Mom Is Pregnant

Mom is Pregnant

The idea for this storyline came from "Anonymous." There was a comment on my story, "Cleo Ch. 03" that read - -

Hi write a story of a heavily pregnant 46-year-old mother. She has lost all her bodily control and her son helps her navigate her pregnancy telling her that she is beautiful. She is carrying twins or triplets and can't even move on her own. Please

- - so here it is.

Well, anyway, here's the start. Contact me, Anonymous, and let's make sure I'm giving you what you want.

Bear with me, Gentle Reader. I expect this to be a long story, many chapters, as the relationship develops and, honestly, I have no idea yet how that will work. You won't find my regular helping of graphic sex here. Well, I think you may get a peek towards the end of this piece but it's mostly an introduction. So if you're in a hurry to find out what Mom looks like naked, how it feels to give herself to her son, how her son enjoys her body, and all the good stuff, well, hang in there. I'm pretty sure it'll all be coming.

This is a bit longer than my usual stories but I couldn't really find a place to break it before I did so, again, bear with me. I think this is going to be a good tale.

Prologue

"I wanted you to be the first to know," my Dad said over the phone, dropping the news on me that Mom was pregnant.

"You're kidding, right?" I said, demonstrating once and for all that I can truly be the single most inconsiderate person in the world sometimes.

Now, in my defense, this is NOT the kind of news you expect from the man for whom you and your Mom had arranged a surprise BIG Five-Oh party when he hit 50 a couple of years ago and, since I took and passed third-grade arithmetic, I could do the calculations and things summed to my mother being 46 as I received the news.

"Oh, come on David," he said, that sternness in his voice still having power over me even as a 24-year-old graduate student finishing up my Master's degree in history.

I forced a smile into my voice and said, "I'm sorry. Congratulations. I'm happy for you. It's just not something I ever expected to hear."

He laughed his strong laugh that pulled a smile from me even as I tried to recover from the shock of his announcement.

"Not something I ever expected to tell you either," he said.

"Well, congratulations," I said, not really knowing where to go with this conversation.

"Okay, Son," he said, "I love you and now you can talk to your mom for a bit. We're going out to celebrate and I need to call and make a reservation for dinner."

"I love you too," I said and heard an inaudible exchange on the other end before Mom came on.

As things turned out, I was glad that the last words I ever said to my Dad were "I love you too."

"Knocked up," she said, following with that happy laugh of hers.

I could picture her. Mom, for all of my life, had been the, well, the "stout" woman who was the primary female feature in my life. She wasn't what I'd call "fat," and certainly not "obese," but she was no lightweight either. Think Valerie Bertanelli when she co-hosted

Kids Baking Championship

or, probably better, Jane Russell in the Playtex bra and girdle commercials I watched in my

History of Media

class.

"Is Dad out of the room?" I asked.

She giggled and said, "Yes, Honey, just the two of us."

"Sooooooooo," I drew the long "O" out, "is it Dad's."

Since that time when I was in 7th grade and they had a break in a water line and closed the school, allowing those of us who walked to go home, and I walked in on the neighbor balls deep in my mother we had a pretty, well, "open" relationship. Yeah, I was a kid and used my special knowledge for leverage sometimes but it wasn't

exactly

blackmail and I think both of us kind of liked our special relationship.

She giggled and said, "Yes, Honey," and after a brief hesitation added, "I'm almost certain."

I laughed and said, "Okay, Sluterella, gotcha. Well, congratulations, and NO drinking tonight."

Her voice was soft and serious when she replied.

"No, Honey, no drinking for the next eight months. This is my last chance and I'm not going to blow it," she said.

I chuckled and said, "My replacement?"

She laughed back and said, "No, Honey. No one can ever replace you in my heart."

"Okay," I said, "Congratulations. Enjoy your dinner and take care of yourself and my new brother or sister. I'll see you in a few weeks."

"I love you," she said.

"Me you too," I replied and hung up, turning back to my computer and the course paper on the impact of rent control on the housing market, a paper for my

Government Economics

class.

I got the call at 2:42 a.m., the time burned in my brain since it was on the clock on the bedstand as I muttered, "Who in the fuck is calling me at two forty-two in the fucking morning."

Chapter One

"David Morgan?" the voice on the phone asked.

"Yes," I replied, a sudden rush of adrenaline giving me that odd weak knee feeling as my mind thought

Oh, shit, this can't be good.

"Mr. Morgan, this is Doctor Fredericks at Moore Trauma Center," the voice said, and in one of those weird

non sequiturs

to which my mind is prone I wondered if doctors had an actual class on how to talk in that sonorous, oh-so-concerned voice, "there's been an accident and you should probably come down here."

"Mom and Dad?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, "they need me in the Oh Are now but you need to get down here."

"Doctor..." I started, but realized I was talking into an empty line.

News like that tends to wake you pretty fucking quickly.

I rolled out of bed, went to the bathroom to pee, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and headed out. My apartment in Golden, my home while I was in graduate school at the Colorado School of Mines, was convenient to I-70 and Google Maps told me I was only nine minutes away from the

Ernest E. Moore Shock Trauma Center

.

I made it in seven.

The small grey-haired lady at the Reception/Information desk looked up.

"David Morgan. Doctor," and I realized I couldn't remember his name so I started over.

"My parents, Jim and Annette Morgan were in a car wreck..." I managed.

She held up a finger for "just a second," looked at her computer screen, and handed me a little printed map.

"You are here," she said, and then gave me a series of rights and lefts to get me through the Labyrinth that is a modern hospital. After what seemed like a mile hike I arrived at the garishly labeled

Trauma Center

with a big red sign over the double doors.

"David Morgan," I said to the lady at the desk just inside of the doors. I was a little breathless and added, after drawing a breath, "My parents were in a car wreck."

She held up a finger, looked at her computer, hit a few keys, and said, "Have a seat in the waiting room," she pointed, "and someone will be out as soon as they can to talk to you. There's coffee, soft drinks, pastries, and some snacks in there."

So, I assumed the pose you've seen in a dozen movies. I grabbed a

Coke

and a donut and sat on one of those torture devices they call hospital waiting room furniture, perched on the edge, leaning forward, the television babbling words I didn't really understand, worrying, fretting, frightened.

Some time later, minutes? Hours? A guy came in looking, well, doctorly. I estimated him at 45 with steel grey hair and Jon Hamm good looks. Hell, the guy could play a doctor on TV.

"Mr. Morgan?" he asked approaching me.

I stood.

"Yes," I said.

He didn't say anything, just sat on the chair next to the one in front of which I was standing, another move like the voice of concern that I'm sure they taught. The implied instruction to sit was clear.

I sat.

"Your parents were in an accident. I'm sorry," he said, "we did everything we could and we're very good at this stuff, but your father didn't make it. Your mother is alive, in a recovery room right now, and you can see her when we're done talking. The baby is fine."

He stopped, letting this all sink in I suppose.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I know it sounds stupid," he said, "but pure bad luck. Wrong place. Wrong time. Drunk driver."

"Was my DAD drunk?" I asked, the sudden rage exploding in me.

"No, no," he said, holding his hand up, palm out, placating, "Your dad's blood alcohol was point zero three. I'd say he had a couple of beers with dinner. No, Mr. Morgan, the guy who hit them blew a point two four, three times the legal limit, and, of course, he walked away, unscratched."

I hadn't known you could literally see red when a rage got too bad but, well, now I do. The pure rage ran through me like an explosion.

"Your father was killed immediately, that's what happens when almost three tons of pickup truck centerpunches a 40-year-old muscle car," he said, "it's a miracle your Mom is alive."

The hours dad had spent, often with me in tow, restoring his 1962 Chevy Impala SS, tuning that ridiculous 409 engine to produce well over its rated 425 horsepower, and polishing the damn thing until you could comb your hair in it flashed through my mind in a kaleidoscope of little vignettes. How many times had he said, "They don't make them like this anymore?"

And, of course, he was right. They make them much safer today. If they had been in Mom's Chrysler 300 Ghetto Cruiser they'd probably both have survived.

I drew a deep breath.

"Okay," I said, "what about Mom?"

He stood and said, "Come with me."

I followed him deeper into the labyrinth, hoping I didn't run into a fucking Minotaur. By that point in this terrible night, the thought of a man with a bull's head did NOT seem impossible.

He led me into an office and flipped a switch that showed an X-ray of a human skull.

"This is your mom," he said.

I looked, not having a clue what I was looking at.

"This is a problem," he said, tracing a circle around a dent in the area that would be just above and behind her ear. There was a spot with lines radiating out from it, almost like a spider's web. "It's a spot fracture where her head hit something hard. It's what we call a depressed fracture. It's a problem but, according to the neurosurgeon, not life-threatening. We'll monitor but unless there are complications she'll probably just heal."

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"This," and he pointed to a dark line, deep into her brain, almost to the brainstem, "is the long-term problem."

"What the fuck is it?" I asked.

"Dunno," he said, "but the problem is that hook on the bottom," he pointed. "If we try to pull it out it will tear on its way out and in order to get to it he'd need to cut a lot."

"What do we do?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said. "The problem is that part of the brain is called the hypothalamus and it controls a whole bunch of things in the endocrine system. So we'll need to monitor her very closely and if there's something that goes haywire we'll re-evaluate."

I heard one of those messages that always seem to be going out over the sound system and he stood and said, "That's me, gotta run. Your mother is in two seventeen," he offered me his hand and I stood, "right down this hall and second right. The nurse will show you in."

I only got lost twice.

"Now remember, Mr. Morgan," the nurse said and I realized I was getting used to being called "Mr. Morgan," something I had always thought of as my Dad's name, "she had a lot of trauma so don't be shocked."

Which was, of course, a stupid thing to say.

I was shocked.

My mother, that stout, robust, central figure in my life was somehow diminished, almost, well, "shrunken," lying there in the bed. One of those chrome trees standing beside the bed had three different bags of something, the hoses from them a spaghetti snarl into a single IV that was taped to the back of her hand. As I watched, something in a machine looking kind of like an open laptop computer beeped, there was a buzzing sound and the blood pressure cuff on her upper arm blew up like a balloon and then deflated, and the machine emitted a satisfied beep. A bag of pale yellow fluid hung from the bed rail and the smell in the room made me suspect that her bowels had released.

I stepped closer and the tears finally came.

The hair on a large patch of her head was gone and a big white bandage was in place. I figured that was where the fracture was.

But it was her face that made me cry. Both of her eyes were black. Her nose had been broken. A line of tiny stitches from the corner of her eye almost to her ear had fixed a cut. Her upper lip was swollen in a classic fat lip.

"That's all superficial," the nurse at my side said. "She's on a

propofol

drip, what they call an 'induced coma' on the medical shows, to keep her asleep, well, mostly to keep her from moving around until any swelling goes down in her brain and we're sure she's stable."

"How long?" I asked.

"Honey," she said, "I'm an old nurse and I say more than I should but, well, fuck it, they haven't fired me yet. I'd be surprised if she's released in less than a week or more than two. There's not a thing you can do here, so go home," and she laid a comforting hand on my arm, "you have a lot of shit to take care of. We'll call you when we're ready to wake her up."

So, I did.

I kissed Mom gently on the forehead and let that cold-blooded part of me out a little as I stood for a moment, looking down at her, very much aware of the image I was showing for the nurse. I figured if someone took a picture right then it could be titled something like "Loving Son Watches Over His Mother."

In a bit of cosmic irony, Mom moved and the sheet fell away from her right breast. The title of the picture changed to "Loving Son Ogles Mom's Big Tit." It was a nice breast, large and flat sort of hanging to the side of her ribs. Her nipple was large and dark, on an oversized areola. There was the dark side of my mind again, asking myself,

"Hmmmm. I wonder if the pregnancy hormones are already kicking in?"

Then I locked that part back up, said, "Thank you," to the nurse, and went home.

At home, I poured myself a healthy shot of Dad's fancy

Glenfiddich

Scotch.

I won't try to replicate the stream of consciousness of my mind the rest of the night. Hell, I don't remember it very clearly, to be honest. I sat and drank and thought and eventually, woke up.

I made a few obligatory calls the next day, Aunt June, Dad's sister, Uncle Frank, Mom's brother, and a couple of cousins.

I finished Dad's bottle and went to work on mom's

Grey Goose

.

The next morning, the second after the wreck. I woke thinking, "ENOUGH!"

I showered, shaved, and went into Dad's office. He had always been free with allowing me to use his computer, so much better than my laptop when it came to reproducing documents or art, and soon enough I was in. And then I was working my way through a rat's nest of folders and files. Dad was a lot of things, but an organized computer user was not among them.

Ultimately I found what I was looking for, his, well, his "Death File" I guess you'd call it. To get to it I had to go through

Personal>Documents>Miscellaneous>2022>Documents>Insurance and Stuff.

Then I spent a couple of hours looking through documents full of polysyllables and legal jargon.

And numbers.

Jesus, Dad, it turned out, was a bit of an insurance junkie. Just the most basic things, a life insurance policy with a face payout of one million dollars and a double indemnity for accidental death would yield one hundred thousand dollars a year if invested at a nice, safe five percent. Another half million dollars would come from the death benefit associated with his high-end car insurance policy. There was a

mortgage life

policy that would pay off the house and a

long-term care

policy that, if I understood what I was reading, would provide Mom with any care she needed.

There was a contact item for a Joseph Joseph, LLC and I chuckled as I keyed in the number, wondering if it was a family practice or if this was one of those guys with two first names. It turned out Joseph Joseph (two first names) was an old fraternity brother of Dad's and a one-man practice. I told him what happened and he told me to stay home, not to talk to anyone -

ESPECIALLY ANYONE FROM AN INSURANCE COMPANY

- he added, his voice just dripping with disgust.

"Mr. Morgan," he finished, "stay home. Don't do anything. I'll call you back later and we'll sit down and figure out what happens next."

One of the things I found in Dad's "Death File" was his funeral arrangements wish. Which, as it turns out, were pretty fucking basic - no funeral, no burial, cremation, and, per his note,

"Do whatever you want with my ashes as long as you don't do something stupid like keep them around. I won't care, trust me. I'll be dead."

Joseph Joseph called later that day, by which time I was four shots into Mom's Grey Goose and had about half of a nice fat pot joint in me. We set an appointment for ten o'clock the next day.

And I realized I was bored.

I called a couple of girls I knew but neither was interested in a session of hot, sweaty monkey sex.

A bit drunk, quite a bit high, and moderately frustrated, it struck me that I was alone in the house with absolutely no worries that Mom or Dad would come home and catch me.

Giggling, I went up to my bedroom, stripped naked, and then went into my parents' bedroom and started, well, snooping. It's a big bedroom with a big bed, what I think they call a California King, and a big walk-in closet. There were two big chests of drawers, nightstands on each side of the bed, that big four-poster bed, a small desk with a mirror at which I had seen Mom putting on makeup sometimes, a door into the

en suite

bathroom, and a big double folding door that led into the closet.

I knew, you know,

knew

that there was no chance someone would walk in and "catch" me but I still had to fight down the urge to look over my shoulder, as I opened the door to the walk-in closet. On the right were Dad's clothes. I recognized the suits and sports jackets, the slacks and ties, pretty much his work uniform, hung neatly, left sleeve-out, along the rod at the right. Shoes were lined up neatly. Ties hung on a tidy rack.

The same sort of almost compulsive neatness showed on Mom's side. Her skirt and blouse combinations, slacks, and her few dresses hung neatly, shoes underneath, with a rack for her belts. As I moved deeper into the closet, things got more, well, interesting. I found a single-piece pantsuit, what I later learned is called a jumpsuit, in a scarlet silky material that would cover her from neck to feet and ankles but was completely open in the back. There was what could only be a plus size Catholic school girl uniform, a body stocking in black with cutouts for ass and boobs, and about 20 variations on sheer nightgowns ranging from a short baby doll to a floor length number so sheer I could have read a newspaper through it.

"Mom," I whispered, "you slut you."

My cock, as I played with these things, was so hard it was throbbing.

On Dad's side, things were just as, I started to say weird but I think I'll stick with, interesting.

He seemed to be into the cowboy thing. There were a half dozen variations on chaps and vests, the chaps had odd rings where the leg flaps parted.

Now, in my defense for what follows, I'll point out that it had been a traumatic time and I had been slamming back that

Grey Goose

with abandon, so forgive me if, and in this case I'll use the word, things got a little weird.

I took one of his pairs of chaps down, belted it around my waist, and then puzzled out how the ring where the leg covers parted worked. Well, once I had the belt cinched it was pretty obvious. I worked my balls through the ring, carefully, it was a pretty tight fit. The second ball followed and then my cock.