Have My Baby: Baby and Pregnancy Romance Collection

by Jamie Knight

  There were print copies. Mostly on eBay, posted by the lucky sods who had snagged them when they were still new. All for prices well outside what I could afford, even if I ate only rice, with nothing but dreams of anything beyond instant coffee. I’d already been a student once.

  But the words from that digital copy of his work came back to me. Line by line, phrase by phrase. Those simple letters arranged in a way that left me glad to be alive. No matter how bad life got. The literary equivalent of the sentiment ‘any day above ground is a good day.’

  Boucher spoke to me though those backlit pages. Mostly read in the dark to get the effect. I also didn’t want anything else to be able to distract me from the experience. Like how people often turn the lights off before a movie, even when they’re at home.

  The projector of my mind hummed as his beautiful words created images. I’d never really understood the near animosity between literature and visual art. They might have different ways of going about it, but were ultimately united in their goals.

  I couldn’t draw, or even really paint. Nor was I really much of a writer, myself. I would never be published, but my career, such as it was at that point, had been in publishing, and I loved it. I loved to read.

  Hugo Boucher was on another level, though. He was absolutely beautiful, in body as well as in print. Although I didn’t have too much reference to go on as far as the former. Photographs were scarce, much like his treasured output.

  There were rumors of art, paintings that no one had seen. Not to mention another book he’d been working on for over five years. I stared at the single photograph of him on the company website and it almost felt like he looked at me across space and time. Rendered in a stoic black and white, doing little justice to his true Norman features. His full lips held a cigarette. A risky move in the days of health cartels and easy offense. Though, in his defense, the image had been captured over ten years ago, its subject an obstinate youth of 25.

  It was kind of crazy, considering I’d never met the man, but somehow I felt like I knew him, like he understood me. And I’d had a torrid crush on him since I turned the first page

  And now? Him being my new boss? It felt a little like fate.

  I hadn’t meant to do it. My hand was moving very much of its own accord. Or so I told myself. To avoid the guilt if nothing else. Girls weren’t supposed to do that sort of thing. It was taboo for everyone, sure, but it was somehow more forgivable for guys. But as the button loosened on my pants, forgiveness, and indeed purity, were the furthest things from my mind.

  My experience was short, but my imagination was vivid. It wasn’t long until I was on a bed, at least in my mind, my hand between my thighs, like it was in the waking world. The two versions of myself working in concert, striving toward the same goal.

  I gasped as my clit throbbed, roused by the sudden attention, almost painfully sensitive.

  The sound of the door made me moan in anticipation. A smell of musk filling my senses as he came in, naked from the waist up. His lower half clad only in a pair of silk pajama bottoms. A magnificent hard-on already outlined in the front of the pitch black material. As he approached, my imagined self slipped my fingers from my pussy. Allowing him full access for whatever he wanted to do. I was completely his, and he seemed to know it.

  I could feel the edge of the bed dip with the extra weight, as Hugo climbed up. Starting at my feet, he kissed his way all the way up my open legs. Working his way gradually, teasingly up my thighs toward my waiting pussy. Aching for his tongue. A gift he was more than happy to give. Running the flat of his tongue against my tender, virgin lips, drawing a moan out of me in kind. Playing me like a slide-whistle.

  The gasp ripped out of me, my back lifting from the chair as I lightly worked my finger inside myself, while imagining Hugo Boucher eating me out on the bed. His light blond hair bobbing lightly between my thighs as he made me scream, using only his tongue. Getting me ready for what was coming next.

  Planting soft, wet kisses on my skin, Hugo blazed a trail from my pussy along my belly and up to my tits. Taking care to be gentle, he lightly sucked one nipple and then the other. Always making sure to stimulate the one not between his beautiful lips lightly with his fingertips. His other hand continued tenderly working my pussy, keeping me relaxed and ready.

  The trail continued up between my tits to my neck. Plying tender licks and nibbles making me moan. His fingers working my pussy toward a second orgasm. The walls of my pussy drawing even tighter around his fingers. Agreeing with me in not wanting him to stop.

  Moving up to my lips, he came to be right on top of me. The head of his cock pressed up against my pussy, kissing met tenderly. Stroking his head against me to help me relax even further, he eased inside me. The soft throb of his beautiful cock like a second heartbeat as he lovingly took my virginity.

  Strength drained from me as my climax faded. Leaving me slack and heaving in the affordable piece of Swedish ergonomics. Some absent part of my brain noticed that the lumbar support was really first-rate. I carefully removed my fingers, sucking them clean. Finding I rather enjoyed the taste of myself. Sweet with just a bit of a tang.

  I didn’t know when it would come. Just that it would. The obligatory wave of guilt that came with anything forbidden like this. I mean really, masturbating to fantasies of my new boss taking my v-card? But somehow an hour passed, with no such guilt. No matter how many times I looked over my shoulder, metaphorically, to see if it was approaching. I hadn’t gone blind. No lighting had crackled from the sky. It felt good, and that was all.

  Chapter Two - Hugo

  The image appeared as though by magic. Rising up out of the rough surface of the canvas. First as an outline, drawn in charcoal, then in full living color. The rosy flesh added to the cheeks, the light of life to the eyes.

  It was like surgery. Each precise and practiced movement yielding the expected result. The pen might be mightier than the sword, the brush was sharper than the scalpel. Revealing the bones and skeleton of the world.

  I’d gone through the usual motions. Feeling ever more like a fraud. Made a ritual of slipping into my pure silk pajamas and cap, looking much like a character from classic literature. Even if The Night Before Christmas had long ago passed. I did the thing with the warm milk, with if anything only made me more alert. I even, to my eternal shame, tried counting sheep. Getting to one-hundred thousand before I decided to give up.

  The sandman was not going to grace me with a visit that night. Much like every other night for the past five years. Were it not for occasional catnaps during the daylight hours, all the doctors would agree, sleep deprivation would have done for me years ago. One particular insomnia specialist of advanced years and considerable experience, claimed to have never seen anything like it.

  Beyond help, by either science, milk, or sheep, I did what I always did when in doubt. I created. Writing was out of the question. There was still the book to contend with. I knew, as sure as the sun rose and God made little green apples, I would never be able to work on anything else until it was out of my mind and off my chest. Otherwise, it would haunt me like a ghost the rest of my days. Sadly fitting really.

  So, painting it was. I’d never even picked up a brush before I was 30, yet, there I was, an adult prodigy unknown even to myself. The term some liked to use for a situation like mine was ‘savant,’ even if it wasn’t wholly accurate

  Their insistence on the term most likely stemmed from an inability to reconcile the idea of discovering talent late-in-life. The general myth was that true talent is cultivated from a young age; Mozart being the go-to example. Honestly, I’d just never thought to try.

  That’s not to say it was easy. I still had to learn. No one is born knowing geometric technique. Yet, learn I did, and within a year I could make photo-realistic renderings. All kept safe in my room. The discovery of them would be just another thing to make people interested. Which could only lead to more calls for me to come out of
hiding. Not to mention renewed speculation as to why I’d disappeared in the first place. It wasn’t the time. I still had thinking to do before I could face the world again.

  The room was beginning to grow light as I put the last stroke on the signature. A habit I’d gotten into without really meaning to. It would have been so nice. A series of paintings with no signature. No way of knowing, let alone proving who had created them. The only thing to go by being the work itself. That hack Warhol never thought of that, did he

  Hefting the canvas from the easel I set it down on the window sill to dry. Things would move much better and faster with the help of the sun, which had made a near miraculous appearance already, betraying February’s usual modus operandi.

  The iron clouds had parted for a blessed moment of illumination. It was still cooler than I liked, but much more tolerable. Either way, it was preferable to most other places in the country, where the potential for snow still lingered.

  My project abandoned, I moved to the kitchen in search of a different kind of fulfillment.

  The incision was clean. Running from tip to tip, opening the flaky pastry just so. That was the easy part. Far more taxing to hand and mind was the application of a pair of milk chocolate peanut butter cups, nestled within the two halves. Not exactly a ‘breakfast of champions’ but very enjoyable nonetheless. Usually the chocolate would have been already in the croissant when it was baked, but I like to do things my own way.

  The lid held down with a strategically placed toothpick, I place the chocolate croissant sandwich into the microwave

  As the microwave hummed and worked its magic, I set about other endeavors. A copper kettle was one of the primary tools in my arsenal. Time was it would have been coffee, but I’d been off it for the last few years. Even the smell of it had started putting me slightly on edge. I still liked a hot drink in the morning and switched over to tea.

  As the kettle boiled and the croissant turned, I took a surreptitious pull from my

  e-cigarette. The beep joined the chorus of noises in the small kitchen. I couldn’t help but wonder if the little device was an absurdity.

  Rather than outright quitting my life-threatening habit, I’d surrendered to another form of technology, supposedly to take care of my health. Even in a situation of something that might well kill me. How trusting we were of untested devices. Just as long as our pleasures could continue.

  Properly chemically roused, by both chocolate and caffeine, not to mention the little hit of nicotine, it was time to commence with the paid work of the day. Boucher Books was still a going concern, despite my absence. We were even taking on new staff. Something I’d never really considered, but there it was.

  The movements of the office weren’t exactly the top of my mind that day. It was getting to be close to Valentine’s Day and I had to get cracking. The candidates were never known for sure. Though, if previous years were anything to go by, there were always rumors. And usually a Slack group or two.

  Usually they got it pretty close. My type wasn’t exactly a secret and there were a few female workers who fit the bill. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do it that year, with the lockdown and all, but it wasn’t like they were stopping cars.

  Not yet anyway, and certainly not stretched limos with tinted windows. Too much risk of it being used by a politician or mafioso. Neither of them the type you’d want to get on the wrong side of. It would be a simple matter of sending a doctor to the winner to do a test. Then, if they were clean, having them brought straight to my place. Even the government couldn’t outright stop travel to private homes. Not as things stood

  The list of candidates was clear in my head. I could see them clearly. As well as having a good idea of what they looked like out of their work clothes. At first glance, the women, all employees at the publishing house for at least three years, didn’t seem to have much in common. One a buxom redhead. Another a cute, skinny brunette. Others curvy blonds, and at least one petite pixie who wore bubblegum-pink ringlets. Quite different indeed.

  At least on the obvious, physical level. I’d been looking for something more subtle. Clearly there if you were looking for it. Though, easily missed if you were not. A certain consistency of line, at least in the physical sense.

  It didn’t matter exactly what size or shape it took. I was attracted to symmetry. More than that, though, I required anyone who might to be considered to have something else. Something much harder to define, let alone spot. A quality best described by the phrase ‘gentleness of spirit.’

  Despite the difficulty, particularly of identification, I had my candidates. Six in all. All of them likely to serve well during the project. It was just a matter of shortening the list. First to three and then to two. One winner as well as a runner-up, in case the winner wanted to back out or doesn’t clear the test.

  As though the fates had been listening, my phone let out its happy chime. Alerting me to the arrival of a new message in my email. A child of the Digital Age as much as younger folk, possibly more so considering I remembered when the internet first went public, I went right to my account.

  “That was quick,” I mused, sort of recognizing the name.

  I had only a vague memory of hiring a Vega Alejo. Though it did ring a bell in the deepest part of my subconscious. It was bound to, not being the sort of name one saw every day. My spelling was almost embarrassing and the structure underlying my sentences even more ESL than usual. I really couldn’t explain it.

  My father was French, but one of the few who could speak English well. My mother was from Louisiana and completely bilingual, at least in their version of French. I’d grown up with both and couldn’t quite accord for the distinct French dominance in my speech and writing. It likely had something to do with me spending the first 25 years of my life in France. Environment having even more of an effect than family. I understood English well enough. It was the practice when things tended to fall apart.

  I looked back over my letter and her response. She was certainly eager. At my count she had applied for fifteen different projects in the space of five minutes. Taking the shotgun approach, no doubt. Still, it was impressive, and I was pleased with her initiative. The reply I’d sent connected back to her application.

  Out of sheer curiosity, I tapped it for a look. Despite her apparent youth, 25 if I had my math correct, Ms. Alejo had a very impressive resume. Not to mention references. No wonder Emmi had suggested I hire her.

  The company was being run day-to-day by the assistants. Though all major decisions still came down to me. Under serious advisement, of course. There were times I thought I would have made quite a good politician. I would just need the right people around me to tell me what my opinion was.

  The more I read, the more interested I became. There was something about her, even though it was only being communicated through text on a screen, the resonated with me. Peaks of experience as well as gaps. All speaking of a history that was at least interesting, if not tragic.

  It was the picture that did it. The photograph that Vega had opted to send with her application.

  We couldn’t request it anymore because of the law. Though applicants could do so if they chose. I preferred it when they did. Not for any prurient purpose. I just found it easier to connect with someone when I could see their eyes. Even if they were at a distance. Especially then.

  It was a selfie. Done on a phone. An older model going by the slight blurring effect I doubted was intentional. She didn’t have much money. Few people did in those days of sickness and strife. Remote work was an option, but that only went so far. I was even more sure I’d done the right thing.

  She needed to be working. Not just for the sake of the economy or her health, but her soul. The need in dark eyes, the desire, going beyond immediate subsistence. She looked like a caged animal. One that had never forgotten the jungle.

  Chapter Three - Vega

  The tyranny of the blank page was never an issue for me. Othe
rs had always filled them in long before I got there. My job as an editor, not a proofreader or a copy editor mind you, was to enter that forest of prose. Trimming and pruning the thickets of text with my honed tools. Shaping the branches to the guidelines and preference of the publishing company. All while keeping the original form intact.

  At least as intact as possible. It was not for me to editorialize, despite the name attached to the job. I was an aid to the story, meant to polish what was there, not add my own narratives. Through there seemed to be many who forgot this. Like the jumped-up little toads who re-wrote Bukowski posthumously. An act that surely would have led to him breaking their nose were he still above ground at the time.

  My eyes were doing that thing again. Locked on the screen, unable to move by themselves. It was my head that was moving. Running along the lines, before bouncing back, for the beginning of the next. Like an electric typewriter. I’d been told it was creepy, but it had always worked for me.

  Not least as a sign that I might have been at it too long and wasn’t balancing properly. Still, no one could blame me for being sucked in. The book I was working on, the one that Hugo had assigned me himself, was one of the most thrilling literary experiences of my life

  Considering I’d worked in publishing nearly my entire adult life to that point, that was really saying something.

  The prose was lean and visceral, putting me in mind of Hemingway. Yet, with a restrained poetic flourish. The semi-true tale of an umpteenth generation collector and guardian of arcane books. It was left mostly open whether those who come after him, as well as his inventory are rival dealers, occult posers, or something more sinister.

  It was an impossible choice. The number of variables numbering in the millions. Rhys could almost hear the gears turning in his brain-porium. Given a choice he would have taken it all, it there ere limits even to what pocket dimensions could bear. On the upside, they were also easy enough to allow even a mortal like him to pull one up like a new finder window.