The Calling

You didn't know what it was when you were younger, only that sometimes, you got a funny feeling around certain women and older girls. Almost ghostly, a sense, a presence. It was strangely magnetic. You assumed everyone sensed these things, and that no one talked about them, that it was normal.

High school sex education was boring enough that you missed the relevant lectures; it would take you until college to figure out the pattern.

Ripe women call you. They make themselves known, their bodies unfurling in your presence. They don't know this, of course. Your girlfriend only knows that she wants you as badly as you want her when the moon is full. The girl at the coffee shop doesn't know her body is silently begging you to bend her over the counter and pump her full of sperm. She only knows that when you flash her a smile as you pay for your coffee, she aches with a need she won't dare name.

She'll go home that night and spend the evening restless. She'll toss and turn for an hour in bed, feeling the need grow and claw at her. By the time she grabs her vibrator, she knows, on some level that it won't be enough.

The dildo was a joke, a gag birthday gift from some friends in college, after a breakup. She's never used it. But she kept it. What if someone saw it in her trash?

She washes it with trembling hands and goes back to bed. The buzz against her clit, which felt both under-and-overstimulating minutes ago, takes on a completely different dimension with her pussy full.

She comes hard, and quickly, convulsing around the cock, gasping louder than she might ordinarily. She doesn't know why your face, your crooked smile, drifts across her mind's eye as she comes down from it. She doesn't know why she wakes up an hour later, the streaked silicone still half inside her, ready for more.

The next day, she's even more needy. She eyes her coworkers, the people coming in for coffee, sizing them up in ways she'd normally never notice. When you come in, something dark and hot flips in her stomach.

It's not any different from usual, for you - just another woman (woman? How old IS she?) - at her peak, ready to be claimed. You give her the same smile you always do as she works the espresso machine, her hands moving in practiced, rote motions. She glances up at you as she works.

She steams the milk and puts in your usual half serving of sugar. Your fingers brush as she hands it to you, instead of putting it down on the counter like usual. You have no way of knowing that she's thinking about the coffee shop's basement storage area, and how she'd be able to focus if she could just clear this ache. This need. She is so wet. And the way your nostrils flare ever so slightly when your eyes meet feels like a beacon.

She watches you take the coffee and head out until someone calls her, jerking her out of her reverie.

"Hey! I think that guy left this." The customer lifts a black wallet from the counter. It's simple, but the leather is smooth and soft under her fingertips. She takes a look inside and sees your ID and takes off at a run.

You're already at your car when she catches you. You pause and turn around, eyebrows raised.

"Can I help you?" The words are simple enough, but her cheeks are flushed, and she's panting and your fingers practically twitch at the thought of sliding your hands up her skirt.

She hands you the wallet wordlessly. Afraid somehow that if she opens her mouth to offer an explanation, she'll ask you to take her home. You don't know this, but you take the chance.

"I really appreciate it. Maybe tomorrow, I'll get you coffee? As a thank you?"

Fuck me, she thinks. On so many levels. She shifts a little bit, ever aware of the soaked cotton between her legs, the way her body feels thick and heavy and OPEN. I'd let you take me in your back seat, if you'd have me.

"Oh, you don't have to," she finally says. "Just part of my role here."

You look her over slowly. She has so much potential. There are so many other roles you can imagine for her.

You open the car door and thank her again with a cheerful, "See you Monday!" You start the car and buckle your seatbelt to give her time to start walking away before you angle your rearview to watch her go. You can imagine the shift the cadence of her walk, her steps growing heaver, hips growing broader, swaying a bit from side to side to accommodate a full-grown belly. You give the tiniest sigh, brace the heel of your hand against your fly. Someday.

That night, it blooms in your fantasies. You imagine walking into the coffee shop as if nothing has ever happened between you, ordering your usual. She moves more slowly at eight months and change, but the tip jar on the counter is taking bets - tip your bet into the blue cup or the pink one - and it looks like everyone thinks she's got a boy coming. You slide an extra dollar into the pink cup as she puts your coffee down on the counter. You've done this dance for months now, you watching her grow, watching the way you've changed her forever. She's already picked the adoptive parents, told everyone she's a surrogate for a sweet couple with fertility problems. There is a plan, and everything is going smoothly.

As soon as she puts the cup on the counter, she bends over, bracing herself on her forearms and lets out a long, slow breath. A woman behind you with a stroller leans around with a worried look.

"Honey? Are you okay?"

She nods as she breathes in little huffs, then squats down slightly, her hands still clinging to the edge of the counter.

"Just a second!" she calls to the growing line of customers. And then, in a smaller voice, you hear her say, "Oh, fuck. Oh FUCK."

You come as you imagine taking her to the basement storage room and fucking her through the contractions until her ride to the hospital arrives.

The next few weeks pass without incident. You have the same exchange each day, though now she calls you by name and playfully reminds you to take your wallet when you leave. Her body's call fades within a few days, but that doesn't stop you from getting off to it each night. You can be patient. You've always been patient. You know some things are worth waiting for.

You pick up the traces of it once again a month later, days before you normally might, because you're paying such close attention. She puts your change directly into your palm, hands you your coffee and brushes her fingertips against yours in a way that's almost intentional. A friend of hers comes in and you watch them from the doorway, the high chatter of their banter emphasizing their youth.

You couldn't know that she's changed, too. That dildo has become her constant nightly companion. She doesn't even try to get off without something inside her. A few times, she's considered buying something different. Maybe a little bigger, maybe something with a little more give to it. On the night before she ovulates, she doesn't want to take it out. She slides her panties up and locks it in her pussy, falling asleep with her thumb in her mouth.

She wakes up a little sore, blinking a few times before she realizes why there's a dull, throbbing ache in her pussy. She brings her hand between her legs, pressing gently at the flared base of the cock, panting a little as she works it. Within minutes, she rolls to her back, full awake, and slides a hand into her panties, her fingers slick as soon as they reach her clit.

She finds that there's great pleasure in pushing back against the cock as it thrusts inside her, so she holds it as firmly as she can and pushes, grunting hard with the effort, feeling the tension build and build until it breaks, exquisite - a momentary relief in the need as she comes, pushing. She moves her hand away from the cock and peels her soaked panties to the side, watching in fascination as the cock slips out of her, thick and wet. It takes some more pushing to get the last few inches out, and she rubs her clit again as she does. It's almost too much, but it's so, so good.

She makes to work barely on time. She's distracted in her need, furiously calculating when she can take her break and go rub one out in a private corner. She vaguely wonders if anyone can sense her desperation. She's glad she wore a skirt and leggings today; at least no one will see if she soaks her panties and then some.

She takes her break as early as she can justify it, which is why you catch sight of her in the long narrow alley next to the dumpster on your way in. You pause at the edge of the alley's entrance and watch. She doesn't see you. Her eyes are closed, and her head is pressed back against the brick wall, the rest of her hidden by the dumpster. You slowly start to make your way down the narrow pavers. You can't help it. She's calling you.