NOW THE HARD PART BEGINS by TJ Dallas
“I want a baby,” is the first thing you say that makes my knees buckle. “Fuck me, Daddy,” is the next. I’m not sure which declaration makes my heart soar the highest.
We’d spent the day at the beach, lathering coconut-smelling sunscreen into freckled skin, licking ice cream cones with tongues far too skilled for mere summer treats, and reading books of far-off fantasy lands and supernatural spirits. Back at the hotel, we have showered and changed, our skin still warm in the approaching dusk as we wait for dinner. I’m wearing your favourite shirt, the top buttons undone, half-tucked into dark jeans ripped at the thighs. You’re wearing a plain black T-shirt that displays your flat stomach and knee-length denim shorts that show off your sculpted tanned calves. We joke and drink and play cards while the hum of crickets fills the humid air, but when you stop and study your wine glass for a moment, lost in thought, you’ve made the decision.
“Are you sure?” My throat is closing up and words are suddenly harder than they’ve ever been before. My heart rumbles inside my chest, my longing for you to carry my baby overwhelming me. The silence and agonizing wait for your confirmation takes the same length of time a glacier would take to shape the world, just as you are shaping mine right now.
“Yes,” you say, the corner of your lip curling upwards. “Yes, I want a baby. I want to carry your baby.”
Our five-year anniversary dinner is suddenly long forgotten. When I sweep you off your feet, you giggle when I carry you through the open balcony doors, the white netting billowing in the sea breeze. I throw you down on top of the bed, still made up from when the housekeepers arrived this morning. Your eyes darken as you realise the hunger rising deep inside me; a hunger that’s been simmering for years, waiting for this very moment.
You can’t say anything because in a split-second, I’ve captured your lips in a scorching kiss. A kiss that takes my breath away and leaves me bruised. Our tongues meet in a clash of urgency and lust, a subtle moan escaping from one of us, though I’m not sure which. It was a delicate and womanly moan, but that doesn’t rule out either of us. You can do things to me that no other butch in the world can. I raise a hand to cup your chiselled cheek, my fingertips grazing the short undercut by your ears. You’ll need all your masculine strength and more for what’s to come.
Your hands fist my own short hair, pull me deeper into your mouth, and I moan. Yep, that first one was definitely me.
“Fuck.” One hand fumbles with your clothes. Slipping under your T-shirt, your ample breast, somehow still cool compared to the rest of your sun-kissed skin, fills my palm. You push towards me, willing my touch, and when I squeeze and pinch your hardened nipple, the groan that escapes you sends adrenaline straight through me. I need to hear that noise again.
Immediately.
Without breaking our connection, I straddle your hips. With my forearms on the bed on either side of your head, I kiss you with abandon and my brain short-circuits. If this is a dream I’m likely to wake from at any second, I want to make the most of it. I roll my hips, the belt at my crotch creating a tension in the denim that rubs against my engorged clit. You exhale heavily, your arms wrapped around my back. Our breasts press together, though there is far too much fabric between us. I need your skin.
Breaking the kiss with a gasp, you follow me with a needy whine, rising up on your elbows. You lie back down when I lift the hem of your T-shirt from your waist and pull it up over your head, your hands finding and gripping the headboard after I’ve thrown it aside. Your scant bra makes my mouth water; for all your tough exterior, you’re soft and feminine underneath. It makes me grin; you’re just as pink and silky as everyone else underneath your straining biceps and backwards baseball caps. You’ve always loved the sensation of lace, but it’s a joy only I’m allowed to behold. You narrow your eyes as you watch my gaze roam your torso, your heavy breasts hiding demurely under the thinnest disguise.
My wet mouth presses against your sternum, and I kiss my way down the crevices and contours of your stomach. If what you say is true, the appearance of you will change in due time, and I find I cannot wait. Though that doesn’t mean I’d wish away the lines of your abs at this very moment. My tongue dips into the V at your hips while I wrestle with the button on your shorts.
The smell of you is potent and intoxicating through your boxer briefs when I jerk them down, eager to reach your hot centre. Your folds are glistening with arousal, your labia shaved smooth, and it takes all my willpower not to dive straight into your depths. I can already taste you on my tongue, hear the heartbeat in your throbbing clit, feel the wetness that will gush from inside you when I hit your G spot just the way you like. When you’re playing rugby for your home country, holding up scrums and tackling opposing fly-halves with the ferocity of a shield maiden, you take my breath away.
But when you’re a slutty, wanton mess beneath me in the sanctuary of us, I cannot breathe.
With those tanned and tight calves of yours over my shoulders, I suck your clit into my mouth and groan with delight. The netting still billows at the open balcony doors, your stomach tightening and your legs shaking with every velvety swipe of my tongue over the length of you. Your liquid heat is my oasis, and I can think of nothing but the sensation of your wetness against my chin and the way your hand is pulling at my hair, yanking me closer. I assure you, if I could get any closer I would, but I do not reprimand your fruitless endeavour.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” you whine, so subtly that I almost miss it with your thighs covering my ears. “Please.” Once the delicious command has registered in my mind, I pull back for only a second, but it is enough to make you whimper with desperation. I grin as I flip you over and pull your hips towards me, your ass against my lap. You only have a second to grab one of the pillows. The denim of my jeans is frustrating and restrictive, but I do not have time to strip. My needs are less important than yours, though I know you’ll help me soon enough. You always do.
You grunt when I press down on the back of your neck. Your thighs spread wider, your forehead against the bed. When your back arches, your gorgeous dimples of Venus are highlighted in all their glory above your firm buttocks, raised high in the air. You grab fistfuls of the blankets at the same time I plunge three long fingers inside you. You groan into the thick pillow, your hot inner walls clenching tightly around my fingers.
“Fuck yes.” Your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open, the longer hair atop your head damp with sweat. Loose wisps from your ponytail hang over your eyes and stick to the side of your face. The redness that colours your cheeks is divine.
I pound inside you, curling my fingers and pressing against the spot I know will tip you over the edge. Your arousal coats my fingers, and I have to swallow thickly to wet my dry mouth. Bracing myself, I thrust my hips toward you in rhythm with my hand, willing your breasts to sway and bounce on your chest. I can’t see them from this angle, but I can hear the faint slap among your desperate groans.
“I’m coming!”
Your sudden scream punctures the air as sharply as a bullet over tumbleweed. What began as a low growl deep in your belly swiftly turned into a high-pitched roar. Your entire body convulses as your climax rips you apart, your wetness trickling down your sweaty thighs to dampen the sheet. Your spine undulates as you roll your hips, willing me deeper.
You know I’m not done yet.
With a skill I’m proud of to this day, I unfasten my belt with one hand, yank the buttons of my jeans apart, and release your favourite strap-on. It’s ribbed, barely five inches long, but the wide girth stretches you so deliciously that you’re putty in my hands. Removing my three fingers from inside you while you shudder, I coat the length of my cock with your excitement. “Are you ready?”
You don’t have a chance to respond. With a single thrust of my hips, I’m buried deep inside you, right up to the hilt. The base of the silicone presses against my fat clit, now aching so much that it almost causes me to double over with its ruthlessness. I need to come so hard.
I wish it was my physical self deep inside you and filling you with my hot seed. My own flesh and blood, to be cared for and nurtured in your womb. But alas, it is only a fantasy; a wish that I could take you as an Alpha would take their Omega. Your passionate heat driving my desires, my own rut and swelling cock enough to sate yours. When in heat, you long to breed; to be impregnated by the most powerful Alpha who will make you scream, and pant, and come so hard, you don’t remember your name. But no matter how hard I wish for that, my cock is silicone only. I’ll still make it work, but it isn’t quite the same.
You can no longer hold yourself up, your arms are shaking too badly. You slump to the bed, your chest damp against the blankets. The lace of your bra will rub against your sensitive nipples, but I’ll kiss them better, I promise. Just as I’ll kiss them better after you’ve finished nursing our child. Another surge of love and warmth envelopes me from the very tips of my toes to the ends of my hair, and I cannot stop myself from fucking you harder and more fervently.
You cannot speak, the crickets outside our hotel room disturbed only by your breathless pants and whimpers. Will you come for me again? Will you say my name when you do? If you can only utter “Daddy,” that’s fine, my darling. Whatever you can do will make me so proud.
Your second climax wipes you out completely. With your own fingers working your clit in tight circles, my hand on your waist and the other holding your ponytail, you cry out and bite down, ejaculating in a rush that will stain my jeans. You know I don’t care. We are both utterly spent.
“Yes,” I growl, unable to take my eyes from you.
When you collapse, I collapse on top of you. I am still inside you, unwilling to leave your warmth. I whip my hair from my eyes and kiss your broad shoulders, the salty taste of your exertion lingering on my lips. There are no words to describe how I feel; I can only show you again.
* * *
At one month, I’m still in disbelief. My mind refuses to believe what I know to be true.
At three months, your belly gently starts to swell. The tiniest arc, the softest and most subtle of indications, but you and I know what’s there. When I spread my hand over your belly in the night, you sleepily entwine your fingers with mine and together, we hold our impending future. The curve of your belly is the most beautiful silhouette against the starlight that streams through our bedroom window, and I amuse myself with thoughts of the constellations keeping watch over you. I smile and add the names Orion and Leo to my unwritten list.
At five months, it is hard to control myself around you. Your belly is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It moves occasionally when the future wriggles, often shown in the shape of a footprint. The kicking dies down when I snuggle you from behind, pulling you gently into my body to protect you from the world.
My arousal is a constant ache between my thighs at six months, and it appears that yours is too. We can’t keep our hands off each other. We’re careful, of course, but there’s still a thousand and one positions I can use to fuck you. On your knees is still my favourite; the swell of your heavy belly hanging down when I look at you from behind is a vision I can’t accurately describe.
At seven months, your swollen nipples are tender, the areolae pink and pebbled. I can lose myself for hours in the sweet milk that fills your tits. The white droplet that trickles down the swell of your breast is hypnotizing, and I revel in your adoration when you hold the back of my head and watch me suckle. But I digress…
The view of your ass is divine. The arch of your back, the pillow beneath your stomach that cradles the two of you. Your clammy thighs and wet folds. Soon you’ll beg for my hard cock, but that takes time, of which I have an infinite amount. The effort it takes for you to grow our child, to keep them safe and warm until the time is right, is mesmerizing to me. Astounding, even. When you were bent over and cursing my name into the toilet bowl in the early months, right up to the tired yawn after your afternoon nap today, I am amazed at what you’re doing.
At eight months, the nursery is ready. Neutral pastels, from green to yellow to white, and watercolour images of creatures great and small, are the first things our future will see after their exhausted mama’s gorgeous face. A teddy bear with a friendly smile waits in the corner of the cot, the bow around its neck sporting a name. (We haven’t told anyone who you are yet; that’s our little secret. Your size makes you noticeable to the world, especially when your mama needs to sit down and massage her aching back from your heaviness, but no one besides us truly knows who you are.)
At nine, I start to get nervous. You are somehow calm and ready, a nest of blankets and plump pillows awaiting the start of your labours. The midwife is on standby, only a phone call away, and I spend my hours waiting on you hand-and-foot. Gherkins and ice cream at three in the morning, the smell of ground coffee beans while you snooze, your soft whispers and pleas to yourself that you’re ready now. It appears our bundle of joy doesn’t hear you, at least for six full days. On the seventh, the tears you shed for your unspoken suffering send shards of pain through me. It’s nothing compared to what you will experience shortly, but I wish there was something I could do to ease your hurt.
As though your tears are magic, your waters break that night. While I pace the length of our bedroom, carving thick lines into the plush carpet, the midwife appears with her bags and calming smile. The lights are dimmed, the blankets are rearranged a thousand times, and I wipe the sweat from your forehead with each passing contraction.
When the pushing finally starts, you are already done. Your tears fall once more, your eyes scrunched tightly closed as your low guttural groans echo throughout the otherwise empty house. Only our bedroom is alight with movement; the curl of your toes, the spread of your trembling legs, the hands that press down against the top of your bump to encourage the tiny one to move. You pant with your chin against your chest, and cry out through gritted teeth as each wave strengthens, and it isn’t soon enough before the midwife finally cups the emerging bulge between your legs. Wet and slick, with dark hair, it is only there for a brief moment before the rest of the future emerges in a rush, as though through a wormhole in spacetime.
The midwife beams as she passes the newborn to you, and I am speechless. My mouth gapes and my heart swells, my own tears rolling down my cheeks. I watch you laugh and cry at the same time, sobbing as you watch the tiniest human you’ve ever seen scrunch up their face at the sudden brightness of their new world. (I’m sorry, little one; from the dark comfort of your mother, to the harsh light bulbs of the world, it’s an inconvenience you’ll have to get used to.)
You, my incredible darling, tilt your head back, close your eyes, and pant, your bare and flushed chest rising and falling as you realise it’s finally over.
Now the hard part begins.
TJ Dallas - Sapphic Erotica and Romance Author 