For the next few weeks, any time he was close to me, Ben had his hands on my stomach, waiting to feel the baby. I could feel all sorts of movements inside me, wiggles and squirms and kicks, but they were still too faint for my son to feel from the outside.
August passed by too quickly, the weeks slipping away as I grew bigger and bigger. My cute little bump stopped being so cute and little, and began to weigh me down. Getting off the couch was becoming a production. The pressure on my bladder meant ten trips to the bathroom a day. I got sweaty and cranky easily in the summer heat, and spent as much time in the air conditioning with my feet up as I could.
Ben hung out with his friends more as he prepared to go off to school, and I tried not to feel too sorry for myself. He wasn't always there when I wanted him, but we still made love a few times a week. My hormonal surge showed no sign of slowing down.
At least I had those little pokes and kicks to keep me company. They never failed to make me stop what I was doing and smile. At work, in my car, out getting groceries: the world stopped so I could connect with my unlikely miracle baby.
I always felt like crying when it happened. It made me think back to the past, eighteen years ago when I carried Ben in my belly and felt overwhelmed by the idea of being a new mom. It made me think of the future, of how old I'd be when my new son was preparing to go off to college, and whether or not that was fair to him. It made me think of Ben and the precious gift he'd given me, going above and beyond as my son.
In short, it left me overwhelmed every single time those first few weeks. Luckily, strangers and coworkers were understanding. I could usually just shrug away the tears with "hormones." And Ben was always ready to talk out what I was feeling.
It was a week before he left that I finally got to share one of those moments with him. In the third week of August I was just about six months along, and Ben had his hand on my stomach while we watched TV. Sometimes when I felt movement I just didn't tell Ben, because it made him sad he couldn't feel. But suddenly I felt a sharp jab, right under my son's palm, and he gasped.
"Was that him?" Ben asked, eyes wide. He pressed his hand into the spot on my lower belly, trying to get a better feel.
"Yeah, can you feel it?" Ben kept his hand on the spot, his skin separated from mine by an old t-shirt stretched to its limit. I thought the show might be over, but after a few moments the movement repeated. Ben laughed with delight, and I felt quivery and emotional, finally sharing this with him.
I loved how excited he was. "That's him," I assured Ben. "That's your brother." There were many days I felt like we were a normal family, that the child inside me was just Ben's brother and not his son, and I thought it was better to pretend that was the case. But my feelings for Ben had only grown, and our sex life hadn't stopped.
"That's our baby," Ben whispered back, and in that moment he was my man, my mate, the father of my child. I kissed him hard and passionate, the way I couldn't when we first started trying for a baby.
He returned my kiss with force. Our tender moment turned hot instantly. Ben pulled away and grabbed my t-shirt, roughly yanking it over my head. When we'd first started making love he'd been timid and gentle, letting me initiate or asking shyly and red-faced. It felt like a whole lifetime had passed since then.
Tonight, Ben got me half-naked before I could even say a word. He stared for a moment at my transforming torso, my fat breasts with their hard nipples, the round belly where his child was growing. Then he plunged in and grasped both tits, kissing and sucking at my neck, because he knew it would drive me wild.
I just laid back and took it, letting my son have me. I'd never felt so desired in all my life. My pussy burned as he moved his mouth to my breasts, sucking one nipple then the other, grunting. There was another butterfly flutter in my stomach and I moved my hand there.
"That's our baby," I repeated back to Ben, and his hand joined mine. He looked up at me, letting go of my tit. Then he moved his hand down my stomach and into my pajama pants. He tugged at the waistband and I lifted my butt up and he yanked them off. I sat there naked on the couch, waiting to see what he would do.
He stood and I could see the bulge in his shorts. "Turn around," he said, and I obeyed. I grunted as I lifted my cumbersome body off the cushions, then turned and grasped the top of the couch. I bent down, pushing my fat butt up, presenting myself. We'd been using this position more and more as my belly got too big for him to be comfortably on top.
I heard the rustling sound of him removing his clothes. Then his tip touched my entrance. I braced myself. He pushed in hard; luckily I was quite wet already. We both groaned. Big strong hands grasped my wide hips and my son began to fuck me.
That's what this was. Not lovemaking, fucking. My swollen breasts dangled beneath me; my baby-filled belly hung down. Everything rocked back and forth in rhythm with Ben's thrusts. We were animals, unable to control ourselves. In the light of the TV Ben slammed himself into me again and again, stretching me, making me cry out each time.
"Hit me," I whined, and he slapped my ass. It stung in the best way. "Harder!" He followed his mother's orders. In moments like this I felt filthy. The thought ran around and around in my head: this is my son. I'm letting my son fuck me. I'm having my son's baby. I'm disgusting. I deserve to be hit...
Those hormones were really doing something to me.
Ben was going faster, harder, hurting me a bit. I pushed my hips back, wanting him deeper, and he let out an anguished sound. He was so deep it felt like he might touch my womb, and then he wasn't there at all.
"Turn around!" he groaned. I didn't know what was happening. I let go of the couch, straightened and turned to find Ben, red and sweaty, holding his glistening hardness. "Sit down!" I let myself fall onto the couch. My son stepped forward, stroked himself once, and ejaculated. His spunk was aimed at my chest.
He always closed his eyes when he came, but this time he made an effort to keep them open, watching his seed spatter all over me. "Ohh!" he cried. "Ohhhh!" It just kept going, spurt after spurt, raining down onto my cleavage, my nipples, my shoulders, my stomach. It was hot and sticky, dribbling slowly down my skin. He'd never purposely come on me before. No man ever had.
Finally Ben's twitching, spasming penis came to a stop. He stared down at me, eyes wide, shocked.
"Was that okay?" he asked. Whatever animal had taken over was gone now, and my sweet son seemed kind of mortified.
I panted as I met his eye. My hand wandered over my chest, playing with his stuff as it cooled. "Yes," I said, smiling wide, reassuring him. "You really liked that, huh?"
"I really made a mess," he said, and it was true. He'd come a lot. But at least none had gotten on the couch.
