My Fertile Secret Ch. 04

My long silky black hair flies in the wind as I strut confidently towards the mall entrance, and I have the presence of mind to hold down the short hem of my dress as a gust of wind threatens to reveal that I'm not wearing any panties.

The mall is bustling at this time in the morning, and I spend most of the morning at the movie theater feeling like I'm in my twenties again. I don't think anyone on the escalator catches a glimpse of my pussy, but I can't be sure, and that's part of the thrill.

I don't really know what's come over me today. I just feel this urge to go out and be daring and selfish. I think briefly of my husband stuck at home, nursing my rapist's baby son like the dutiful little cuck he is, or playing a game with the daughters he actually did father, or playing with himself in private while the baby sleeps and the girls are preoccupied.

Whatever, as long as the house hasn't burned down by the time I get back, I don't care.

I eat lunch at the food court and look around at the happy families gathered to have fun on this fine Saturday. I see a blond man with thick biceps and a military style haircut waiting at a large table in the corner. I see the golden wedding band on his ring finger and have an instant fantasy of disappearing into the bathroom with him.

I imagine him pulling up my skirt and getting down on his knees to devour my married pussy. I picture him turning me around, bending me over and taking me in standing doggy, a more than adequate substitute for my rapist as he fucks me like a bitch from behind.

Then I see him look up and smile with a wave. A heavily pregnant Asian woman walks up with two mixed-race toddlers in tow. The couple exchange kisses and embrace each other as the two boys run up to hug their father. Then the family sits down as a family to eat.

The sight of that happy family, an idealized version of the one I secretly wish I had, punctures my selfish reverie with an injection of guilt. The contempt I feel for my inadequate husband is really just the projection of my own guilty conscience. But the contempt comes so readily when I see how easy it is to pass off another man's baby as his -- fathered by a man he couldn't protect me from. My appetite has diminished, but I finish my meal so as not to waste anything.

Now it's time to go clothes shopping.

I dispose of my tray and go to the bathroom to give my teeth a quick brush, then head off to the department store. I don't have a man with me to do the heavy lifting, so I probably won't buy much, but I would like some sexier underwear. I pick out a set of black lace lingerie with thigh-high stockings and garter belts and proceed to the changing rooms to try them on.

Once I'm behind a locked door, the tension and excitement of walking around with the risk of exposing myself is suddenly gone. I unstrap and remove my heeled sandals before taking my dress off and hanging it up on the hook. Once my strapless bra is off, I take a look at my naked body in front of the mirror.

Daily Pilates and weekly cardio on the running machine have returned my body to the womanly shape I had before having children. Pregnancy and childbirth have really widened my hips and made my breasts full. My thick thighs aren't bad to look at, either.

Looking at my body now, I feel an incredible rush of uniquely feminine pride. I'm in my thirties and still sexy as fuck. In fact, I'm a literal milf. I'm also a rape survivor, but that knowledge is tempered by the shameless fantasies I've indulged in about my rapist.

It's a cliché of pop evolutionary biology that women want caring beta males to help raise their kids and sexy alpha males to actually father them. As a woman, I wonder how many women would willingly risk their marriages just to get pregnant by a man with no intention of sticking around, but if it is true, there's no denying that I've pulled it off beautifully.

My own mysterious 'alpha male' left his mark on my life without my consent, but I can't deny that he's succeeded spectacularly in cuckolding a clueless beta into raising his child. It makes me wonder what kind of life my rapist has. Is he married, too? Does he have a bunch of kids with another woman who looks after them while he's out of town raping other women?

I reach down to my tuft of hair in need of another trim and slide a finger in between my lips, feeling the wetness of my cunt and teasing my sensitive clit. I gasp aloud and catch my breath suddenly, remembering that I'm in a public place and wary of the embarrassment of being asked to leave by staff for masturbating in the changing room.

That would be a hell of a scene to behold. And, of course, my filthy mind substitutes a muscular hunk in place of the staff member who I then seduce into passionate public sex in the changing room. How wild would it be if I conceived a fourth child as a result of a hookup at the mall? What if my rapist were to surprise me instead?

That thought punctures my slutty fantasies, and I decide it's time to actually try on the lingerie.

***

I end up buying the black lace lingerie complete with the stockings and garter belts, along with some more hosiery. There are so many gorgeous outfits on sale I could have spent all day trying them on, but I'm not strong enough to lug it all back to the car, and I don't have a man to act as my pack mule for the day, so I make do with the sexy underwear.

There's hardly any traffic on the roads in the middle of the afternoon, and before long I'm back home parking the SUV in the driveway. I shut off the engine and climb out of the car with my handbag in one hand and my shopping in the other, closing the car door behind me before then closing the garage door remotely.

The girls are in the front room watching another movie. I'd love to interrupt their movie to give them each a hug and a kiss now that I'm home, but I remember my lack of underwear on and decide it's best to sneak past them and get changed first.

They're too engrossed in the movie to notice me or to hear me walking up the stairs barefoot. I make it to the master bedroom without a sound and find no one present. I put my bags down and go over to check on the baby and am relieved to see him sleeping soundly. He licks his lips as he dreams, and I reach in and stroke his ruddy cheeks, smiling at his blissful slumber.

I put my high heels back in the closet and find a place for my new lingerie before putting my handbag back in its usual place. Then I find a thong and slip it on before going in search of my husband -- who really should be watching over the baby. Padding barefoot across the carpeted landing, I see the door to his study is open, and I poke my head through to see if he's there.

He's there all right. He's sitting in front of the big computer monitor watching a video playing in high definition, a pair of headphones covering his ears so only he can hear the sound. I also can't help but notice that his hand is inside his pants, and that it's moving up and down.

It takes me a moment to realize what he's watching since his head is in the way, but I recognize those thick thighs spread wide in the jacuzzi and him kneeling next to the tub. My jaw falls open and a silent gasp of shock and indignation escapes my mouth.

He's watching the video of me giving birth, and he's jerking off to it?!

Part of me wants to storm in there, yank the headphones off his head, and read him the riot act for masturbating to my birth video. Is this what he meant when he said he wanted to record the birth for posterity? So that he could get off to me struggling through the pain of pushing a baby out of my body? What the actual fuck is wrong with him?

I'm frozen to the spot with anger and disgust, so much so that it stops me from marching over and starting the argument I so badly want to have. Even so, some part of me feels violated that he's getting off to the pain I'm in, or even just the emergence of the baby.

I'm suddenly very glad he wasn't able to record the birth of our two daughters when we were at the hospital. Is this really what arouses him? It does occur to me that there's a profound irony in him masturbating while watching his wife give birth to a child that isn't really his. The thought is enough to bring a wry smile to my lips, but it's not enough to dampen my indignation.

He's still watching the video. It's at the point where I'm crowning. I see myself reaching down to touch the top of my baby's head and shed a tear that my ordeal is almost over. Meanwhile, my dear husband is tugging on himself harder and harder as he anticipates the climax of this very personal home movie.

Despite my embarrassment and anger, I find myself equally transfixed as my past self in the video huffs and puffs, mustering the strength for one more hard push. I take a sharp breath as I watch myself inhale and scream on the screen until the baby's head squeezes out between my labia. A moment later, I give a final push and the baby plops out of my pussy.

The only sound I hear is that of my husband groaning as he cums to the sight of another man's baby sliding out of his wife's wet vagina. He just sits there for a moment before grabbing some tissues from a box on the desk while the video keeps playing. He removes the headphones and starts to wipe himself clean.

"Is this what you meant by capturing the birth for posterity?"

He almost jumps right out of his seat in surprise, spinning around on the chair with his pants around his ankles and a handful of cum-stained tissues covering his erection. The pervert and apparent birth fetishist who I'm obliged to call my husband stares blankly at me, unable to deny or talk his way out of what I just caught him doing.

"So...how was your appointment in town?" he asks awkwardly.

"Pretty relaxing," I answer as I enter the study. "Although, if I'd known that you'd spend your time away from me indulging a fetish like this, I'd have come home a lot sooner."

"I, um..." his reply trails off.

"You can explain?" Getting caught red-handed and bare-cocked rules out any explanation other than the truth. "If you want to try anything kinkier in the bedroom, you could just ask."

"I didn't think you'd be into me watching you give birth." He points out lamely.

"You think?" I snap back, giving him a shove in the shoulder. "Maybe cos I was in pain for six hours pushing an eight-pound baby out of my vagina." And it wasn't even fathered by you, you worthless cuck. "Were you fantasizing about me pushing a Black baby out of my pussy or that he would have another man's features?"

I say those things to shock my husband, to unnerve and needle him with point-blank hints about my nonconsensual infidelity. But instead of getting angry, his composure seems to return.

"That would have been quite a way to tell me you want a divorce." I'm caught off guard by the dirty smile on his lips. "But no, I'm quite happy with the way our son turned out. And although you think I'm taking pleasure in your pain, it's really not that."

"So, what is it, then?"

He has no answer. My eyes fall to his crotch, and I notice he's still hard. On an impulse, I drop to my knees and brush the tissues away from his crotch, uncovering his five-inch erection and taking its length between my lips. There's still a trickle of salty seed leaking from the tip, and I shamelessly lick it off and swallow it, gazing up at him while I jerk him off.

"Looks like you're running on empty." I stand up again and turn to leave. I have no intention of doing for him something he can do just fine for himself -- with a little help from my birth video. "Clean yourself up and take a shower," I command.

"Yes ma'am," hubby acknowledges, bending over to pick up the stray tissues.

"And there'd better not be any cum stains left to dry on the carpet." I order him in a sharp and threatening tone. "Since you don't do most of the cleaning around the house, you have no idea how hard it is to get stains like that out of artificial fibers."

"Yes ma'am."

After gathering up the dirty tissues and disposing of them in the waste basket, he takes some fresh tissues and gets down on the floor to clean up any stray spots. I smirk at the sight of him on his hands and knees, cleaning up his own mess.

"One more thing." I kneel down to his level and scowl directly into his eyes. "If I ever catch you rubbing one out to me giving birth again, I'll make damn sure that baby number four is fathered by anyone but you, and I'll tell the whole neighborhood about it."

***

I remain angry with my husband about the birth porn video incident for the rest of the weekend, huffily denying him sex and generally being a passive-aggressive bitch. Something about him masturbating to me giving birth, taking pleasure in my pain, even though he insists it's not like that, continues to leave me feeling icky.

My hypocrisy is astounding. I think it's gross of him to cum to the sight of me giving birth, and the baby isn't even his. On top of that, I'm a woman who fantasizes about the real father coming back to put another baby in me -- by force.

We keep up appearances while he waits out my passive-aggressive phase. We take turns taking care of the baby and spending time with the girls while splitting the chores like we always do. No more leaving him to be a househusband for the day while I go out and enjoy myself.

At the same time, I'm intrigued by the whole incident. What else does he have on the computer? Using my computer science know-how, I get a hold of some spyware with a keylogging feature and wait for a chance to install it. Now that he knows that I know about his interests, he might be more careful about keeping his secrets guarded.

There are plenty of opportunities when he's not around since he's the one who has a day job and not me. The next time he's at work and the kids are in school, I enter the study and install the spyware without any difficulty. The computer is password locked, but it's not long before he returns to the computer, and I use the special app on my phone to find out the password.

It's the date of our wedding. How romantic.

Now that I know the password, I'm suddenly far less enthusiastic about snooping through his files. I found out about my husband's birth fetish completely by accident. Do I really want to know more? My heart races just wondering what I'll find on there. Probably a bunch of porn, but with that fancy video camera he bought to film the birth of my son, part of me screams out the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat.'

Ultimately, curiosity does get the better of me, and I nerve myself to look. It's Friday afternoon, and the girls are staying the weekend at a friend's house and won't be back until Monday. My husband, meanwhile, is still at work, so after checking on the baby, I sneak into the study.

Once I log in, I'm greeted with a simple desktop screen with a web browser, Microsoft Office, and photo and video editing software. Interesting. What kind of photos or videos would he need to edit? I already have an inkling, and I'm tempted to shut down the computer and walk away rather than find out, but I keep snooping.

I go to the documents folder and find a bunch of banking material as well as copyright licensing agreements, which I don't understand. There's nothing terribly interesting except for the video folder, and I take a deep breath before opening it.

I'm shocked by how many video files are there. There are literally hundreds of clips of various lengths, all organized according to date and tagged with locations. I find the longest video and, just as I suspected, it's the video of me giving birth, starting shortly before my husband returned to the bathroom to film me in early labor in the shower.

I exit the video and scroll through the other videos, clicking on one at random. I recognize this room, too. It's a side view of our bedroom from the vantage point of a camera hidden inside the wardrobe. I feel a knot in my stomach as I scroll through the video until I see myself from six months ago, pregnant and masturbating on the bed.

The knot tightens until I'm queasy. I hastily exit the video and look through the other videos. They're all clips of the bedroom, mostly of a close-on side view of the bed, and all featuring me playing with myself or having sex with my husband -- who I now realize is even more of a pervert than I ever suspected.

But then there are the videos with a bird's-eye view. They're scattered throughout the massive folder of peeping tom porn clips, mostly showing me fingering myself or using a toy, but also ones of me having sex with my voyeur husband.

Bird's-eye view? Like the...broken ceiling fan?

I almost leap out of the chair but stop myself. I want to rush back to the bedroom and tear that thing out to check inside it just to make sure I'm not crazy. Did my own husband install a spy camera in the fan in order to record himself and me? But there's something else I have to check first, and this I truly dread to know for sure.

I scroll up to the earliest video clips and find one taken at night. My heart is pounding so hard, and my fingers are trembling so much that I can barely keep my hands steady as I take a deep breath and open the video file.

The spy camera in the ceiling fan has a high-quality night vision filter installed, so it's easy to see the one person lying sound asleep in the bed on that fateful night just over a year ago.

It's me.

A few minutes later, it's not just me. A masculine figure with a powerful muscular physique slowly drags the sheets off the bed and exposes my naked body to his predations. I freeze up in the chair. My eyes are wide and glued to the screen as I watch my rapist climb on top of me and struggle with me for a brief moment as I wake up to find a stranger in my bed.

Then he enters me and fucks me for at least twenty minutes, and I watch in horror and shame as I scratch his back and claw at his ass, shamelessly submitting to my rape and orgasming like the whore I truly am. I can't bear to keep watching, but I can't bear to look away, either.

My husband installed that new ceiling fan shortly before I was raped. And he kept the video in this folder, along with hundreds of others recorded afterwards. He knew all along that another man had broken into the house while he was away. He knew all along that I had been raped. If that's true, he must know that the baby isn't his.

A spike of fear pierces my heart and snaps me out of my horrified trance, and I jump to my feet to go check on the baby. As I turn around, I scream.

There he is.

My husband is just standing in the doorway with a grim expression on his face. I steal a glance at the computer clock and see it's barely five in the afternoon. How is he back so early?

"At least I didn't catch you in bed with another man," he remarks sardonically.

I glance down and see that he has something in his hand. A taser. This is serious.

"You...you...knew...this whole time...?" My head and my world are spinning so far out of control that I can barely stammer out the words. "All of it?!"

"Yes." He's not even pretending to be sorry. "That's my second favorite clip in the collection. The one of you struggling to push his baby out into the world still takes the cake."

My head is feeling light. I can barely comprehend what's happening, but I have to keep asking.

"So, you must have let him into the house."

"I lent him a spare key and told him where to find you." He explained without remorse. "I just watched on a live feed and then kept the recording for posterity."

I want to throw up, but my stomach is too empty even to retch.

"You paid a man to rape your own wife?" The question is so beyond the pale of what I want to believe about the man I married, the man I've been quietly ridiculing as a cuckold, that I have to force the words off my tongue. "And you filmed it so you could get off to it later?"