My Pregnant Coworker

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk reading through some of this journal's earlier entries when Gwen snuck up behind me and pushed her belly into my shoulders and the back of my head. I immediately closed the journal, but she'd apparently gotten a glimpse. "What was that?" she asked; my blood went cold.

"It's...embarrassing," I tried to get out of it.

She moved to my side, put her hands on her hips and looked at me with head tilted in disapproval. "Come on now, Greg! We've shared quite a lot by now, haven't we? What's so embarrassing about what you were looking at in a text document?"

I lowered my head in defeat: it felt like I had no choice but to own up to it, though I feared it might scare her off from continuing to socialize with me. I sighed and began to explain. "It's a journal I've been keeping for the last few months about..." I couldn't quite get all the words out.

Her eyes lit up after a few seconds of silence and contemplation. "Is it about me?!" she asked eagerly. I nodded. "Oh my God, I'm so flattered! You've gotta let me read it, Greg! Please?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, Gwen. It's...pretty private, you know? Like journals usually are?"

She laughed. "It's about me, though! Is it mean or something?"

"No, it's not mean at all. I'm scared...I'm scared it might creep you out," I admitted.

"Oh, don't be silly," she waved away my reservations. "You won't creep me out, Greg; you don't need to worry about that. Email it to me?"

My shoulders dropped in resignation. "Yeah, okay." I sent the file in question to her and she hustled back to her desk to read it.

The next 30 minutes felt like 30 hours. I was about as nervous as I'd ever been, horrified that this would end what we had together. Finally, she walked back over to me...with a plainly distraught look on her face. My heart sank: our friendship was over.

Once she was standing next to me, she suddenly exploded in laughter. "I'm sorry, Greg, I couldn't resist fucking with you just for a second! I loved the journal! I feel so honored!"

I exhaled with a gigantic sigh of relief. "Oh my God, Gwen. Fuck. I thought you hated me!" She laughed. "Good one, I guess. It's really okay, though?"

She nodded emphatically. "More than okay. I loved every word. It made me feel so good about myself, so attractive..." Her eyes drifted towards the bathroom. "I'll be back in a few. I just need to...take care of...something..." Gwen trailed off and rushed into the bathroom. Reading between the lines even a tiny bit, it was pretty damned obvious that she went in there to rub one out. She seemed to have a tiny bit of an exhibitionist streak, if I had to guess what had turned her on so thoroughly.

When she returned (visibly more relaxed...), she promised she wouldn't insist on reading any further entries so as not to contaminate my project of writing it: it could remain just for me. That was very sweet of her.

I cannot believe her masturbation and feeling of flattery were the only consequences of my getting busted for keeping a journal tracking and sexualizing her. The world is truly an unpredictable place.

33 WEEKS

Even with such a positive result coming from the journal incident, I was rather shy around Gwen for a bit afterwards. It was just so awkward to have been busted with such a document by the person it not-at-all-platonically revolved around. I majorly decreased the amount of break time I spent around her, and was far quieter and less vocally pregnancy-curious when I was around her. She noticed, of course, and after a few days of this sent me a message on our company's antiquated instant messaging program.

"I miss having fun with you." That was the succinct first message I received. I didn't respond too quickly, and another arrived from her before I figured out what to write: "I could really use a belly rub right about now!" More provocative this time. I decided to torture her just a bit, like she had done to me with her sour facial expression after reading the journal. I wouldn't respond to her messages; I'd just wait and see how far she'd take things. The ensuing messages, though, left me wondering which one of us was actually doing the torturing at the moment:

"I'm tight as a drum and freshly lotioned..."

"My bump feels like it's going to bust right out of my dress."

"Do you think it would be inappropriate for me to practice my prenatal yoga poses in the office?"

"I think my milk is coming in. Can you tell by looking at my chest?"

"Where do you think I can buy maternity underwear? I've been going commando for a month."

I couldn't handle it any longer. "Would you please stop?" I shot back.

Her "LOL" reached me mere moments after I'd pressed my 'Send' button. She walked right over to me: "Will you take a break with me, weirdo? No one's in the kitchen: come fucking talk to me!" I gave in and took a break with her; she goaded me into talking about and rubbing her belly, breaking the ice and soon making me as comfortable around her as I had been prior to her reading the journal. I'm very happy she put forth such an effort to rehabilitate what we had going; it's good to be close friends again.

34 WEEKS

Gwen approached my desk just after work started two days ago. "I think something's wrong with my car, Greg. Do you think you could give me a ride home after work? I live really close by..." I agreed, of course, though the proposal left me in suspense for the entirety of the workday. Was this a ruse of some sort? How personal would things get, alone and outside the office? Would she be as provocative as she'd been in her messages to me last week? The day felt like it lasted forever with the amount of worrying and internally played-out scenarios I indulged in.

Ultimately, of course, the workday ended and it was time for the ride with Gwen. She was wearing a sweater; she hiked it up above her bump and started rubbing her smooth skin the moment she buckled herself in. Bare belly temptation would be present for our time together, it seemed; and my attention to the road was instantly compromised. "It's hot, right? I cannot get enough of this belly." Those were the first words uttered during our drive. "My husband isn't into it," she continued. "Half the time he won't even touch it to feel his own baby move. It's ridiculous. I feel sexier than I ever have in my life, and I can barely get him to touch me at all."

She paused, then upped the ante: "Pretty much all I think about is dick, and I never get to fucking play with one." Gwen looked at my crotch: I may not have been answering her verbally, but my glaring erection made it clear I was paying close attention to what she was saying (and displaying). Her left hand creeped over onto my right thigh, then down into my crotch to gently stroke my cock through my khakis. It felt divine; I had to stifle a moan after about two seconds of contact. "May I?" she asked. As she'd already put her hand on my dick sans permission, I was curious and eager to find out what exactly she was asking; I nodded my head immediately.

She wasted no time moving her hand to unbutton my fly, unzip my zipper, and pull my cock out of the slit in my boxers. Her cock-stroking technique was of a medium pace and steady rhythm; it also included a subtle twist of the hand that added a special little extra something. It was very, very hard to follow the rules of the road, but I somehow managed to avoid crashing the car. A minute or so in, she realized she could easily turn me on even further; she added visual stimuli as she pulled the sweater up further to reveal her braless breasts. They were dark-nippled and heavy, resting on top of her bump. My eyes were darting around quickly, spending equal time on the road, the tits, the bump, and the miracle of a preggo's hand jerking me off. I came after another minute or two, my load running down her knuckles. She wiped it off on the inside of her sweater: "So I can feel your sticky load and remember the fun we had," she told me. Jesus Fucking Christ.

She left my softening dick hanging out, apparently no longer interested in it now that she'd gotten me off. We pulled up to her house five minutes later; as she exited the car, she said "You owe me one" matter-of-factly before closing the door behind her. Owed her hand-induced pleasure? An orgasm via my choice of method? A view of my nipples? I could not fucking wait to find out. And since she'd mentioned how inattentive her idiot of a husband was, I barely felt guilty at all about helping her cheat a little. She had me even more squarely in the palm of her hand; I'd probably do just about anything for or to her.

35 WEEKS

I had to stay late to finish a project the deadline for which had been abruptly moved up. It seemed I was alone in the deserted office by 5:15; but, of course, I wasn't entirely by myself. The creak of the bathroom door made me look over in surprise; there she was, clad only in a bra and maternity panties. 

Her bump was perfection: tear drop-shaped, elegantly curving from bosom to pubic hair, tight-to-bursting with a dramatic outie of a belly button. Gwen added a sultry motion to her slow walk over to me, somewhat in conflict with her heavily pregnant waddle, but hot nonetheless. Her scant garments dropped off her before she could reach me, her whole glory thus revealed to me. 

She wasted no time, continuous motion bringing her to her knees in front of my desk chair. I got the clear message of her intentions and stood for a moment to help her out, quickly dropping slacks and underwear to my shins and sitting back down. My already semi-hard cock was promptly in her mouth and fully hardened. She gave a mean blowjob, powerful suction doing as much of the work as the bobbing of her head. One of her hands massaged my balls; the other was down at her crotch. The feel of her firm belly against my legs added to my already intense arousal. A few minutes later I shot my load and I shot it hard, rope after rope right into the back of her throat. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she stood up, pushing my keyboard aside so she could sit her naked ass on my desk. Her legs spread, slowly and seductively, vulva displayed ever so clearly.

"Your turn." Gwen only needed to say two words and I was on it. On my knees, face buried in her crotch. I'm not going to brag about my cunnilingus skills or anything, but I think I'm generally more than adequate. My enthusiasm at the moment, though, made my technique sloppier than usual. I was all over her pussy, my usual primary focus on the clit too precise an idea for my current ultra-horny state of mind.

Nevertheless, whatever I was doing was audibly working for her. Groan after groan, muscle-tightening climax after muscle-tightening climax: I got her off three times in five minutes. She then gently pushed my head away from her crotch and threw her head back in exhausted, post-orgasm bliss. After maintaining this pose for 30 seconds or so, she scooted off my desk and headed back to the bathroom, grabbing her underwear from the floor with an awkward belly-hobbled crouch on her way. She exited the bathroom two minutes later, looking like she was ready for a new workday. Without saying a word, she left the building.

This thing we have going is progressing nicely, I'd say.

36 WEEKS

Yesterday was, sadly enough, Gwen's last day before her maternity leave began. She asked our boss if she could have my assistance in wrapping up some of her work before she left; he let us have the conference room. Door closed and blinds shut, the two of us had some real privacy. And no actual work that had to be finished, of course: Gwen's ruse worked like a charm.

We talked for a few minutes, mostly expressing how much we were going to miss each other and the fun we'd been having together. It got depressing quickly, both of us turning quiet. Without breaking the silence Gwen slid her hand between my legs and started massaging my dick through my khakis. After getting me fully hard in about 5 seconds, she took it out of my unzipped pants and started stroking firmly and rhythmically under the table. It was difficult to stifle the groans of pleasure that repeatedly tried to escape my throat, but that was much of the fun of behaving thusly in an operating workplace, I figured. I shot my load after four or five minutes; Gwen had brought a tissue box into the conference room, presumably for this particular mess that she knew all along she'd have to clean up. Her planning ran deep.

I didn't have to ask her to hike her dress up to her waist: she just did it nonchalantly once she was finished with me. And, a sign of even more planning, she had gone commando. I reached over between her legs; she had recently shaved and was already wet. All was fantastic. As I worked her clit between my index and middle fingers, I finger-fucked her with my ring and pinkie fingers. She seemed to have even more trouble staying quiet than I had. A few of her louder noises made me pause and wait for the knock on the door I was sure would come imminently. No one knocked or otherwise disturbed us, though, and I brought her to pussy-clenching climax three times in seven or eight minutes of handwork. Then she pulled her dress back down.

It was a nice activity she'd engineered for us on her final day. Overall, though, the occasion was suffused with melancholy. I would very much miss her naughty pregnant ass being around the office.

37 WEEKS

Even though she's gone on leave, I seem to still be tracking Gwen's pregnancy. She's 37 weeks along and not with me anymore. The boredom and drudgery of my dead-end job has become my prevalent thought, much as it had been before Gwen started showing and magnificently brightened up my situation. I miss her terribly.

38 WEEKS

At 38 weeks pregnant Gwen was, of course, still on maternity leave. She did me a great kindness and brightened my days, though, by starting to send me messages again via the company's old messaging system. We exchanged messages about how boring our days were, how much we missed each other's company, how much fun we'd had over the last few months. 

I believe it was all a warmup towards some more sexually explicit messages she initiated a few days in:

"My huge tits are leaking milk right through my bra and my shirt. It's hot. I could really use some help practicing breastfeeding..."

"The belly's gotten so much bigger and tighter since I started my leave. I'm thinking about you rubbing your dick all over it. Would you like that?"

"I keep thinking about you when I masturbate. Do you think about me when you touch yourself? I'd love that."

"I'm dripping wet and not being attended to. I REALLY want you to finally fuck me properly. I need it, Greg."

I didn't know how to respond to most of them, generally sending back lamely brief messages that didn't add much to the conversation. Sometimes I'd freeze up and not even respond at all. It felt to me like she was probably getting off simply by sending me explicit content; I wasn't so sure the desires she was announcing were even things she actually wanted, much as I wanted to believe there could still be a chance we'd indulge in such fun. I felt vaguely uncomfortable, sometimes aroused, and overwhelmingly sad that these messages were most likely idle talk and our sexual dalliances had most likely reached their conclusion.

39 WEEKS

In retrospect, considering her final message ("dripping wet," "fuck me," etc.), I should've probably been able to guess what was coming next. She was not indulging in idle talk, I found out the next week.

There was a knock on my door Saturday around noon. Gwen was there when I answered, of course. Her bump had indeed grown substantially in the short two weeks since I'd seen her, which I managed to observe briefly before she wordlessly moved in to start kissing me.

It felt...well, right, to be totally honest. We were passionate and sloppy, lips locked and tongues wrestling almost aggressively. My hands were on her breasts and bump, hers on my ass and crotch. A minute or two in I finally managed to back us up enough to be able to kick the door shut. "Bedroom," she managed after a few more minutes of standing just inside the door. I somehow led her there without taking my tongue out of her mouth. 

Even with all the time we'd spent over the months on her bump and more recently on each other's genitals, I hadn't exactly considered us as a romantic pair, hadn't fantasized about the possibility of passion, not even kissing. She'd had to initiate it, but as soon as she did it became crystal clear that I wanted it too. Badly. 

Having reached the bedroom, we were finally forced to disengage our locked mouths in order to get our clothes off. "Are you really sure about this?" I asked once my tongue was available for word production. Eyes wide and very purposefully locked on mine, she nodded emphatically. I was convinced and harbored no serious reservations myself, to hell with how poorly that speaks to my character. I could hardly believe this was happening, but was nonetheless floored by it all. Free of clothes and still exploring each other with our hands, we both had the clear evidence we were ready to go, erection- and lubrication-wise. No real foreplay occurred beyond the kissing and groping that had taken us this far. 

Gwen pushed me onto my back on the bed. "I need you inside me now," I was informed. I nodded my consent as I centered myself on the bed and she climbed up and onto her knees. She swung a leg over my waist with an audible groan of effort and wasted no time lowering her pussy to take my cock in tip-to-base. The weight of her sitting squarely on my crotch, heavily hanging bump resting on my lower abdomen, was straight-up divine. As was the sensation of getting inside her, of course. Her pussy was tight, wet, warm; all the positive adjectives one might apply to a vagina, really. She bounced on my cock hard and fast: after a few seconds of her pendulous breasts swinging wildly she took a tit in each hand, presumably to account for the sensitivity of her nipples easily turning painful with her breasts flying around in every conceivable direction. My hands were on her bump, so firm and tight it moved only slightly as she bucked on top of me.

Her groans were pretty much constant throughout our 6 or 7 minutes of intercourse, occasional increases in intensity suggesting she got off two or three times. Once my own vocalizations began 5 minutes or so in, she gave me my directions: "Cum inside me." That wasn't a problem for me, my cock spasming with magnificent pleasure shortly thereafter. It felt like I shot remarkably powerfully and voluminously; she kept bouncing after I'd climaxed and the great volume was confirmed as I saw my load leaking out of her and down my shaft in multiple thick rivulets. The cum was visibly pooling amongst my pubic hair, her continued rocking on my softening dick spreading it around our respective greater crotch areas.

She dismounted maybe 90 seconds after I'd finished and got on her back next to me with a pleased sigh. Her belly shot straight up, an eye-catching mountain within the rather flat topography of the bed. Not bothering to discuss it, she gathered as much of the cum that had collected above my dick as she could and began rubbing it all over her bump. It was so, so hot. She shined with my seed, the sticky mess she was creating turning gradually whiter and more opalescent on her soft skin. "Sorry, just felt compelled," was the only explanation she provided, though even that much rationale wasn't necessary as far as I was concerned. The level of hotness spoke for itself.

"No apologies, it's really fucking sexy." I leaned over and kissed her for a few moments. "I can't believe we just did that. I barely let myself even fantasize we'd get this far..."