by Vivi King
My daughter’s news and possible predicament should alone have made the idea of sex unappealing but to my shame it was having the opposite effect. By the time my husband and I were alone in our bedroom, I was much more aroused than a possible Grandmother-to-be should ever feel.
Despite Izzy’s very welcome presence and knowing nothing about her possible pregnancy, Pete must have sensed my increased arousal during dinner because the look in his eye was unmistakeable. I had vowed that, as we tried to put the trust back into our marriage, I would never refuse him my body. So, as we went to bed shortly after eleven o’clock, there could only be one possible outcome.
Ten minutes later my vagina was battered and oozing semen from our first copulation but having, as usual, failed to reach orgasm from my husband’s slender cock, Pete was ‘finishing me off’ with hands and mouth, using well-honed skills that had never yet failed to deliver the goods.
Already sensitised by his repeated if ultimately ineffective thrusts, my vulva was alive with the heat of arousal and a much-desired and massive orgasm was approaching fast.
“I can taste my cum inside you,” Pete growled into my groin.
“Mmmmm!” I moaned as his fingers began to stretch my entrance. “Is itgood?”
“It’s good!” he replied, his voice coarse with passion as he concentrated on his wonderful work, his face buried in my groin. “But it would... be even better... if it was... from someone else!”
“From Darren?” I whispered as his tongue lapped the special, neglected place just above the hood of my clitoris.
“Darren’s cum... would be good,” Pete mumbled into my slit.
“Does your cum taste different from his cum?” I hissed, taking the risk of mentioning my previous lover Tony whose semen Pete had licked from my body many times. “Ahhhyyyeeesss!”
There was a pause while my husband’s tongue lapped along the creases at the top of both my thighs as if searching out every last drop of the pale, sticky fluid. My hips twitched involuntarily against his face.
“I don’t want to remember his cum,” Pete looked up into my eyes, his jaw shiny with goo. “I want to taste new cum inside you.” His head descended again.
“Mmmmm! That’s sooo good!”
I moaned as the flat of his tongue was drawn upwards across the underside of my diamond-hard clitoris and his fingers curled inside me in search of my G-spot.
“I want... to see you... being filled with cum!” he hummed into my re-grown pubic hair. “I want to see you... cum so hard you scream!”
I wasn’t far from that point now, I thought as Pete’s fingers began the short, fast jerking movements behind my pubic bone that were guaranteed to bring my world to a massive, choking climax. His mouth left my slit to give his arms and hand a better angle from which to finger-fuck me.
“I want to see you being fucked hard! I want to see your unfaithful cunt filled with cock!” he growled as his wrist moved up and down faster and faster.
“Mmmmyyyeesss!”
My whole body was now pulsating in time with the violent jerking of Pete’s arm and hand. As my cries grew louder and louder, Pete pulled the corner of the pillow towards my head with his free hand. I bit into it hard to stifle the noise as my climax began in earnest, choking off my breath, making the room spin.
“Cum, Penny! I want to see you cum for him! I want to hear you beg him to put a baby in you!”
“Mmmmnnnnggghhhh!”
Pete brought his mouth back down onto my clitoris at the same time as his fingers rasped hard
across the rough patch inside my vagina. My fingers tightened in his hair until I was sure whole handfuls would come away, my hips bucking wildly against his fist and his face, my teeth tearing into the white cotton of the pillow case.
Pete was speaking softly but whatever else he wanted was lost in the orgasm that racked my body, my belly tightening, my whole frame convulsing on the bed, my legs tight against the sides of my husband’s head as my hips bucked and twisted uncontrollably until finally I collapsed helplessly on the bed, exhausted.
“What’s got into you tonight?” Pete panted, smiling then kissing me on the cheek, forehead and lips.
I could taste my own bitter, pungent orgasmic juices on his mouth and tongue and wondered once again why on earth men found such disgusting flavours so arousing.
“I don’t know,” I replied, my voice breathy and broken. “Is it a problem?”
“Only if I get too old to do what’s necessary,” Pete grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Maybe it’s because Izzy’s home.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s unusual for her to come home midweek,” he mused, rolling onto his back. “Has she told you why? She wouldn’t tell me anything at all!”
This was no time to start a conversation that might not even need to take place.
“Maybe she’ll tell me in the morning,” I said trying to deflect his question. “I’m so tired. You did too good a job on me.”
No man ever objects to having his skills in bed praised by the woman he had just fucked so Pete didn’t even try. A few minutes later I heard his breathing become slow and regular as he fell asleep, happy and exhausted.
I lay awake for a long time, listening to his soft snores; pleased to have made my husband so happy and wondering what his lust-filled words would mean for our future.
Was he really ready for our Hotwife lifestyle to begin again? He hadn’t mentioned it for some days; would he actually agree to us visiting an escort together?
And was I ready? Could a potential Grandmother be a Hotwife too?
I wondered whether across the landing, our worried daughter was getting any sleep at all.
***
“Come on, I have to be at work in an hour!”
Izzy and Pete had just enjoyed a pleasant father-daughter breakfast together in the kitchen while I got my clothes and papers ready for my own day at work. At my suggestion, Izzy had risen early to spend as much time as possible with her Dad, who I knew had to leave not long after seven o’clock.
It would also distract her from the ordeal to come; learning if she really was pregnant. Distraction was something she badly needed, if the bags under her eyes were anything to go by. Clearly sleep hadn’t featured greatly in the last few hours.
Rising early for me had been a relief; with both my own and Izzy’s issues on my mind I hadn’t had a great deal of sleep the previous night either.
Nestling in a bag in the corner of my closet was the triple-pack of home pregnancy tests my daughter and I had bought from the late night pharmacy the previous evening. Though Izzy had been keen to take a test straight away, reading the instructions carefully had proved me right; the best level of accuracy would be found if the test was taken first thing in the morning. So, despite her protests, my daughter had been obliged to contain her anxieties and, if the look on her face was anything to go by, had slept as little as I had.
But patience can only last so long; the moment we saw Pete’s car reversing down the driveway we half ran up the stairs in our robes to the family bathroom where Izzy literally tore open the packet of tests, ripped off her pyjama bottoms and sat down hard on the toilet seat.
I couldn’t help noticing that her vulva was completely devoid of hair, something I had never noticed before and which had to be a very recent development. Izzy blushed when she realised I had noticed her bareness but neither of us said anything; there were bigger issues to consider.
My own pubic hair had regrown since my affair had come to an end, I suspected to the disappointment of my husband as well as myself but it was an important physical manifestation of my return to a monogamous marriage, if only temporarily.
Once settled on the loo, Izzy stared at the test in her hand.
“Ready?” I asked.
“Here goes, Mum!” she replied with an anxious look on her face.
Then she took a deep breath and stuck her hand between her open thighs. There was the familiar hiss of fema
le urine being passed and we both counted the necessary seconds.
Once time was up, Izzy stopped her flow of pee in a way no woman who had given birth three times could possibly still do. For a moment I felt both old and envious but then concentrated on timing the test by counting. Anxious moments passed in near silence.
“Three – two – one – okay!”
Together we peered into the little window.
“Oh no!Not again!”
There before us was the pattern that according to the leaflet meant an inconclusive result.
“Maybe the whole box of tests is faulty,” I said. “I’ll get some more from the hospital later; they’re batch-checked so they’ve got to work.”
“I can’t wait another day, Mum,” Izzy pleaded, tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
“Okay,” I said, exasperated. “There are two tests left in the box. If we do one each then we’ll know if it’s the test or just you and your body. If they both come up inconclusive then we’ll know the tests are faulty. Let’s do it one last time, okay? Have you got enough pee left?”
Izzy nodded then sat back down on the toilet seat, peeled the wrapper off the stick and stuck it between her legs. The hiss of female urine followed again while I timed her very carefully, this time using the bedroom clock.
“Okay, my turn,” I said when she had finished, grinning encouragingly. “Are you timing your test?”
“Yes of course.”
As Izzy slid her bare bottom from the loo to the edge of the bath, I slipped off my own pyjama bottoms and sat down on the warm seat she had just vacated. I opened the last remaining test then
rather more clumsily repeated Izzy’s actions, pleased to feel the relief in my bladder as I counted the right number of seconds.
“There we are,” I announced, placing the used test in my lap. “Let’s see if they’re inconclusive now!”
I began to time my own test with the clock on my phone but before I got half way, I was interrupted by an excited explosion from alongside me.
“Not Pregnant!” Izzy’s voice was a high pitched squeal. “Look! Look! It’s clear this time! I’m not pregnant Mum! I’m not pregnant!”
She hugged me; I hugged her, both of us relieved and happy.
“Oh my God, Mum,” she was saying, her relief making her babble. “I’m so happy! I’m so happy! Oh God what a relief!”
It was a relief for me too. With my own marriage still in jeopardy, the last thing I needed was a pregnant daughter coming to terms with a second broken relationship within a matter of weeks. However smitten he was now, there was no way her boyfriend Simon would have wanted to stay with a girl of questionable morals carrying someone else’s baby.
I sighed, silently thanking God for this news, cursing my daughter’s lack of wisdom where boys were concerned and wondering whether any of it had been inherited from me. A feeling of relief washed over me when I realised I did not have to break the news to her father that his precious, innocent daughter was a slut just like his wife.
I was so relieved that it wasn’t until I began to stand up that I noticed the window of the test lying on my own lap and the terrible word it contained.
‘Pregnant!’
The world stopped revolving. My arms, legs and chest turned to stone. My breathing stopped.
“Are you okay, Mum? You’ve gone white!”
17
'Pregnant! Oh my God, no!'
The effort it took to keep behaving normally in the face of this entirely unexpected and completely unwelcome news deserves an Oscar. The shock and horror almost made me faint; my blood ran cold and a strange buzzing noise came into my ears. For a moment I thought I was going to pass out; thank goodness I still had the presence of mind to slip the test with its dreadful news into the pocket of my dressing gown before my daughter could see it.
Izzy didn’t notice but she was so relieved with her own escape I doubt she would have noticed anything anyway.
“I’m okay, Izzy,” I mumbled. “Maybe it’s a hot flush beginning.”
That couldn’t have been further from the truth; if I really was pregnant then menopause was the last thing that could be blamed for any strange behaviour.
“Want some water?” she asked.
“Please.”
A few gulps later I had recovered a little of my composure. Half a glass more and I was back to normal, at least outwardly. Izzy had gone back to her room to get dressed, a bouncy spring in her step that made my own situation feel even worse.
'Me pregnant? At the age of fifty-one? How could this be?
What kind of nightmare was this?'
My legs felt like lead as I returned to the bedroom I shared with my husband, the slim white home test; the harbinger of doom with its clear, unambiguous message still in the pocket of my robe. Had Pete been there he would have seen a ghost of a woman stumbling across to the bed where she sat down hard on its edge.
But my husband had gone to work for an early theatre list that morning. At the time it had seemed so fortunate; his absence would leave Izzy and me in privacy to re-take the pregnancy test she had been so very worried about.
Who would have guessed when we two girls entered the family bathroom that morning that it wouldn’t be my irresponsible daughter but me, her slut of a mother who would be leaving fifteen minutes later with her life in a spin?
Perversely, in a way, I should have been pleased. After all, had it not been for my daughter Izzy’s lax morals and her foolish attitude to birth control – something she probably inherited from me - I wouldn’t have taken the test myself and wouldn’t have discovered that I was pregnant for many weeks or even months.
By then it might have been too late... but too late to do what?
I most certainly was not pleased. I was angry; angry and frightened.
Izzy herself was so relieved at her all-clear result that she was actually singing in the family bathroom in which we had performed our respective tests. I thanked God that she was so distracted she was unlikely to have picked up the sudden and profound change in my demeanour; a change I had to hide at all costs.
Continuing my Oscar-worthy performance, I showered, dressed then watched Izzy eating a hearty breakfast as if nothing had happened. I was too upset to eat anything at all but blamed it on my supposed hot flush again. Then I waved her off to the library to catch up on some of the work she had missed the previous two days.
Izzy would go back to University the following morning, light of step and happy.
She would leave behind a truly terrified mother.
I called the office, explaining that I would be working from home for a few hours but would be at my desk by eleven o’clock. Then, alone in the house, I paced around the kitchen, my mind racing, my
hand playing constantly with the slim white test in the vain hope that its message would disappear or at least change to something less frightening.
It didn’t; I was pregnant!
'But how could this be?'Okay, my menopause hadn’t started yet but I would be fifty-two this year, for Christ’s sake. 'And who could the father be?' Both my husband and my ex-lover Tony had had vasectomies long ago.
Had one of those operations failed? Had their tubes re-joined making one of them fertile again? It was rare but I knew it did happen sometimes.
Or had Tony been an even bigger shit than I had imagined and lied to me about his vasectomy? No, surely Julie had let that bit of information slip a long time ago.
Then the obvious truth hit me like a sledgehammer.
Darren!
'Oh my God!'
It had to be Darren, my one and only one-night-stand; the twenty-nine-year-oldPersonal Trainer in whose bed I had spent one foolish but unforgettable night just over a month ago when Pete and I had temporarily separated.
During that amazing but unrepeated night, Darren had inseminated me at least four times and, stupid woman that I was, neither of us had used any form of protection at all. What was more, my body filled wit
h his semen, I had spent the entire night in the boy’s grubby bed, mostly on my back; often with him on top of me or inside me. There could hardly have been a better opportunity for one of my few remaining eggs to be fertilised by one of his millions of active, youthful sperm. Darren must have had assumed I was on the pill or that I, like many of his other older conquests, was past the point where conception was possible.
I laughed hollowly. 'Don’t be naive Penny; with the prospect of an unexpected free fuck in front of him, Darren hadn’t thought about protection at all!'
But I had been no better; 'stupid, stupid woman!' Thanks to Pete’s vasectomy, I hadn’t had to think about birth control for over fifteen years. Tony had been snipped too. When the opportunity had come, I had been so flattered that a boy as drop-dead-gorgeous as Darren wanted to fuck me at all
that the idea of protection hadn’t entered my stupid middle-aged head either.
For a second I wondered if it was just a mistake; if the test had been faulty; if a repeat in the morning would show it had all been a simple error. But in the real world I knew just how consistent and reliable those tests were.
It hadn’t even been inconclusive; if the test said I was pregnant than I was pregnant!
There was a real baby growing in my womb.
I sat slowly down on the edge of the kitchen table, my hands instinctively falling to my rumbling tummy, a feeling of nausea rising within me.
Was it just fear? Was it psychosomatic? Or had morning sickness already started?
'Oh my God! What was I going to do?'
***
I went to work that morning extremely distracted. Fortunately it was a day more for research than for patients so I didn’t do too much harm to too many people. What I did do was use the hospital’s resources as anonymously as I could to research the whole concept of middle-aged, peri-menopausal pregnancy.
What I found was both reassuring and alarming. Although there were many examples of women my age becoming pregnant and carrying a child through to full term, most of these were through IVF. Natural conception was far less common in older women but not unheard of by any means.
