The Surrogate Ch. 01

Author's Note: Well, Gentle Reader, this is a shameless appeal for help. Like any writer, I suppose I qualify as a "writer" although "author" would arrogate myself to the ranks of Stephen King or Robert Heinlein or Earnest Hemmingway and I certainly do NOT do that. I actually think of myself as a storyteller. And, as you can see, my mind often wanders into digressions.

Back to the point.

I need your help. It seems that every morning I wake, early at my age, and there's a new storyline just needing to come out. Unfortunately, since there are only so many hours in the day and I DO have other things I do, my Thursdays with a group of friends pretending I can play my guitar and sing the blues or my ongoing gig writing papers for lazy college students, some storylines get lost. I recently returned to Margie, for example, one of my favorites but she got knocked out of my mind by other projects. And some of my stories, see "Becoming Sharon" for example, while fascinating to me are WAY on the fringe and may not appeal to enough to continue.

So here's my ask. If you like a story or hate a story, if you want me to continue with the line or kill it, please take a few seconds and leave a comment. I read EVERY one of them, believe me.

Now, let's see how David and his beautiful bride are doing, shall we?]

Chapter One

"I got a contract," she said, smiling at me, her educated fingers touching those spots she knew so well, bringing me erect, playing my body like an instrument at which she was a virtuoso.

"Excellent," I said, using my fingers to find her places, watching as she twitched, enjoying her sudden little sharp intakes of breath.

"You've been getting too skinny," I added, my hand lifting the soft, stretch mark-mapped pouch of her belly, the soft, gorgeous evidence of the eleven pregnancies she had taken to term and the eleven healthy babies, seven girls and four boys, she had brought into the world naturally. She's a professional surrogate and her beautiful body shows the results. I'm always proud when we visit our favorite "clothing optional" beach so I can show the world how lucky I am.

She giggled at that.

"Skinny compared to one of those old fertility Goddess statues maybe," she said, covering my hand and giving herself a jiggle, "but I was never skinny in any objective way."

I kissed her and, as often happens in the morning, one thing led to another.

And as often happens, I flashed back to the first time I met Nancy.

It was at a wedding. What is it about a wedding? Nancy was the Matron of Honor, the aunt of the bride. I was the third groomsman for my cousin, the groom.

The way we were seated at the post-rehearsal dinner placed me next to Nancy and I was captivated. I don't believe in "love at first sight," but I was certainly in "lust at first sight." In part, it was the way she was dressed. She had on jeans, obviously made to accommodate her pregnancy, and a T-shirt that proclaimed, "Bun Baking in the Oven." I felt stupid but couldn't stop my eyes from drifting down to where her distended belly button poked out against the tight material of the T-shirt.

I guess my interest was palpable because she reached down and pulled the T-shirt up, showing her belly.

And it was gorgeous. It was magnificent. It was spectacular. It was, quite literally, breathtaking.

Her pregnancy was carried low and her belly looked like she had swallowed a beach ball. Her belly button poked out, a distinct little mound right in the middle. The mass of dark stretch marks seemed to radiate out from that little peak.

"Oh, Jesus," she said, giggling, and reached, caught my hand, and laid it where I was staring.

I didn't realize a man's cock could get hard that fast. We've all seen the phrase "sprang erect." I sprang erect and had to squirm around to accommodate myself, making her giggle again.

"I'm glad you approve," she said, smiling now, and for the first time I heard her voice without the giggle. It was oddly girlish, high-pitched, and breathy.

I liked it.

The stretch marks on her belly were so deep I could feel them through my palms, and the round protrusion of her belly button was hard when I touched it.

"Now," she said, pushing my hand away and pulling the T-shirt down, "can we have a conversation or should I find a new seat?"

We talked for the rest of the night and before I said good night to go to the groomsmen's party I knew I would marry this woman.

The night we met, I was 18 and she was 36. Yes, we had fun pointing out that I was her barely legal toy boy, she was a cougar, and I was exactly one-half her age. It turned out she was a professional surrogate and freelance writer. The writing was mostly non-fiction. She was popular among the graduate schools where doctoral candidates needed help turning their dust-dry research projects into reports that could be read without the reader falling asleep.

It was, of course, the surrogacy thing that caught my attention.

"So," I started, not sure how to start the conversation, "How many times have you been a surrogate?"

"This will be Number Seven," she said, patting her belly, and the way she said it made the capitalization obvious. It was like it was the name of the baby or something.

"Is there a limit or something?" I asked.

"Wellllllll," she said, drawing the alveolar lateral, the "L" sound, out for dramatic effect, "if you Google it you'll see that five is the limit but my doctor and I don't operate within the system."

Okay, yes, this was a strange conversation, but we turned out to be a strange couple.

Before the night was over I had her phone number. Before the week was over we had our first date. Before the month was over, we were married.

I'm not sure that in the history of the world, hell, in the history of the universe, there was ever a more perfect match.

There was the sex, of course, and the sex was beyond anything I had ever imagined. I wasn't a virgin when we married, but with Nancy, I learned what sex was truly about. It was so far beyond the simple, you know, draining the old dragon that I had experienced, that my language almost fails. What we have is beyond fucking, it's making love. It's a true blending of two souls.

At first, I had been, reluctant. It was our third date and It had become clear that what we had was far beyond casual. We were at her place, my own little apartment shared with two other college boys wasn't fit to bring her to. Hell, it was barely fit for human habitation.

Dinner had been delicious, she had paid as she always did at that point in our relationship, and the surf and turf, steak and crab legs, had been almost orgasmic it was so good. The movie afterward had been okay, the latest in the Fast and Furious franchise. We both enjoyed the cars and the actors. She was in lust with Vin Diesel and I had a bit of a crush on Jordana Brewster, about the only skinny woman I ever found attractive. Dancing at a Club afterward, beer for me, iced tea for her, had been fun, and, as usual, I was amazed at how light she was on her feet considering that her center of gravity was about two feet in front of where it normally was.

Then, at her place, I froze.

I enjoyed undoing her buttons, unhooking her bra, getting to my knees to get her shoes off, and then doing socks and the soft pants she wore, and finally those immense granny panties with the padded crotch.

And I just looked.

She giggled and blushed.

"Approve?" she asked.

"Jesus, yes," I said softly, "You are beautiful."

And she was. Her breasts were big, not huge, but big. When I peeked later I found her bra was a 38D. They sagged dramatically, evidence of the six children she had borne and the seventh on the way. Her nipples were oversized, sitting atop oversized areolas, very dark as blood flooded them, preparing her to feed the baby. Her body was well padded, the "baby fat" a million generations of evolution provided to meet the exigencies of a bad harvest or a cold winter in evidence. Her thighs were big and soft and cellulite dimpled with that baby fat, her calves thick as well, and her feet were swollen, the arches plump and her toes small little sausages peeking out.

It was her belly, though, that was her most obvious feature. By then she was into her ninth month and delivery would be soon. Even her mons Veneris, that beautiful mound of Venus of her sex, was stretched and distended as her labor grew near. Her belly was a mass of very dark stretch marks, almost as dark as her nipples, and the stretch marks continued around her hips to her ass. They were sexy and gorgeous. The stretch marks on her breasts, in contrast, were very pale and even deeper. I could feel them easily with my fingertips.

She was sex incarnate. She was fertility come to earth. She was Earth Mother and Gaia. She was the perfect personification of female. She was femininity condensed into a single being. I wanted her so badly I could almost taste my desire, but I was afraid, well, I had this image that I might hurt her baby.

When I hesitated she frowned.

"Don't you want me, Honey?" she asked and a tear ran down her cheek.

I laughed, quickly undid my buckle, belt, and button, and unzipped and pushed my pants down.

"Any more questions?" I asked, my erection showing my interest clearer than any words ever could.

"Then what's the problem?" she asked, her eyes still overflowing as they met mine.

"I'm, well," I started but then wound down, blushing and feeling stupid.

"What?" she asked, the genuine curiosity showing on her face and in her voice.

"I'm afraid I'll hurt the baby," I blurted out.

She laughed then, a genuine laugh, full of mirth.

"Oh, Honey, don't worry," she said, touching my cheeks with her fingers, "you won't. Hell, in just a couple of weeks I'll probably be wanting a good orgasm to get labor started."

"Won't I, well," and I chuckled a little, "you know, squash the little rascal?"

She laughed and said, "Oh, well, we'll need to work out the logistics of that."

With my stupid concern out of the way, I could start exploring her in earnest, and I did.

I explored her like a blind man, learning her shape and textures with my fingerprints. When I ran my fingers through her hair, thick and dark, call it auburn shading to red in places, with a few grey hairs scattered in and you have it, she smiled and started serving as a tour guide.

"One of the benefits of the hormones of pregnancy," she said, her fingers playing in my hair, kind of mirroring what I was doing, "is my body provides natural hair conditioner. It's not this oily when I'm not pregnant."

I buried my fingers in her hair and made a fist, gathering them and drawing a sharp little intake of breath from her.

"This is a truly gorgeous mane," I said, slowly pulling my fingers through it. I watched as she closed her eyes and smiled, enjoying the sensation.

"The other side of that," she said, catching my hand when it was clear of her hair, "is I sprout hair in the damndest places."

She guided my hand down, and I watched as she brushed a group of four hairs right at the bottom of the ball of muscle at her shoulder, the deltoid muscle. I brushed them lightly, chuckling. They were thick and stiff. Hell, it looked like I could put some insulation on them and conduct electricity.

"Where are your tweezers?" I asked.

She giggled at that. "Seriously?" she said.

I kissed her, a good kiss I thought, and said, "Yes."

She rolled her eyes, giggled, and said, "In the right drawer of the vanity."

I hopped out of bed and ran into the bathroom. Well, sort of faux ran. There were only a few feet to the door. I found the tweezers, a good pair that looked kind of like a pair of scissors with little flat pads in place of blades, and returned to bed.

She was watching me come, an odd little smile on her face.

I didn't say anything. Instead, I tucked my tongue into the corner of my mouth, deliberately making my face the image of concentration, and plucked the first of those offending hairs. Okay, I don't know why, but I found it sexy the way the skin where the hair was rooted pulled into a cone before the hair came free, but I did. I held the hair up, making a production of inspecting it in the light before I laid it on the bedside table.

And things changed as they do sometimes. In part, it was the way her womanscent suddenly hit me, that wonderful, pheromone-laden fragrance of an aroused woman, nature's way of bringing a female's mate to readiness. In part it was a subtle change in her face, the way it changed from playfulness and sexual anticipation to a serious interest, almost a scrutiny as she met my eyes.

She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, holding my eyes, and drew it in again.

"Marry me," she said.

"What?" I said, playing for time but also demonstrating that I am not, sometimes, the brightest bulb in the chandelier.

She giggled and demonstrated that surprising athleticism I would learn to enjoy as she rolled away from me and got out of bed in one smooth motion. She walked around the bed and offered her hand. I took it and she, well, didn't exactly "pull" me but she encouraged me to get up.

So I stood.

She held both of my hands as she slowly eased to her knees, an odd combination of ponderous and graceful as she did it.

She took another one of those long, slow, deep breaths, let it out, and inhaled again.

"David Morgan," she said, holding my eyes, "You have captured my heart. You are my soulmate."

Another of those deep breaths, exhalations through her nose, and then another intake.

"Will you marry me?" she asked.

Okay, it was crazy. I know that. Hell, I knew that as I watched her turn my hand over and kiss my palm, her eyes holding mine with an odd sort of pleading in them.

I had known this woman for a little over a week. We had been on three dates. Hell, I didn't even know her middle name, her favorite color, or whether she liked Dion and the Belmonts.

"Yes," I said and got to my knees so that I was facing her, our knees touching, still holding hands.

"Marry me," she said, laughing softly.

"Yes," I said and bent forward to kiss her. It was awkward since I had to bend at the waist to reach her lips with mine, working my way around her big belly. It was a good kiss, her lips soft and her tongue playful.

"Marry me," she said again, breathing a little heavy now.

"Yes," I said, and this time she wrapped her arms around me, pulling me across her hard, distended belly. Her mouth was demanding, the kiss was wet and slick and I realized her nose was running a little. Her fingers entwined in my hair, twisting, not hurting but holding me hard against her.

She pushed me away suddenly, held me at arm's length for a long five count, and said, "Marry me."

"Yes," I said for the third time and it was like the dam broke.

She stood, faster than I thought possible with the way her weight and center of gravity were so distorted, and this time she DID pull me, almost dragging me to a standing position before demonstrating that weird, unexpected athleticism and practically levitating into bed.

"Come here," she said, her voice an odd combination of demanding and pleading.

I started to crawl between her knees but she stopped me.

"No, David," she said, "lay her beside me."

For the next couple of minutes, she gently guided and pushed and pulled, getting us into position to make love around her belly. The way it worked was this - I was on her right side. She lifted her left leg and my left leg went under it. She pulled her right leg and I moved around so that it was against my chest. And then I could slip inside of her.

She was loose and wet and hot. There was no friction at all as she engulfed me.

"Marry me," she said.

"Yes," I said and then gasped as she squeezed where I was inside of her, almost pulling me in.

"Hold still now, baby," she said.

In that position, about the only part of her I could kiss was her calf and the inside of her knee, so I kissed her calf and the inside of her knee. I touched the skin with my tongue and made it a good kiss.

She started moving then, just a slow, almost imperceptible rocking of her hips, and I embraced her leg and kissed her foot, oddly warm and soft with the weight she carried.

"Marry me," she said.

"Yes," I said.

And she came.

This was like nothing I had ever imagined. I enjoy porn and had seen the videos that featured women "squirting." I think the term is female ejaculation. I always assumed that was some sort of special effects. I tried to picture how it would work. Water balloon maybe?

But what Nancy did that first time we made love was far beyond anything I had seen in those videos. She didn't "squirt." She "sprayed." She soaked my belly and thighs. It was hot and wet and the womanscent of her release changed subtly, becoming somehow spicy if that makes sense. She squeezed and sprayed and squeezed and sprayed and she was making an odd wheezing sound as she tried and failed to catch her breath.

And it went on. I was holding onto that leg, riding with her as she spent.

Finally, she relaxed although, thinking back, "collapsed" is probably a better word. She was panting, gasping actually, her head on the pillow, her mouth wide open as she struggled to pay off her oxygen debt.

When I started to move she suddenly tensed and grabbed my hand.

"No, David, stay, please," she said softly.

So I stopped moving and she drew in another breath.

We held that position, joined, her spent, and I watched as her breathing slowly returned to normal.

She suddenly gasped a breath and relaxed.

"Okay, David," she said, her voice soft, almost conversational, "your turn."

She started moving her hips in that way I learned she had that drew my best from me. She would relax and squeeze, push and pull away, take me in, and almost push me out with vaginal muscles so perfectly trained.

And it lasted. It was perfect. What she did was beyond simple pleasure. This was that terribly overworked word, ecstasy. This was what the angels feel, if there are such things, when in the presence of God. This was beyond a religious experience. I needed no intermediary like a priest or the bible.

"Marry me," she said for the seventh time and I exploded inside her. This was beyond cumming. Beyond the simple biological process of ejaculation. This was a perfect blending of two bodies and, yeah, I know it sounds silly and trite and cliched, but it's true. This was two souls becoming one, two bodies becoming one where before two lonely halves had been.

"Yes," I said, kissing her knee, my body thrusting over and over, almost spasming in my ecstasy.

"Yes," she said, thrusting against me.

How long that lasted, the ecstasy of our completion, I don't know. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? All are possible.

In the end, of course, nature took over. I softened and slipped out. She made a soft mewing sound and I gasped.

We got untangled and I moved to lie beside her.

"Will you marry me?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

As if to put the ultimate finishing touch on this perfect night, when I opened my eyes I saw a drop of thick white milk form on her nipple.

And that is how the night of our betrothal ended, as I latched on and began nursing at my bride-to-be's breast.