The Surrogate Ch. 11

I woke to the sound of her being sick.

As I had promised, I rolled out of bed and padded naked into the bathroom. She was in the classic position, worshipping at the porcelain bowl. On her knees, her forearms hung on the rim, and as I watched her back bowed and she threw up and farted.

I moved beside her and lifted her hair out of the way as she retched and gagged and threw up again.

I had no idea what would help so I lightly rubbed her back and started trotting out the sort of pablum you use in those kinds of situations.

"You're all right," I said softly, "I've got you," stuff like that.

"Don't," she started and threw up, loudly.

"It's okay," I said, my hand light on her back, my other hand holding her hair back and I was aware of the wet, slimy feel on my hand.

And no, that did not cause me to have second thoughts.

"Don't talk, please," she managed before another wave of sickness took her.

I don't have much of a sense of how long the morning sickness went on. Certainly no more than a half hour but it sure seemed like longer.

Finally, she pushed herself up so she was sitting on her feet with her back straight.

"Okay," she said, dragging her forearm across her mouth.

I caught her hands and then leaned forward and kissed her. The smell and taste of her vomit almost got to me, but I held myself together.

"Ewwwww," she said, "Pervert."

I chuckled and said, "I told you I'd kiss you afterward, and I always keep my promises."

She giggled weakly and repeated, "Pervert," before hanging onto my hand and slowly standing.

A thick string of mucus-laden saliva hung from her chin to her breasts. Her eyes were red and her nose was running. She looked gorgeous.

"Rinse your mouth and we'll shower, Honey," I said. "I'll get the mess out of your hair, wash your face, and then make love to you."

She managed a weak smile before she turned to the sink and rinsed her mouth.

"Hangover or morning sickness?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, pushing past me to get to the shower.

I laughed and followed.

The shower was, as it always is with my Nancy, enjoyable. I was careful with her face where last night's makeup was smeared and messy, especially around her eyes where the overdone eyeshadow seemed almost waterproof. I shampooed her hair twice before working the conditioner in. Her eyes were closed and she was humming softly, enjoying the attention.

When I started on her body it seemed that I could already see changes in her body. I know it was all in my head, but her skin looked, well, smoother. It seemed to be a little softer, maybe a little warmer. That soft, sexy postpartum belly with its overhang covering the top of her mons, the lightly wrinkled skin from being overstretched so often, drew my attention. She giggled as my finger disappeared into her belly button, making sure it was clean.

I did her pussy on my knees, lifting the belly apron and spending time where she dangled so beautifully, her pure womanness on full display.

Then I did her legs and feet, making her squeal as I did "piggies to market" on her toes.

I had her turn and then worked my way up. I washed her calves and the backs of her thighs. At her ass, her sexy, womanly ass, I parted her cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand while using my right with the soapy washcloth to make sure she was squeaky clean. She squirmed, as she always did, and I enjoyed it.

I finished with her back, paying special attention to that heavy roll at her shoulder blades, one of those special spots I found so damn sexy. She started to do me but I stopped her.

"You are a bit under the weather," I said and she giggled, "so I'll take care of myself."

I washed quickly as she watched, smiling.

Clean and dry, we went to the bedroom. Well, I went to the bedroom. She stayed in the bathroom for a minute, making me wonder what she was doing.

She came into the bedroom then, with a little notebook in her hand.

"What's this?" I asked.

"We need to track my temperature," she said, smiling, "to catch me at the best time for the implantation."

The way she said "implantation" so casually sent a little shiver up my spine.

"That's putting a baby in there," I thought.

I watched as she shook a glass tube, each little shake ending with a sharp snap of her wrist.

"Do you want to do the honors?" she asked.

"You bet," I said and I knew I was grinning like an idiot.

I closed the distance between us, took the thermometer, and moved it toward her mouth.

"No," she said, giggling, "We need the most accurate temperature."

She rolled onto her belly.

I looked more closely at the thermometer, noted the blunt end, and understood.

So, I opened the little drawer on the nightstand and got out the small jar of Vaseline we kept there although the only time I ever used it was to soften the little cracks I get on the side of the first and second joint of my index finger in the winter sometimes, and dipped the end of the rectal thermometer into the thick lubricant.

I spread her cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, admired the pretty little balloon knot of her anus, and slipped the thermometer in.

When I released it she squeezed and the thermometer started to push out so I pressed it back in with the tip of my finger.

She giggled.

"This may be," I said, lightly rubbing her back as my fingertip held the thermometer in place with a tiny pressure, "one of the two or three most intimate things we've ever done."

She was lying with the side of her face on the pillow so she could see me.

She squeezed and I had to increase the pressure to hold the thermometer in place.

"We need to do this every two hours," she said.

And, yes, the surreal aspect of having this conversation, my fingertip holding a glass tube up my wife's ass, struck me.

"Why is that?" I asked.

"There will be a little spike," she said, each word translating to a tiny vibration at my fingertip, "when my body tries to ovulate, and that's when we will implant."

"Are you anxious?" I asked.

"God, yes," she said, "I miss being pregnant."

I chuckled and said, "Me too."

For the remainder of the three minutes needed to get a good reading, I just looked, fascinated at the image of that glass tube peeking out for about an inch from the puckered circle of her asshole.

And I got hard.

"As soon as we get a reading," I said, trying for a casual, conversational tone although I thought I detected a little tremor in my voice, "I'm going to put something else in there," and I tapped the end of the thermometer.

She just hummed that soft bilabial nasal, a soft "Mmmmmmm."

At the three-minute mark according to the little headboard clock, I pulled the thermometer out and read 99.0, which I wrote into the little logbook.

"Stay put," I said, rolling out of bed and taking the thermometer into the bathroom where I wiped the traces of shit off of it, flushed the toilet paper, and put the thermometer into the little case I found on the sink.

She hadn't moved and I could see that she was excited too. Thick white love honey was slowly running from her pussy, forming a puddle where her pubic hair met the sheet.

Normally I would have taken her vaginally then, and let her natural lubricant, well, lubricate. But after taking the rectal temperature I just wanted her anally. Besides that, I sure didn't want to start some weird infection just as we were getting ready to, and I felt a little rush as I thought the word, "implant" her.

I dipped my finger into the Vaseline, slipped it into her anus, and followed with my erection.

"God, I love you," she said, softly, pushing back to accept my full length.

I used my hands to lift her until she was on all fours. I like her in this position so I can reach around and play with her soft belly as it hangs, and her breasts as I gently roll her nipples to get her milk flowing.

As I took her, my hands were pressing down on those big muscle groups on either side of her spine, the erector spinae and transversospinalis groups if you want the proper names, massaging them but also forcing her to push back against the pressure I was applying. I like anal sex with Nancy, so tight, so different from her normally loose pussy, and she evidently does too. My knees were together, my thighs pressing against the inside of her upper thighs and her labia, and I could feel the hot, thick results of her excitement on them.

She came, a sudden gush of that sweet honey, her womanscent strong, mixing with the unavoidable earthy scent from what I was doing.

I didn't stop my rhythm, a steady, slow push followed by an equally steady, slow retreat, as she came, her back arching against my hands.

"Oh, Jesus," she breathed as she came a second time.

And I kept my rhythm going, slow and steady.

I could feel her straining for the third orgasm, her strong sphincter muscles squeezing hard, and the fourth, squeezing almost painfully now.

"Fill me up," she breathed.

"Again," I said.

"Oh, God," she whispered and I could feel her straining now, the muscles under my hands tight, almost hard, her breath catching as she made a soft, grunting sound.

Her final orgasm was accompanied by that sound she made sometimes when she came and was exhausted at the same time. It was just a long vowel, "Eeeeeeeeee" that rose in pitch until it became just a soft, breathy whistle.

While she was doing that I sped up my rhythm and came, deep in her rectum, as the sound she was making crossed the threshold of hearing.

She collapsed and I tried to follow, but I couldn't stay inside of her so I settled for laying beside her, my arm across her back, watching her face as she brought her breathing back under control.

She was smiling.

When she had her breathing under control she squirmed around and took me into her mouth, cleaning me, finishing our anal sex as she always did. When she was satisfied I was clean she laid flat, face down, and I returned the compliment.

"Okay, Partner," she said, her breathing fully back to normal now, "have you been practicing your shot-giving technique."

"The orange hasn't cried once," I said and she giggled.

"All right, then," she said, "come along."

I liked following her as she padded, naked, into the kitchen.

She opened the little door in the cabinet where she kept our various drugs. She pulled out a little bottle of amber fluid, one of those bottles with a metal cap with a rubber center, clearly designed to fill the barrel of a syringe.

As I watched she carefully drew the syringe barrel one-half full, tipped it up, and did the tap-with-the-fingernail thing before she squirted a little bit, making sure there was no air in the system.

"All right, Hotshot," she said, "right here," and she touched a spot on her butt where the muscle was biggest.

I did as I had been shown by Dr. Jim. I pinched up a healthy bunch of muscle and fat and plunged the needle in using a quick, sharp jab. The needle went in with almost no resistance. The hardest part was driving the plunger home. The progesterone suspension was thick, almost syruplike. Nancy hissed as I slowly pushed the plunger down. It raised a quarter-sized lump right where she sat.

She laid her palms on the small of her back and slowly straightened.

"We do that, morning and bedtime, until my temperature spikes and they can put that baby in me," she said.

She was still rubbing the sore spot on her ass when I laid my hands on her shoulder.

"Tell me something," I said, holding her eyes with mine.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Does a beautiful woman like you know the effect she has on men like me," I asked.

She smiled and said, "Yes, especially when you tell me."

Our next four days went like that. I would wake before her and just watch her sleep for a while before getting up and making coffee. Then it would be back to bed until she woke. I wanted my face to be the first thing she saw when she woke and my kiss to be the first thing she felt.

I walked her into the bathroom, kissed her while she did her morning business, and wiped her afterward. This special intimacy always drew a little "Pervert" from her, but she never suggested I stop.

I'd walk her into the bedroom and take her temperature.

I don't know why that image got to me so much, the little glass tube protruding from her tight little asshole, and needing to keep my finger on it because otherwise she'd push it out, but it did. After I wrote 99.0 in the little log we made love.

I didn't have such a strong urge to take her anally after that first time. The second time, it was slow and gentle in the missionary position, with about a thousand "I love yous" exchanged between us. The third was doggie style, vaginally, with her howling and me barking. The fourth mutual oral sex, on our sides, taking out time.

My schedule didn't have me in class before 9:00, and that was only on Tuesday and Thursday. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I didn't have anything until 11:00.

The day of implantation occurred on a Wednesday, as it happened.

I woke, watched her sleep, made coffee, and then crawled back into bed, as usual. After we finished in the bathroom I took her temperature. I wanted to make sure, so I took it a second time.

"99.4," I announced.

I didn't know what to expect so I can't say I was surprised at her reaction but I was overwhelmed.

"Check it again," she said, her voice trembling with excitement.

So I did. It's not like it was an unpleasant chore or anything.

"99.4," I said again.

She grabbed me with that athletic strength she could show when she wanted to, and rolled me onto my back. In one smooth move, she straddled me, reached down where I was hard as I always got when I took her temperature, and guided and accepted me into her body.

And she was cumming almost immediately.

"I get knocked up today," she said, breathless and giggling, and came again.

"You're playing hooky today," she said, "and doing it," and she came again.

She was so loose and slick I didn't have trouble maintaining my control, and I loved watching her face as she would say something like that and cum in another wave.

When she slowed, finally, making love rather than frantically seeking the next orgasm, she squeezed and started bringing me along. Then she surprised me by pulling off quickly, moving around, and taking me in her mouth.

She took her time and when I came she swallowed noisily and then tightened her lips on my shaft and continued sucking as though she was trying to drain my balls and my prostate.

Finally, she released me, sat back on her feet in that way only a woman can really pull off, and said, "I want a nice clean oven for when you put that bun in."

I laughed at her silly little euphemism.

She was giggling as she rolled out of bed and disappeared out the door.

She was back in just a minute with her cell phone in hand, scrolling through her contact list as she walked in.

"Sheila?" she asked.

"This is Nancy," after a pause, "let me have Sheila, please."

Pause.

"Sheila?" she asked again.

"99.4," she said without preamble, "the oven is warmed up."

Giggle.

"Yep."

Pause.

"Three o'clock? Okay, Dear, thank you. See you then," she finished and hung up.

She looked like an excited little girl the way she was bouncing from knee to knee on the bed and then from foot to foot as she got out of bed and started tugging on my hand.

"Feed me, Honey," she said, giggling, "I need my energy."

We held hands walking to the kitchen. She was bouncing with her excitement.

I made her a big breakfast, ham and cheese omelet, sausage patties, hash brown potatoes (frozen), English muffins, orange juice, and coffee.

Then I fed her, enjoying the special intimacy of having her open her mouth to accept the food I offered.

We showered after breakfast, making it sensual but not sexual.

Rather than drying her, though, I ran the tub full of water as hot as she could stand it, added bubble bath, and helped her in for a good soak. I thought she needed to relax.

Almost unbidden, I had another thought and went to the little linen closet beside the vanity. Sure enough, there it was. I pulled the shower curtain across the tub, hiding what I was doing.

"What?" she asked, drowsy in the hot water.

"Relax," I said, "a surprise."

I read the directions carefully on the Summer's Eve box. I did not want to fuck this up.

I got the plug into the end of the red rubber bag, hooked up the white hose, found and carefully washed the douche syringe, fascinated with its slightly pear shape with the ribs and holes in it, and attached it to the hose. Then I clamped the hose, added a little water to make sure it was sealed, and watched the water run from the holes and then stop when I used the clamp.

Satisfied I understood how things worked, I added the product to the red water bag and then filled it with warm water, trying for a comfortable blood temperature warmth.

I hung the red bag on a hook by the toilet. I hadn't noticed the hook before and thought this was probably what it was for.

When I pulled the shower curtain back I thought at first she was asleep she looked so relaxed. But then she smiled and said, "I think I'm getting pruny."

I helped her out of the tub and then dried her, very carefully, very thoroughly, reminding her, as I always did when I played with that soft roll of her postpartum belly, that she was Earth Mother and beautiful.

At the toilet, not a true "water closet" with a door, but partitioned from the rest of the bathroom, she giggled when she saw the douchebag hanging.

She turned and looked at me, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

"You said," I said, smiling, "that the oven should be nice and clean for the bun."

She laughed softly and sat then, her knees wide apart.

"Are you going to do the honors?" she asked, her smile impish now, that little girl peeking through again.

"I am truly honored," I said.

And once again I was struck at how some things seem so, well, so "intimate." I know, as I read through this, that I might be overusing that word, but it fits.

There was something so perfectly personal about slipping the syringe in and then using my fingers to gently hold it in place as I reached over and opened the hose clamp.

The soft rush of the warm water flowing over my hand as I held the syringe in place added to the feeling of, well, merging. There were no secrets between us.

Her eyes were closed, her lips parted slightly, and she was smiling.

"God, I love you," she breathed as I pulled the syringe out and then wiped her carefully, drying her.

I walked her back into the bedroom, kissed her, and asked, "Is there anything I can do between now and three?"

She giggled and lifted her breast.

"Welllll," she said, that impish smile showing, "You could drink your fill or at least pump me. I don't want to be achy and engorged when I go into the office."

"Oh, no," I said, grinning, "No, please Br'er Fox, not the briar patch."

She giggled, as she always did, when I went full Uncle Remus on her.

"Come here, Baby," she said, laying back on her pillows.

As I crawled into bed I grabbed her soft belly and asked, "How long until you're showing?"

"Not until about 12 weeks," she said, "so you're stuck with the skinny version of me for now."

I gave the handful of belly I had in my hand a shake and said, "FAR too skinny."

Then I snuggled against her, latched on, and nursed.