Octomom plus Two

[©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS OVER THE AGE OF 18; NO EVENTS DESCRIBED ARE TRUE]

Caveat: if you dig the Octomom and the idea of pregnancy, then soldier on; if not, you are dismissed.

*

My name is Thurman. I am a billionaire. I bought one of those many on line website gossip columns that have an occasional presence on TV as well. I paid much too much for it, making the obnoxious two guys who founded it rich beyond their expectations and even more insufferable, if possible, than they were before.

I couldn't be concerned with that. I bought the site not so much to make a net profit, but really to get my hands on the pulse of society. I didn't give a damn whether Lindsay Lohan was arrested or not arrested, doing lines of coke or not. Frankly, I thought she and her friends were damn hot and I wanted just a tiny look into that world. You see (here comes the sob story...), I had to work all my young life and never really had time to 'make the scene'. I never married and I really missed out on THE most valuable asset in the world, a good spouse, and the 2nd most valuable asset in the world, the children that would result from the 1st most valuable.

I always kept up on the issues of the day, which were stories in the news, especially ones that we would be breaking. When I asked about the Octomom, and the AP story that she had to auction off some of her possessions, the young stringers (reporters) all laughed.

Tory, 22, just out of UCLA, snickered, saying: "Old man, she was news a long time ago. That's yesterday's news, dude!"

I specifically encouraged the kind of loose collegial atmosphere that would allow this bloke's rude comments, so I didn't bat an eyelash. All I said was: "Excuse me; Myron, can I see you for a second?"

Myron was the coordinator of the news crew and damn good at this Hollywood and national news biz. I told him: "Look, call me crazy. I know you have staffers doing everything else BUT this, so I would like to jump into the shallow end and see if there is still anything of interest surrounding our old friend, the Octomom."

He DID look at me like I was crazy. He said: "Hey, I am sure that there is nothing there but a pathetic display of begging publicly for help in raising 14 rugrats. But, you ARE the Man, you are the head honcho. If you want to do a report, then I will book you roundtrip. Have a nice one."

What did Mel Brooks say in the History of the World, Part One? "It is GOOD to be the king!" No sooner had I raised the issue then I was off flying first class to see the Octomom. It would be quite a contrast, too. She with Mother Hubbard problems of childcare and no money, me with no children and tons of money.

I came to her door and she answered it herself. I could hear in the background all sorts of sounds of children, including the unmistakable sound of infants. It had a strangely mesmerizing effect on me almost instantly. I had called in advance so she was not surprised by my visit. She saw me in.

I sat down on a relatively ratty cloth couch that had seen better days. She excused herself. It was 10 pm and all of the kids had to be in bed, if not asleep. I asked if I could help.

She looked at me with that famous doleful expression--her lips strangely outsized, her face deceptively beautiful (to me at least.) She said with 14 kids, she couldn't be polite. Yes, she did need help.

When I arrived at her humble abode, I wasn't sure about my feelings about her, her legion of offspring, and the whole aura of the Octomom. I know that people are split, some envying her fertility if not lifestyle choices, others thinking her a carnival sideshow. I was leaning to the latter until I arrived in her home.

Seeing the endless line of cribs, bunks and beds, I was ashamed to admit it...it got me damned hot. For someone who desperately wanted a family and had none, like me, this place was like a temple of new life. I just had to make like Larry David, and 'curb my enthusiasm'.

We finally got all 14 of the young pups settled, with bribes of rubber nipples, teddy bears, 3 bottles, and other devices. It was actually quiet...for the moment.

We escaped to her living room. She told me that she had had a sale to raise money. She even had to autograph and sell her nursing bra. For some reason, that hit me square in the family jewels. Under my gabardine slacks, my deep frozen old fun toy started defrosting, reaching to 4 of its total 8 inch size.

I asked: "Tell me, was that REALLY your nursing bra, or just one that you got for the auction?"

Octomom: [laughing] "Oh, it was real all right; you DO know that women don't just wear one bra continually, don't you?"

Me: [embarrassed] "Well, sure, now that you tell me! Anyway, I don't know what you got for it, but I would've paid $1,000 for your real autographed nursing bra..."

Boing...she leapt up and zoomed to her room. Out she came with this enormous device looking more like bat wings in white than a bra. She closed the nursing patches, grabbed a marker, signed it, and handed it to me.

I asked: "How do I know that this is a REAL nursing bra of yours that you reaaly used?"

Octomom: "Well, you can see the front, where my erect nursing nipples pushed out the front until the material formed these little bumps. Also, if you look, you can see the white material has some ochre or eggshell color, where my breastmilk might have leaked a little. You can even smell that mother's milk, if you take the time."

I grabbed the bra, saw those gentle discolorations of crème color, and then took a deep breath. Holy Hanna but I could smell the distinct scent of milk, which I presume was mother's milk. That dairy smell...some would be off put by it, but it got me turned on again, and my eight inch rod assumed steel hardness. Ms. Suleiman (the Octomom) had to notice it too.

I started an interrogation of the whole phenomenon, going over territory that she had had covered many times. So, I asked her was there any minutia that people didn't ask normally.

Octomom: [thinking] "Well, most people except nursing moms don't know the almost magical correlation between their breasts and the babies' needs. The babies are sleeping now, but if some of them cried to be fed, you would see my body respond, with a life of its own."

I smiled politely, thinking "sure, sure, sure." I soldiered on with my interview, recording all of it on our digital recorders; those palm devices that are the life's blood of the industry. All of a sudden, one of the infants cried out, waking the one sharing its crib, so that two now gave the eternal "Wah" sound. We (ok, she) would have to staunch this or all 14 would be up again. As she left the room, something struck me that I couldn't put my finger on. She moved too fast for me to see clearly. The Octomom was back in no time and then it hit me. BAM.

The Octomom was wearing a simple blouse, her not inconsiderable charms jiggling right beneath. But the thing I noticed, right on cue per our last conversation, was that her nipples had erected just from the sound of the two babies, needing and wanting to be fed. There even was a mild leaking of her sweet, warm, nourishing mother's milk.

The sexy Octomom sensed something in the air. She went back and fetched both babies, holding them to her breasts. I had never seen a nursing bra before, but suddenly its weird design made sense. very soon, I felt overpowered by the sound, that "zit zit zit" sound similar to a squirt gun, only much more gentle. It was the glorious sound of the babies suckling the warm, sweet, precious milk from the Octomom's glorious breasts. Then something else hit; that scent of vanilla, of milk. She returned the babies to their cribs and came back, only to see her guest turning shades of blue...out of utter excitement.

Gasping for air, the Octomom looking on befuddled, I did the most embarrassing thing I had ever done in my life. Her bathrooms were taken up with all sorts of things drying, etc. They were not a room you could just run into for privacy; as a matter of fact, the doors did not close on either bathroom.

Desperate, I excused myself. I ran to her kitchen, which of course was also open but 'private' if she wasn't standing nearby. I sat on a dinette chair, opened my fly, grabbed that eight inch long firecracker ready to explode, steered it up in the air, and let fly. Unfortunately for my sense of decorum, she arrived at the entryway as I grunted and let fly a copious spend that reached across the 11 foot wide kitchen, knocking over all of her seasonings and pushing the flour tin (5 lb.s full) about 3 feet down the counter. I finally caught my breath and zipped up. She was speechless.

I turned with dread, sensing that she was there.

Sure enough, she was. Her big lips formed a sympathetic smile.

I said: "God, I am so embarrassed and sorry. If I broke anything, I will pay for it. As it is, I owe you a $1,000." I wrote her a check.

Octomom: "I understand. To most men, especially young ones who are immature, they don't know that making children, and raising children, is the highest form of manhood. Most of the young ones, I am afraid, just like to play games and avoid the real problems of life. Of course, there are other men, like you, mature men, that understand all of this and even get turned on by the prospect of making life, pregnancy, and all that is entailed." She actually rubbed my leg, smiling at me. Sure enough, I was as stiff as granite again, and only after 10 minutes.

She continued: "I know that some people laughed at my predicament as a self-made hell, while a very few others saw it as a self-made heaven, one that they would give anything to experience, to be a part of." Her hand, with a deftness and boldness that amazed me, went within an inch of my manhood, making my thigh the center of interest briefly.

Trying to regain my composure, her hand firmly ensconced on my thigh, I said: "Am I correct in that you broke up with your old man?"

Octomom: "The press got it right for once, yes we did break up, but we are on friendly terms, for whatever that is worth."

I said: "Well, is he a source of any ongoing support?"

She shook her head, smiling. She smiled because she was following my train of thought. I just wish that I did too.

I said: "Am I also to believe that...I don't know how to ask this without...oh hell...that all of your children were created without the conventional technique of 'procreation' being used?"

Octomom: [smiling] "That is true. That always surprises people who think of me as Mother Hubbard or some welfare queen. But the truth is, I have never gone the traditional route, roundtrip, and given birth after, umm, experiencing a man." [her eyes bore into mine with laser like intensity.] She said pointedly: "Not that I would object to that. If the right man came along, preferably someone mature and with money to support all of us, I could actually see having one last child or two. The idea of going to bed with someone with the stated intention of making a baby I think is the ultimate turn on, don't you?"

Her eyes bore into me, those famous pouty lips moist. Her fantastic nipples were at full attention, the slightest dampness around them indicating just a bit of drizzle of her tempting warm milk. I forgot why the hell I was in that seedy apartment. I came up to her and motioned for her to get up from that worn out couch. She was wearing a loose frock, a robe really, and flat terry slippers. I am 45 and in moderate shape (for a billionaire at least.) I grabbed that frock and ripped it off her. Her breasts came out, large, very large. They had the most exquisite veining on them, light green, light blue, a tiny bit of red. Her nipples were brown and quite large, Nature not knowing about formulae and expecting her to nurse all of those infants. She was now nude and I gently, lovingly, placed her flat on her back on the couch. It was my express intention to fuck the Octomom. I had no children anywhere on this planet and my (insane?) desire was to get her pregnant. No logic could interfere; the Octomom was going to be knocked up properly, for once. Also for once, a man would be there who would have the green to pay for all of this.

My eight inch cock slid along her silky smooth thigh on the route to its appointment in her now once again incredibly, supremely fertile vagina. The most fertile, reproductive woman in the history of the world, and I had her at my beck and call. Our lips met as I entered her damp pussy entrance. She moaned in pleasure. I have to admit that at first, it was as loose in there as I feared, what with her history and all. However, almost instantly, her vagina found its inner strength. Her cunt muscles 'showed up at the right time', the four powerful bands of muscle grabbing my cock. With a powerful squeeze, she showed me that she was not a loose fitting old worn-out bag but instead, still a vibrant, sexy woman.

At one moment, I opened my eyes only to find her eyes slotted open. I kissed those famous lips, we stared into each other's eyes, and I asked her, pleaded with her, to have my baby. We kissed passionately as my uncut cockhead swelled in excitement, the tiny slit expanding its opening to the size of a thumb.

With a resounding moan of pleasure, I manfully jetted my load as deep inside her as I could. Spray after spray, jet after jet, it was like a big city fire company battling a five alarm fire. Finally, the incredible ecstasy subsided. My eyes re-opened and the Octomom was absolutely tearful. I asked: "What's the matter?"

Octomom: "Nothing, but it was so sweet, so incredibly beautiful to feel a man, with maturity and the wherewithal to backup what he says and does, express himself so forcefully. It felt like you were melting, deep inside me. I could not feel your body, your weight, anything. All I could feel, sense, taste, was your hot spend, those never ending squirts of your manly virile seed. You were relentless as you seeded me...hard. I now consider myself seeded properly." She laughed.

I tried to catch my breath. Sex for a 45 year old after a break of a few months (ok, years...), is exhausting. I wondered if I had done 'the deed' on her. I asked: "I am hardly an expert on these matters. Did we hit the 'sweet spot' on your cycle, or did we just have a fun time for no other purpose?"

Octomom: [she sexily brushed those pouting lips across mine] "Well, I don't always keep a minute by minute chart of my body, but I think that we are one or two days off. If you can spare the time, and if you want me, you should stay here for a couple of days at least to make sure of things." [her demeanor changed to concern almost instantly.] "You won't, you won't leave me, will you?"

I said: "If you were looking for Mr. Right, he's arrived. To make you feel more secure, I am going to pay off this place so you don't have any more immediate bill concerns. I will have my secretary pay that stack of bills over there, too. My question to you is the same: you won't forsake me, will you? I have everything in this world, BUT a child. You have nothing BUT children. I want desperately to have a child, now, here, with you. Please let me get you pregnant!"

The Octomom got up; my copious spend dripping out of her down both bikini waxed smooth thighs. She bent over and kissed me firmly on the mouth, and ran to the nursery. With her motherly radar, she had heard a faint infant distress sound that completely eluded me. She came back and motioned for me to come to her bed. I let her do a cowgirl type of thing; holding her up, her generous breasts a handful, she felt mighty warm, mighty good. And, when she lowered herself so that I could suckle her warm, sweet mother's milk, I took an enormous gulp. As I was swallowing it, the rush that I got made me rise up from the bed, forming an arch she was impaled upon. I released another torrent of life-giving seed, my copious semen teeming with lively vibrant babymaking sperm.

I stayed there two more days. After the kids were put to sleep, we'd frolic in her bed. Watching whatever show was on, I would alternate between fingering her into orgasm, drinking her warm, sweet breastmilk (a real aphrodisiac), or simply mounting her and shooting enormous truck loads of seed.

I finally had a scoop for my guys back in LA. Myron asked me three times if this was a joke by one of the guys.

Well,I finally convinced him that it was for real, with the story being: "Octomom plus one. News from her humble abode is that she has found her Mr. Right. He has agreed to pay all of her accrued expenses and future ones. EXTRA: the sugar daddy has also consented to be the one to start her next project: babies the old fashioned way. She said that she would not stop until she reached her final goal, which was having 20 babies."

I am slightly ashamed to say that our efforts only produced twins. I guess it was something I did wrong. But, on a positive note, we went back to her quack doctor, and he helped ensure that the last pregnancy would be her, well, last pregnancy. We had quadruplets. So, it was all so neat. She had her goal of 20, I had a family finally of 6. The original 14, doomed to a life of poverty, now would be put on the road to education and perhaps inherited wealth. The Octomom and I lived happily together (for seven years, anyway). I was absolutely delighted to save her, ending our very warm relationship with her getting a very large home with eight bedrooms and six bathrooms. I helped those kids get into some of the better schools, though some of them did not pan out.

Billionaire or not, I could never have purchased the comforting warm feeling of her exquisite milk filled breasts, the tightness and welcome that her receptive womb afforded me, and the passion, love, and devotion that I shared, if only briefly, with the Octomom, the queen of pregnancy, fertility, and producing beautiful babies.