I'm moaning and gasping into the sheets while straining my arm to reach around my huge stomach. I have to keep going, I have to push on towards that delicious orgasm I keep craving.

I grit my teeth and squeal through them as I climax. The pleasure blooms in my crotch, and the pressure releases in the form of a squirt of pussy juices which coat my tired fingers. I savor the pleasure and grin with satisfaction, treasuring the private moment while it lasts.

As the pleasure subsides, I remove my fingers from my clit and roll carefully back onto my side until I can see that stupid black ceiling fan which never works. The hormonal rollercoaster of pregnancy made me hate that useless waste of money, and my cuck husband for buying it, but with the impending end of my third pregnancy, I've made my peace with it.

My crotch still feels tight, making me realize I need to pee, so I maneuver my enormous body to the edge of the bed and set my swollen feet down on the carpeted floor. The simple act of standing up straight with my huge stomach feels like an achievement, and I pad carefully towards the bathroom -- the first of maybe fifteen or twenty trips I'll be making today.

I pause in front of the head-to-toe mirror, sighing at the sight of my ass and thighs and how they've grown along with my stomach. My breasts have regained some of their former size and firmness from my first two pregnancies, and it feels nice to have a full rack again, despite how tender my nipples feel -- not to mention the occasional leakage.

I'd much rather focus on my changing body than the impending birth. I certainly don't want to focus on the circumstances that resulted in this situation. As soon as I do that, I start to feel the familiar wave of guilt and fear arising from deceiving my husband and how he might react if he discovers the truth. How much worse would it be if my rapist returned?

I shake my head and enter the bathroom, sitting down carefully and waiting for the trickle to come. I look around the expansive bathroom with the big jacuzzi that set us back by two grand. It replaced the old bathtub, and my newly profligate husband also saw fit to install a brand-new showerhead. There's also a space at the foot of the tub where all the shampoo bottles stand.

Once I'm finished emptying my squished bladder, I stand up carefully and flush and wash my hands before returning slowly to the bedroom. Instead of going back to bed -- which I'd love to do -- I take a little walk around the top floor to get some exercise in.

The girls' bedroom is at the far end of the landing with a bright pink door. The baby's future bedroom, formerly a storage closet, is next to the master bedroom, and midway between are the doors to the guest bedroom and my husband's study.

I skirt around the top of the stairs and wander over to the study. My husband only started using it during the pandemic, and hasn't really needed it for work since, and yet he still goes in there often enough to make me want to be nosy.

It's a pretty clean space -- certainly compared to his side of the bedroom -- with a fancy wooden desk and a full office setup, including a big computer monitor covering the window, flanked by a flashy new computer box and the Wi-Fi router. On one side of the desk is a bookshelf and on the other is another table, this time with foldaway legs.

I waddle over to the table and see that it's cluttered with computer equipment. A bunch of spare cables and wires are arranged to one side while in the middle is an expensive-looking video camera as well as a tripod like the kind a professional photographer would use.

I'd never pegged my husband as a photography enthusiast or amateur filmmaker. Then again, I'd always assumed that a chartered accountant like him would also be a spendthrift.

Whatever. As long as he takes care of me and my baby, he can indulge his new hobbies to his heart's content. It won't make him any less of a cuck.

***

I wake up to a gurgling deep in my gut. It's pitch black in the bedroom, except for the bright-red LED light from the alarm clock blinding my sleepy eyes with the fact that it's not quite 4am. I'm more concerned about that groaning feeling I just felt. It's almost like a period cramp except for the fact that I'm four days past my due date.

Is it finally time?

Still feeling groggy from sleep, I climb out of bed, holding my pregnant bulk as I waddle to the bathroom. The first thing I do is empty my bladder -- something I have to do seemingly every hour thanks to the baby pressing down on it.

I sit on the toilet for ten or fifteen minutes too tired to move, long enough for another cramping sensation to make itself known. It feels like another menstrual cramp, and because that's not possible I get an anxious rush of adrenaline as I realize that it really must be time. I try to calm myself with deep breaths and get into the zone, then muster enough strength to stand up again.

I'm already naked, so I clamber into the enormous jacuzzi tub and turn on the shower, letting the cool water flow across my heavily pregnant body. With my huge belly and swollen ankles, I can barely squat down enough to pick up some conditioner, but I manage the feat and stand up again before squirting it all over my gravid stomach and swollen breasts.

After lathering myself all over and washing my hair, I wash the conditioner off and retrieve my razor. Next, I do my best to trim and shave my bikini line, which is hard to do when my belly is blocking my view of my own crotch. It takes me long enough that another, much stronger cramp begins churning in my gut, convincing me that I really am going into labor.

Once I've finished shaving down there, I lean forward against the bathroom wall and start my breathing exercises. I don't need to call my husband. He'll hear the running water and wonder why I'm showering at half past four in the morning, then he'll come in to check on me.

What if he's the father after all?

I remember quite clearly what happened before and after the rape, including the fact that my husband and I didn't have sex for over a week after he returned. My rapist's massive load had free rein in my vagina and uterus, and yet there's a tiny part of me that hopes that maybe -- just maybe -- my husband's seed took root in my womb after all.

Maybe, after I'd refused his advances by claiming I was too tired, he'd fucked me in my sleep; maybe I'd only ovulated again after we'd finally resumed sex. It would be a miraculous relief if it turned out that my husband really was the father. No need to reveal the rape. No need to agonize over the baby's skin tone or facial features. Everything would just go away and my hum-drum life as a wife and mother would carry on as normal.

But I know deep down that that can't be true. I know it as surely as I know that I'm in early labor. Only the pain and the task of quelling it keep me from panicking at the impending arrival of a baby that could doom my marriage.

That black baby birth fantasy doesn't feel so arousing anymore.

I hear a knock on the bathroom door, followed by the sound of the door creaking gently on its hinges as my husband's squinty-eyed, big-nosed face pokes through the gap to check on me.

"Are you OK, honey?" His voice sounds groggy, and he can barely stifle a yawn.

"I--"

Before I can get the words out, another contraction manifests, and I scrunch my eyes shut and groan my way through the pain. I breathe through the pain until it subsides before turning to my husband and finishing my sentence.

"I'm pretty sure it's time."

"Ok, stay right there. I'll be back."

As he closes the door and walks off, it takes me a moment to realize what he just said. 'Stay right there'? What the fuck does he think I'm going to do? Walk out the front door and take a stroll down the street? Maybe he's still exhausted and that's why he said something so stupid, but it doesn't give me confidence as another contraction arrives and I groan through the pain.

Once the contraction has subsided, I reach down between my legs and begin to rub my clitoris. Masturbating helps with period cramps, so why not with this? Sure enough, I start to feel a lot better as the pleasure blooms below, easing the discomfort increasingly pervading my innards. I'm still touching myself when the bathroom door creaks open again.

My husband walks in wearing only his underpants and he's holding a video camera, the sight of which causes me to hastily remove my fingers from my clit.

"How're you feeling?" he asks, still aiming the lens at me.

I feel a lot less comfortable now that I'm being filmed in the shower. He did tell me he wanted to capture the baby's birth for posterity, but now that it's actually happening, I'm not so sure that I want it captured on film after all.

"I hope this is gonna stay as a home movie." I manage to joke.

He laughs. "You shouldn't be embarrassed. Watching a mature woman push a new life into the world is one of the most beautiful things imaginable." He's still filming, and I look away from the camera self-consciously. "I want to capture this moment forever. You'll thank me later."

Before I can answer, another contraction arrives, and I take a deep breath and moan the pain away. As I bend over forwards and breathe through the pain, my husband comes around the side to get a clear shot of my flank.

"Fine," I manage to answer. "Keep filming if you want. Just get me a fruit juice and something to eat. I'm gonna need my strength."

"Will do. Just let me get set up."

I'm about to ask what he means by that when I notice he's holding the camera tripod. He clears the shampoo bottles out of the way and sets up the tripod before mounting the camera in its slot. Then he departs the bathroom to fetch my breakfast order.

As the pangs of labor continue to roil my insides, I get over the embarrassment of being filmed remarkably quickly. Before hubby can return, another contraction bubbles up inside, and I bend over double in front of the camera as I moan and groan. As soon as the contraction has subsided, my fingers return to my special place to relieve the pain.

Fine. If hubby wants everything on film, so be it. When our daughters turn eighteen, I'm sure they'll love watching mommy touch herself while giving birth to their baby half-brother.

***

Six hours later, and my self-pleasuring under the shower water is already a faint memory. I'm leaning back against the side of the jacuzzi, submerged up to my spread legs in lukewarm water as another contraction arrives. I take another deep breath and push as hard as my fading strength will allow, a scream of exertion and pain escaping my gritted teeth.

My husband is kneeling by the side of the tub, murmuring words of encouragement in my ear, and letting me squeeze his hand to a pulp every time a contraction occurs. That stupid camera is still there sitting on its tripod and angled to ensure that my spread thighs and everything in between is all caught in glorious 5K definition. If I weren't immobilized by the labor pains, I'd pick that thing up and smash his face with it.

As if it's his fault that I'm pregnant in the first place.

The pain of transition is grueling. That's when the cervix dilates to allow the baby to squeeze through into the birth canal. My screaming actually woke the girls up, and now they're waiting in the master bedroom while mommy labors. They're obviously not old enough to witness this, which makes me wonder once again why all this is being filmed in the first place.

The physical sensations wracking and roiling my body are so intense that I've almost forgotten that this all came about due to my being raped. But now that I'm several centimeters dilated, the painful presence of the baby lodged in my birth canal and my struggle to push it out brings back memories of another thick fleshy mass that was once inside my vagina. The way the baby stretches my walls is a visceral reminder of my rapist's huge thrusting cock, stretching my pussy wide, stimulating my humiliating wetness before spurting his seed into me.

What will the baby look like? For all my husband's many faults and shortcomings, and despite my many perverted fantasies over the past nine months, he doesn't deserve to be deceived like this. And yet the security of my marriage and the future of my children depend on it. He's right by my side, his fingers interlocked with mine, earnestly encouraging me even as I doubt myself.

My guilty conscience is so strong it nearly counteracts his efforts, but the safety of his presence and his comforting words and touch give me the strength to push through the pain. To push the baby just a little further down. To push a little harder and a little longer, pushing back against my rapist's arrogant intrusion into me, and to keep on pushing his baby down and out.

I look up at the glowing red light next to the high-definition lens. The pain of squeezing his baby out into the world is like a thick veil in my mind, but intrusive thoughts about the man who made my belly swell keep poking through; like the paranoid thought that he might get a hold of the video of his baby emerging from between my vulnerably open thighs.

I'm already giving birth to my rapist's child in front of my clueless cuck hubby. But the thought of being watched by my rapist as I push his baby out of me makes me grin in spite of myself. There's something deliciously exhibitionist about that fantasy. Like the image of a jet-black baby sliding out of my pale-white pussy into my flabbergasted husband's waiting hands, it's the sort of thing I could touch myself for hours thinking about.

At least I would have done a few months earlier, and only as a coping mechanism to distract from the steadily encroaching moment of truth when my rapist's genetic legacy slides out of me at last. Then we'll find out if he looks much different from my husband and if the latter will ever forgive me for the betrayal that's been gestating for the past nine months.

As another contraction brews deep down, my tawdry fears and twisted fantasies evaporate as I brace myself with a deep breath and push hard. I exhale a long loud groan of exertion, pushing hard through the pain and feeling my baby move a little closer to freedom. My husband briefly looks away to check my nether regions below the water.

"You're crowning!" He announced excitedly. "You look about eight centimeters dilated!"

He's an accountant, not an obstetric nurse, so there's no way he could tell for certain from just a quick glance at my private parts. My actual doctor told me that because my pregnancy was healthy and low-risk, I could safely deliver at home, but I vaguely recall that my husband has a full medical kit sitting by the side of the jacuzzi as well as a box of surgical gloves.