The Surrogate

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, "this ain't my first rodeo."

"But it

is

mine," I said, taking the plastic compact from her, popping the first pill from its little plastic bubble, holding it between the tip of my forefinger and my thumb, and moving my hand toward her mouth.

She rolled her eyes but opened her mouth and I laid the pill on her tongue.

After she swallowed, I took both of her hands in mine.

"Nancy," I said, leaning toward her and holding her eyes with mine, "I'll do whatever you want. But you need to understand that this is something special to me, something I want to be part of in every way I can."

She chuckled softly.

"Gonna hold my hair while I'm puking my toenails up every morning," she asked, smiling.

"Nancy," I said, "I'll hold your hair and kiss you

before

you brush your teeth if that's what you'd like. I'm serious, I want to be part of

all

of it."

Her tears were sudden and intense. She didn't sob, but the tears flowed like a faucet had been turned on behind her eyes.

"What?" I asked. I had no idea what I had said or done to start that.

She sniffled, wiped at her cheeks, and then dragged her forearm across her nose which had started running.

She took a deep breath.

"David," she said, "I LOVE being a surrogate. I love being pregnant. Hell, I even love being in labor. But it's something I've always done alone, you know? You're kind of overwhelming."

I waited for her eyes to meet mine again.

"I am NOT going to back off," I said.

"We'll see after you've watched me puke up a combination of strawberries, Braunschweiger, and broccoli," she said, giggling.

I smiled and said, "Hell, I'll have been the one to bring you the stuff to satisfy your weird cravings, I might as well see it all."

She smiled at that.

"Pervert," she said.

"You keep saying that like it's a bad thing," I said and she giggled again.

"Okay," she said, "you win."

"Good," I said, shaking a pill out of the bottle marked "Lupron" and putting it on her tongue.

After she swallowed I opened the envelope on one of those Estrogen patches.

She smiled, turned, and pointed to a spot low on her back.

"I don't know that it matters," she said, "but I've always put them here, over the ovary."

So that's where I put it.

And that is how the next 29 days went.

Nancy had promised she was as regular as a clock and she was. She would finish the last pill on the 28th day, be so horny she would leave me exhausted and panting on the 29th day, and then her period would start that night.

And old Fred the mutt would take over my libido.

Intellectually, I get it. I know it was that combination of pheromones and hormones that got to me physically, and the fact that I was head over heels, crazy, stupid in love got to me emotionally. I get it. And I accept it.

I wasn't sure how I'd react that first night but as the first whiff of her menstrual scent hit me, well, "compulsion" is the word.

But it's not like Nancy was offended. She cooperated, laying back, her legs parted, knees up, offering herself to my mouth.

And God help me, I found her to be delicious. That first flow was the heaviest and somehow, well, the "richest" is the word. It was thick and tasted of blood, of course, but so much more. I drank her. I nursed at her flow. When she came the sweet honey of her pleasure was like the dessert on a fine meal.

Finally, spent and full, wondering if my stomach would rebel at how much of her I drank I released her and put one of the Tampon Pearl Ultras in. Then I crawled up the bed to kiss her with bloody, slick lips. She kissed me back hungrily.

"Is it wrong that I fucking

LOVE

when you do that?" she asked.

"No wronger than how much I love doing it," I said.

"Wrong or not, I do love it," she said.

I felt my stomach rolling over.

"I need milk," I said, latching on.

She smoothed my hair as I suckled, feeling my stomach settle as her warm milk finished filling me.

She hummed a lullaby and then, when I was sated and released her, squirmed down and took me into her mouth.

And then it was my turn to relax and let her do the work.

I think she finds menstrual oral sex as good as I do. Anyway, she sure knows how to make a blow job world-class.

For two of her cycles that's how our lives went. Then one afternoon I got home from class and she greeted me dressed in a smile and nothing else, holding a bottle of champagne in her hand.

"What are we celebrating?" I asked, smiling, looking her up and down, and accepting the offered champagne flute.

"I got a contract," she said.

I had to laugh with her but also at myself.

At those words, I sprang erect.

"Good," I said, "you're getting way too skinny."

She giggled at that.

"I'm hardly skinny, Honey, especially the way you keep my belly big," she said.

I played with the soft flap of her postpartum belly and then her heavy breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples and expressing a few drops of milk.

"Too skinny," I said, adding a pat to her thigh and hip.

"Wellllll," she said, clearly enjoying the attention, parting her legs and offering herself, "I'll be fattening up before long."

"And I can't wait to help," I said.

We made love that afternoon, having an indoor picnic, taking turns popping little bites of cheese, apple, and sausage into each other's mouths.

When we were full and a bit drunk on champagne and then plain old beer when the bottle ran dry, I took her anally, laying on the thick rug with one of the

Fast and Furious

movies playing on the television. There was no hurry and I stayed inside of her while the movie went on. We took a break to pee and then returned to the rug and I returned to her rectal vault.

She liked this position because it gave her what she called "a deliciously full feeling" that she couldn't get with vaginal sex or even with one of our toys.

I liked this position because I could hold that deliciously soft and warm postpartum belly in my hand while nuzzling her neck, feeling that thick mass of her hair around my face, or I could play with her heavy breasts.

We stayed like that for the whole movie, except for that bathroom break, enjoying the casual intimacy of our joined bodies. She would come every few minutes, not the hard squirting orgasm I could coax from her but a gentle flow, a sudden tension, and a delightful tightening where I was inside of her, while I held still, holding that wonderful belly in my hand and urged her on with soft words delivered directly to her ear.

As the movie wound down, Dom and the crew surviving the final crazy chase leaving a trail of wrecked, flaming cars in their wake like breadcrumbs, she began rocking her hips.

"Come on," she said, capturing my hand where I had been gently milking her nipple, and kissing it, "finish up, Baby. I want you to take me out, show me off, and get me drunk tonight. I won't be drinking for nine months."

"We're already drunk," I said, chuckling, and starting to match her rhythm.

"No, Baby," she said, a soft gasp as her final orgasm approached, "We're taking an Uber and getting falling down, puke-on-your-shoes drunk."

"Puke on your shoes?" I said, chuckling, trying to hold off now, but she was taking me right to the edge by then.

She made retching sounds and the sudden tightness of her sphincter around my erection finished me.

I came, reaching down and probing, finding her clitoris, and bringing her with me.

We were laughing as I softened and slipped out and she turned, showing that odd athleticism she put on display sometimes, and took me into her mouth. She said it was the natural way to complete anal sex and, well, let's be honest here. Who am I to argue with the woman who captured my heart?

She held me like that, licking and sucking, what she called "cleanup duty," until I was fully soft.

Then I completed our anal sex by rolling her onto her belly, using my hands to part her cheeks, and licking her clean. I no longer found this "off-putting" as they say. I had been surprised the first time she wanted this but now, well, it was just another intimacy we shared.

Finally, sated, she did one of those athletic things, pulled her feet up, and then rocked forward, standing in one smooth movement.

"Come on, Lightweight," she said, giggling and reaching down, offering her hand.

"Oh, God," I moaned, throwing my arms out dramatically, "You've already exhausted me, you insatiable wench."

"Hey, Lightweight," she said, giggling and holding that position, "I'm getting drunk and getting laid tonight." She paused for dramatic effect and added, "With or without you."

"Adulteress," I said, laughing, and offering my hand.

"That's up to you," she said, pulling me to my feet. She's a strong woman.

"Let's clean up our sweaty selves first," I said and she nodded in agreement.

We showered and laughed. We washed each other. I shampooed that great mane of her hair then worked conditioner into it.

"Shave, Gorilla Face," she said, giggling and disappearing into the bedroom.

So I started working on my face, smoothing my cheeks, and making sure the lines of my goatee were straight. While I was at it and operating under orders I got my little weirdly shaped hair trimmer and did my ears and nose too.

My wife isn't all that good at deceiving me and it had been pretty clear that she was trying to get rid of me for a while so I took my time.

And it was WORTH it.

She was standing, well, "posing," in an outfit I had never seen before. Christ, she looked like a hooker. A pretty hooker with big tits, heavy thighs, and a soft pot belly that hung over the little scrap of cloth that served as a skirt.

Well, starting at the top, here's what I saw.

Her hair was piled country singer high. The salt and pepper mass was curled and had some glitter in it. Her makeup was overdone, the eyeshadow very bright blue and heavy with very black eyeliner leaving long points at the corners of her eyes. False eyelashes I had never seen before, butterfly wing lashes I think they're called, almost laid on her cheeks when she closed her eyes. Her lips were in a scarlet shade of lipstick I hadn't seen before.

Her shoulders were bare, hell, she was practically naked to the waist. The top wouldn't even qualify as a bra. It was a bright blue titsack, her heavy breasts unsupported and her big nipples hard and pointing at me through the material. The stretch marks across the tops of her breasts almost glowed they were so white.

Her soft postpartum belly was displayed with the stretch marks and soft folds of the overstrained skin on display and her belly button was so deep it looked like I could make love to it.

The tiny skirt was the same shade of blue, a wide belt of the same material giving her the impression of a waist. It was pleated, suggesting a Catholic schoolgirl, but no Catholic schoolgirl EVER, not once in the history of the world, looked like my Nancy did just then.

The skirt was barely long enough to cover the dark tops of her fishnet nylons. When she did a quick spin the garter belt holding the nylons up was displayed, black to match the fishnets, and the fact that her panties were still in the drawer was displayed as well.

The seam of the fishnet nylons was straight and her feet were in very high, 4-inch I estimated, stiletto heels.

I stared.

She smiled.

"It's my "last fling" outfit," she said.

I stared.

Her smile faded.

"Oh, God," she said, "You don't like it. I can change."

I smiled.

"Oh no," I said, closing the distance and putting my hands on her shoulders.

"You like?" she asked.

"Nancy," I said, holding her shoulders, meeting her eyes, "I'm going to take you out, get you drunk, and be proud to be with the sexiest girl in the room."

When she started to reply I talked over her.

"I'm going to watch you flirt, and dance with anyone who asks, and then I'm going to take you out into the parking lot, lift that tiny skirt, fill you to overflowing, and take you back inside to dance some more," I finished.

Her smile was ear-to-ear.

"God, I love you," she said and kissed me, a light kiss so she wouldn't mess up her lipstick.

"Soooooooo," I said, smiling, "Where do you like to go for your, what did you call it? Your last fling."

She grinned.

"

Benny's

of course," she said.

I was kind of surprised at that.

Benny's

is a roadhouse straight out of that Patrick Swayze movie. But then I looked at her and thought she'd fit right in.

"All right then," I said and moved past her. I figured jeans and one of my T-shirts would be appropriate dress, so I rummaged through my drawer and found one of my guitar-themed T-shirts, this one with a big iguana playing an electric guitar. My jeans were Levi's with the little red tag on the back pocket. I thought about it for a minute, and put on the leather combat boots I always wore when riding my motorcycle. I figured that at a place like

Benny's

, I might be forced to fight, especially with a woman looking like Nancy on my arm, so I wanted the boots.

Our roles were kind of reversed. She was usually the confident one in our couple, I tended to be the nervous learner. But tonight, she was visibly nervous as I called the Uber and we waited.

So, I asked the question.

"Why are you nervous?" I asked.

She giggled. "My final flings have always been done with the girls before," she said, referring to the small group of surrogates that worked with Dr. Jim in the clinic, "This feels different."

"Hmmmm," I hummed, "I can make calls if you'd like."

She grinned. "Oh no," she said, "I'm getting drunk with my husband tonight. Don't worry, Honey, it's just new, that's all."

The Uber arrived then, stopping the conversation. I asked and he said, "Sure, everybody knows

Benny's

," and we were off.

We held hands, but nothing else, on the ride. I didn't want to mess her up.

As we got out of the car the driver handed us a card. "I'm available all night," he said, "so give me a call when you're ready to go home."

I had never been to

Benny's

before. It was interesting.

A doorman, well, a bouncer I suppose, was sitting on a stool just inside the door. He looked Nancy up and down and smiled, but he made me show my driver's license. Satisfied that I was the legal 21, he waved his arm and we walked into the main room.

Benny's

wasn't quite the

Double Deuce

from

Road House

, but it was close. There was no chicken wire cage protecting the band but as we entered, a scuffle broke out on the other side of the room. The music wasn't deafening, but it was loud enough that I had to talk loudly in Nancy's ear when I asked, "Are you sure this is the place you want?"

When she turned to face me my question was answered. Her eyes were bright and her smile was something you'd expect to see on a college girl on the make.

I held her hand as we worked through the place until we found a little hubcap-sized table that was empty.

A half dozen scantily clad waitresses were working the room so we waited, me taking in the place for the first time, Nancy looking around, smiling.

The band was a simple four-piece band. The drummer on the kit held a good beat and wasn't cymbal-happy, the bass player had a good touch on his Fender Jazz Bass, the rhythm guy was competent on his Telecaster, and the frontman, playing lead and singing, had a Les Paul backed up by a big Marshall stack. The lead player threw out licks that made me want to throw away my guitar and had a voice that did justice to the southern rock that seemed to be the core of their repertoire. As we walked in they were wrapping up

Sweet Home Alabama

and then swung into a passable version of the old Marshall Tucker Band song,

Can't You See

.

When the waitress finally showed up I realized that "scantily clad" didn't really capture it. From the waist up she was dressed in body paint heavy enough that I had thought she had on a football referee's zebra-striped shirt.

"What can I get you?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse, I assumed from needing to be loud at her job.

"A bucket of long necks and six tequila shooters," Nancy said without hesitation.

"Tequila?" I asked.

She giggled. "I'm not much good with hard drinks," she said, "but I can handle tequila."

The waitress came with a galvanized bucket that had a half dozen brown longneck beer bottles sticking out of it and a separate tray with the shots, a shaker of salt, and a little plate of lime slices. Nancy handed her a credit card and said, "Run us a tab, Honey. I'm tying one on."

She smiled a professional smile and disappeared.

"Well," Nancy said, licking the web of the thumb and forefinger of her left hand before shaking salt on it, licking the salt, tossing back the first tequila shot, and biting into a lime slice. She shuddered a little and finished, "Let's get to it."

I followed her example and took a tequila shot.

And my whole body shivered.

She giggled.

"Lightweight," she said, taking her second shot.

I twisted the top off of one of the long necks and took a deep swallow, clearing my mouth and throat.

The band had broken into

Proud Mary

. I stood and offered my hand.

"Come on, Bride-o-mine," I said, "let's dance."

I walked her to the dance floor. There were several couples dancing, mostly doing that sort of standing-gyrating-facing-each-other thing.

I found a fairly open space, took Nancy's hands in mine, took a few seconds to pick up the easy beat of the drummer's bass drum, and then spun her away into a pretty good bop.

Nancy is a very good dancer. Part of her method to stay in shape is dancing. She had been teaching me and we danced well together.

She drew appreciative whistles as I spun her and the skirt flared, showing her lack of underwear.

She giggled as we stepped into the dance.

When the music ended we went back to the table where she did her third tequila shot and I worked on my beer.

She was flushed, her eyes were bright, and I thought she was absolutely gorgeous at that instant.

"You're beautiful," I said, and she giggled and did her fourth shot.

At which point a young cowboy, I knew he was a cowboy because of the boots and the shirt with the pointy seams and pearl snaps, came to the table and asked Nancy to dance. I was mildly annoyed that he didn't even go through the motions of asking me if it was all right, but not bothered enough to push the issue.

She said, "Yes," and they walked to the floor, hand in hand.

The band, meanwhile, had gone into some country song I didn't recognize, fast tempo and the singer was being very nasal. The cowboy was terrible and did the stand and gyrate thing which allowed Nancy to go into a belly dancing routine, another of her ways to keep in shape.

She was sex incarnate out there on the floor, her woman's body much more beautiful than the half dozen young women dancing on the floor.

With no break, the band went into Elvis Presley's

I Can't Help Falling In Love

, and she was in his arms.

This time it

was

the both-arms-around-his-neck, girl-at-the-prom style. I watched, kind of fascinated, as his hands slowly crept down to cup her ass.

She pushed him away and he grabbed for her.

My body started to tense, ready to go to her rescue when she slapped him hard enough to knock his stilly cowboy hat loose.

She marched back to the table, a little unsteady and I felt a little rush of adrenaline as he started to follow her.

The crisis passed, though, when a couple of his buddies, laughing like hyenas, grabbed him and steered him back to their table.

She was very flushed as she sat down and took the fifth tequila shot.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you, Sluterella?" I asked.

She smiled, a little bleary-eyed, opened one of the long necks, and took a long drink.