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.
