The Surrogate Ch. 02

I woke as the bed rocked while she got up. The clock on the headboard said 2:13 and it was still full dark. Well, it was full dark outside the windows. The light from the bathroom was bright enough that I could watch her. And I loved watching her. She walked in that awkward, leaned-back way of all women at full term which is to say, all women at their absolute best.

When she was out of sight I rolled out of bed and followed her.

Her eyes got big when I walked into the bathroom and kissed her.

"No secrets," I said, kissing her again, "no privacy," kissing her again, "and no silly modesty my betrothed," I finished, quite proud, actually, of that little speech.

She giggled.

"Betrothed?" she asked.

I chuckled and again was struck by how odd this scene would look if it was being filmed. Here I was, bending to kiss my bride-to-be as she sat on the toilet, peeing, I could tell she was peeing because of that strange little hissing sound she makes when she pees, and talking about language.

"Required literature class," I said and kissed her again, "I've been kind of playing with language lately."

She laughed then, a happy sound, and started pulling a couple of feet from the toilet paper roll.

She folded the paper into a pad, and grinned at me, the phrase "mischievous grin" popped into my literature-class-addled mind.

"Front to back," she said, handing me the pad of soft paper.

No, I don't have some sort of pee fetish, a scat fetish, or any of that stuff. What I do have is an intimacy fetish. I like doing those things with Nancy that she has always, ever, done alone. All of those things considered, you know, "private." And this was certainly that. She was ponderous as she moved around and lifted herself enough to give my hand room. I kissed her as I wiped her, carefully front to back as she had directed.

When my hand was free again she looked at me and it seemed proper, not some sort of silly hyperbole or "artistic license," to say her look was full of love.

I kissed her again.

"Well, betrothed," she said, mirroring my archaic word, "you're going to be spending a lot of time in here with me then. Number Seven," as she said that she gave her belly a rub, "seems to be destined to be a tap dancer and she uses my bladder to practice."

I chuckled and helped her to stand.

As she washed her hands and brushed her teeth I stood behind her and just looked. In the harsh light of the bathroom, her back fascinated me. She carried the baby fat in a pair of rolls on her back. The higher one, at her shoulder blades, almost looked like a pair of breasts while the lower one, thick where her waist had been at one time, was so tempting that I grabbed it and squeezed gently.

"Are you playing with my fat?" she asked, meeting my eyes in the mirror before betting back to work with the toothbrush.

"I'm admiring your beautiful body," I said, pressing against her, my hands slowly caressing the roundness of that big belly before pressing her to me.

She giggled at that, rinsed, and spat.

"You don't have to flatter anymore, Davey," she said, "I already said yes."

"Say it again," I said, nuzzling the softness of her neck.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, yes," she said, tilting her head, offering herself.

"And it's not flattery," I added, my hands caressing her belly, "you are beautiful."

"God, I love you," she said, leaning back against me.

"And I love you," I said, nuzzling her neck and tracing the back of her ear with my tongue. When she shivered I made a mental note to pay attention to that spot.

"I have a doctor's appointment this morning," she said, "would you like to come with me and see how things work?"

"I'd love to," I said, "but if I don't get you back into bed pretty soon I'll just explode and you'll have to call 911 to have my carcass hauled away."

She giggled. "Carcass?" she asked.

"Literature," I said, taking her hand and pulling her, gently, toward the bed.

I helped her onto the bed and she crawled up on all fours and then held that position.

"This works too, Honey," she said.

I just stared.

Jesus, her belly hung, swaying, her belly button brushing the sheet. The size of her ass was on display, and the cellulite-dimpled tops of her thighs with that sexy softness, jiggled when she giggled softly. But mostly it was her pussy, distended with her advanced pregnancy, the outer lips, her labia majora with their covering of thick, coarse, very curly hair nestled comfortably in the soft flesh of her thighs and those delicate inner lips, her labia minora, dangled. They were pink and shiny with her excitement. They looked like lips needing to be kissed, so I kissed them, giving her body more interesting jiggles as she shuddered.

I scooted forward, knee walking, each move making her body sway, even those soft fat pads of her well-stretched pussy, movements I found myself unable to look away from. So I entered her, amazed once again at how loose she was at first and how her perfect muscular control seemed to pull me in as she accepted my full length. My hands found those soft rolls at her shoulder blades and I squeezed them, loving the way soft flesh squeezed out around my fingers.

I laughed and almost slipped out when she mooed softly as I set up my rhythm, slow and easy, and began, not massaging but squeezing that soft roll in a rhythm matching what my hips were doing. Her womanscent, that unique identifier of every woman, was sweet perfume and I inhaled deeply as I squeezed and thrust and felt her getting wetter and slicker where I was inside of her.

I liked the way her breathing quickened and then the sudden rush of her climax, the sudden tension in her body, and the soft keening sound she made. I liked it all.

"Come on, Baby," she started saying, "fill me up. Please, Baby, give me your gift."

I thrust harder, thinking that was what she wanted.

I was right.

"Harder, Baby," she said, "Give it to me."

My control was good, though, and I kept going through her second and then her third orgasm before the demands of my body took over and I gave her what she wanted.

I came hard, and almost reflexively dug my fingers into the soft flesh of her hips, making her cry out in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

"Marry me," I said.

"YES!" she cried.

"MARRY ME!" she yelled.

"Yes," I said, releasing my grip and rubbing her back gently as I softened and then slipped out, followed by the gush of my semen and her nectar that left her thighs slick and shiny.

I crawled up beside her and caught her nipple between my thumb and forefinger and tugged. She mooed softly as I squeezed and pulled, drawing a drop of her milk.

Her arms were trembling by then, the strain of carrying her weight showing so I helped her to lay over onto her side.

I took her nipple into my mouth and sucked, but only another drop came, thick and sweet.

"My milk will let down after I deliver," she said, brushing my hair with her fingers, "then I'll feed my husband in earnest."

I chuckled, caressed her cheek with the tips of my fingers, and said, "Soooooo, tell me about this doctor's appointment."

She smiled and said, "Doctor Jim and I operate a unique service," she started.

I listened, captivated, as she described just how she and her doctor/partner/friend provided this "unique service."

When she finished I said, "Jesus, you're serious?"

She smiled, turned around, glanced at the clock on the headboard, and said, "You'll see in a little over an hour. Now help me get decent."

There was that unexpected athleticism and grace as she quickly rolled out of bed and before I could grab her she was headed for the bathroom. I followed and watched as she turned on the hot water and brushed her hair while she waited for it to run hot. When she had her hair looking good I watched as she soaked a handtowel in the hot water and then stepped to the tub, put her right foot on the edge of the tub, bent over, and started washing between her legs carefully.

She smiled as she kept washing. "As much as I love the feeling of you running down my leg, I don't think it would be appropriate for Doctor Jim."

I grinned, moved to her, covered her hand with mine, and took over the cleaning duties. "We can always put it back," I said.

So we got her clean and dry, no longer leaking, before we started getting her ready.

I just watched, fascinated, as she transformed from my wanton bride-to-be into a very pregnant 30-something mother-soon-to-be. I helped her with her hair, brushing it until it was a soft, fluffy halo framing her pretty face.

Then I did her face. I'm good with makeup, a skill learned from my mother. By the time I was done, she would have been believed if she cut 10 years from her age and a careful bartender might have asked for ID. She looked wonderfully innocent and slightly big-eyed, making a delightful contrast to the huge belly that led her into a room.

I watched as she picked out those big granny panties she wore and as she slipped some sort of a pad, I peeked later and saw the name on the box was Assurance. I guess I was looking curious because she smiled as she worked the panties up and then adjusted the pad. "Because," she smiled and said, "Number Seven likes to dance on my bladder, and no matter how many Kegels a day I do, sometimes accidents happen. Around you it's okay, betrothed, since, as you have made clear there is no modesty, no privacy, and certainly no shame between us. But we're going to the doctor and I intend to hit you up for lunch too and I don't want to be embarrassed."

I closed the distance and kissed her.

"You're beautiful, diaper and all," I said.

She slapped me then, well, she sort of slap/punched my chest. "Not a diaper, meany, just an embarrassment preventer."

I chuckled, said, "A distinction without a difference," and jumped back when she tried to hit me again.

I watched as she put on her heavy-duty nursing bra, something I think is just about the sexiest thing a woman can wear. Then as she tugged one of her endless variety of T-shirts on, this one simply saying, "Knocked UP." I was as taken then as I was the first time I saw her by the way her belly button poked out against the tight material. Finally, she put on wide-bottomed flowing slacks, cut to fit over her belly, and stepped into her open-toed flat shoes.

"God DAMN!" I breathed softly, "You are SO beautiful."

She giggled, did a slow turn, and said, "Thank you, sir."

I figured this was kind of a formal deal so I put on one of my button-down, Oxford cloth shirts, a pair of khaki slacks rather than the jeans I usually wore, pulled on a pair of argyle socks, and stepped into my loafers.

We killed a little time, watching the news and kibitzing. We're an odd couple, reversed from the norm. She's 18 years older than me and still the college liberal she had once been. I was the college student, one of maybe a dozen self-identified conservatives on campus. So we argued in the happy way of people who don't take things too seriously, over how smart/stupid this or that was.

"Okay," she said, standing and turning off the TV in the middle of some talking head's rant, "Let's go meet my Doctor/Partner."

I drove her car. She's a bit of a motorhead, and her Mustang had great gobs of horsepower and three pedals. She could manage it, but to make room for her belly she had trouble operating the clutch pedal. And I think she kind of liked being chauffeured which was fine with me because I loved driving her factory hot rod.

She gave turn-by-turn directions and in 10 minutes I was pulling into one of those little medical strip malls you see in towns everywhere. The big entrance sign advertised two family medicine practices, something called Gastroenterology Associates, something called Brabham Laboratory, and Randall, LLC, Fertility Specialists among a half dozen others. I parked in one of the spots marked Reserved for Randall, LLC, got out of the car, ran around to open the door for her, and held her hand as we walked down the hall to number 112.

She opened the door and inside was that same waiting room you've seen a hundred times. There were some moderately padded chairs lining two walls, and a pair of chairs with a table between them in the middle of the room.

Another couple sat. After what Nancy told me earlier I should have recognized them right away but, as I've said, I'm not always the sharpest crayon in the box.

They stood as we walked in and I had my first look at the couple for whom Nancy was the surrogate mother. He looked to be 50-something with the solid, grey-haired, well-groomed look of a successful executive. It was his wife who captured my attention, though. Like him, she was 50ish, maybe a few years younger than him, but not many. She was just as well groomed with that silver grey hair that many women strive for after a certain age but few achieve, no matter how much they spend on expensive gay hairdressers or the product they recommend.

She was one of those women who obviously spent time in a gym but who were losing the fight with subcutaneous fat. Her face showed the fullness you associate with the type, her arms, shown off by her sleeveless blouse, were slightly plump.

She was pretty in that way of women who can afford time with the dermatologist. I made a small bet with myself that if I inspected closely I would find very fine scars from work done to keep her face looking that good. And it did look good with her wide set bright blue eyes (I wondered if that color could be natural or if it was contact lenses), a small straight nose, a generous mouth with full lips, and a slight cleft in her chin.

The most obvious feature of her was that she was even more hugely pregnant than my bride-to-be.

"Gloria," Nancy said, and wrapped her in an embrace. It was interesting seeing how they pulled that off, adjusting bellies to fit almost like we adjusted our noses when we kissed.

Nancy broke the kiss and did formal introductions. "Gloria, Chester, this is David, my betrothed. David, this is Gloria and Chester, and this," she patted her belly, "is their little bundle of joy baking in my oven."

They greeted me with the minimum that politeness would allow and then turned to Nancy. Well, and then turned to Nancy's belly, talking to it as though the child was already here and could understand everything being said.

I watched, taking it in, accepting the reality of what Nancy had told me.

Nancy and Dr. Jim, whom I had yet to meet as I stood there reviewing what I had been told, went back a long way. They met when they were lab partners in college, she was taking general studies and the Human Anatomy and Physiology class had looked interesting. It had never been romantic between them, they never dated or anything. But when Nancy married the first time and couldn't seem to get pregnant she went to her old friend to find out what was happening.

What was happening, it turned out, was something called "Primary Ovarian Insufficiency." That's a fancy way of saying her ovaries weren't producing eggs. Her system worked, her menstrual cycle was 29 days on the dot, but no matter how hard she and her husband tried, she didn't get pregnant. They tried hormone treatments, but they didn't take.

And Hubby left.

Nancy had pretty much accepted a "barren life," her term, not mine.

She settled into her new life, the alimony was a nice base income and her writing gig made her, if not rich, comfortable

And then Dr. Jim called. The conversation, as she relayed it to me, went something like this:

Dr. Jim: Nancy, I know you wanted to get pregnant. I think I have an idea you might want to be part of.

Nancy: Yes, I did, and what's the idea?

DJ: I'm getting into the fertility business, but I want to do it differently.

N: Ummm, what's to do different? I thought the techniques were pretty well worked out.

DJ: Oh, that's not the issue. I want to offer the clients the full experience.

N: The what?

DJ: ((chuckling)) First, are you interested in being a surrogate?

N: I thought I couldn't get pregnant.

DJ: No, Nancy, you can't get knocked up. Your egg maker ain't making eggs. But you can get pregnant if you want to. The whole in vitro implantation thing.

N: ((deep breath)) I could get pregnant?

DJ: Yep. As often as you'd like. I already have a waiting list.

N: ((tears welling)) I could get pregnant?"

DJ: Yes, Nancy, you can get pregnant.

N: ((crying))

DJ: I'll take that as a yes.

Dr. Jim went on to describe how he intended to do things "differently." The woman for whom Nancy would be a surrogate would go through pregnancy as well. He would dose her with hormones so that her body would think she was pregnant. He'd put an inflatable artificial baby in her uterus and her husband would blow it up a little every day. It could be blown up with air or with water if she wanted the true experience complete with the shifted center of gravity. She would deliver vaginally and her body would be ready to breastfeed.

I hadn't really understood. Well, that's not quite true. I guess I had trouble believing it.

But here was the evidence. I would not have been surprised to see Gloria's water break and her go into labor on the spot.

And then Dr. Jim made his appearance.

Okay, the guy was ridiculously good-looking. He was tall, I guessed him at 6'2" and healthy, I guessed 190 pounds, and essentially zero body fat. He was blond with the flamboyantly good looks of Chris Hemsworth. I looked him up and down and thought I'd need at least a 9mm to take him and I'd prefer a 12 gauge magnum. He was one of those uber-masculine guys that have that effect on me.

But his greeting was warm and friendly and he didn't try to crush my hand when we shook so I decided I wouldn't have to kill him.

"Okay," he said, "come on in you guys."

His examining room looked like any other examining room except for the side-by-side gynecologist chairs. I watched as they both took off their pants and panties, noting that Gloria basically duplicated Nancy's outfit and wondered if that was planned. I suspected it was.

Asses in the chairs and feet in the stirrups, Dr. Jim got out the speculum. I wasn't sure why this would be strictly necessary, but wanted to watch anyway. Gloria, I noticed, was even more swollen than Nancy, the result, I suppose, of this being her first "pregnancy" and, I imagine, the artificial hormones that were flooding her system And, I couldn't help but notice that she was smooth as a grape. I stayed with Nancy, of course, watching from a relative distance, watching as Gloria squeezed Chester's hand.

Gloria's stretchmarks weren't as obvious as Nancy's, but the faint pale tracery across her belly and around her hips was still sexy as hell. I watched as Dr. Jim said, "A little cold," and squeezed the ultrasound conductive gel onto her belly. Then he used the ultrasound gadget to smear the jelly although I noticed that the screen wasn't turned on.

He patted her belly and offered her a box of tissues to wipe the gel off and then it was Nancy's turn.

I watched, fascinated, as he used the speculum and opened her up. Then he did something with the switches on the machine and the monitor by both of the gyno chairs came on.

"Let's take a look," Dr. Jim said, smiling. He said, "Cold," squeezed a line of the gel onto Nancy's belly, and started working with the ultrasound head. And I damn near cried. There was a BABY in there. I could see feet and then a head.

"Do you want to know the sex?" Dr. Jim asked.

"NO!" Gloria and Chester replied together.

Dr. Jim flipped a switch and Gloria and Chester's monitor went blank.

And as I watched, I could see a tiny pussy. I almost blurted, "It's a girl," but managed to not do that.

As the image moved away Dr. Jim flipped the switch again and Gloria and Chester's monitor came on and the doctor resumed his description.