Pregnant & Pampered

Maggie took off and I used the intercom to ask for another woman to come to my room. I wanted to eat some pussy, Maggie's wonderful shower performance having gotten me into the mood. I could've taken advantage of her nude presence in my bathroom and gone down on her right there, but it only occurred to me that I was cunt-hungry once she'd taken her leave of me.

The woman they sent me was also expecting, probably four or five months along by the looks of her. Ladies relatively early in their gestations were frequently put to use to service further along ladies, just as long as they were agreeable to the proposition and it didn't interfere with their own whims or preferences. "Are you up to 69 this evening?" She very much was. I laid on my back on the bed and she positioned her more easily navigable body above me. Our bumps rubbed against each other sensuously; I always loved that sensation, a frequent one to experience in a mansion filled with preggos.

She seemed unpracticed cunnilingus-wise, but she got the job done nonetheless. I was more intent on eating pussy than I was on being eaten at the moment, anyway. If I may say so myself, I did quite a job on her. Maybe the pleasure she was receiving was distracting her from doing a better job on me. Regardless, she did get me off; it just took about twice as long as it had taken for me to climax any of the many previous times this day. In that time I got her off thrice, if my counting of her convulsions over my sucking mouth was correct. She moaned into my pussy with each orgasm I gave her, her hot breath shooting directly up against me in a very pleasing manner.

The woman left once we'd separated our mouths from each other's crotches. It was nearly bedtime, I decided. I could go to sleep for the night pretty much whenever I wanted, and I was pretty consistently exhausted. Before I did, though, I wanted a little bedtime story. I summoned what they called an "entertainer," someone skilled in providing certain types of performances for the pregnant women here. They tended to be very good storytellers, I'd found over my months here. One arrived a few minutes later, a man in his forties wearing a black turtleneck and jeans. Besides my meals, this would be the first non-sexual service I'd received throughout my day.

"Your body is doing magical, magical things," he told me, his story less a traditional narrative than a series of affirmations about my gestating body. "You are a picture of femininity, the fertile height of your identity as a woman. Your curves become you, your belly a beauty to behold. Your growing breasts will nourish. Your hips will provide safe passage into our waking world." I thought this all was a load of hippie nonsense, but it did relax me and make me think pretty highly of myself.

I slept like the baby inside me, drifting off to fantasies of the next time I'd be a resident here. It was never too early to plan another pregnancy, after all.