Boardroom Bride: A Fake Fiance Secret Pregnancy Romance

by Alexis Angel

  I’d just rather guzzle cum from their exploding, dripping cocks instead and besides, I’m a strong, healthy and independent woman.

  Exceeding limits and shattering records is basically my forte, now that I’m boosting my career and empire.

  “Give me a kiss before you go?” I ask sweetly.

  They lean back, waiting for me to make the move. I wrap my arms around them, and their arms encircle me right back.

  They’re strong, warm and handsome and make me feel so protected and safe.

  I don’t know why I have more nervous jitters than usual for the pageant today. It’s like I have an ominous feeling or something looming over my head.

  As I give my men a kiss goodbye, I try to push those suspicions to the back of my mind and distract myself with the potential at hand here. My goal is to win again, no matter the costs. I’m worth it, and I’m fucking sexy enough to pull it off.

  I need to get to my dressing room to prepare myself for my performance and to give myself a mental pep talk.

  I cling to Eric and Chase’s hands until the very last second, until only my index finger remains linked to each of their hands.

  “Bye,” I whisper as they walk away, and I fall back into the shadows behind the stage.

  “Good luck, babe!” they call after me.

  Walking to my dressing room, I’m feeling confident until I step inside.

  Oh, god.

  Oh, no.

  What the fucking fuck.

  All over the room, there are pictures of me at my heaviest weight, plastered all over every wall. I feel exposed, vulnerable, and damn near attacked.

  Who would do this sort of thing to me? What a total fucking nightmare.

  My mind feels swirly and dizzy, and my vision blurs as I stare up at the constant reminder of my plus-sized figure taunting me on the walls.

  There I am, photographic proof that I was not always worthy of competing in this pageant today.

  In one of the pictures, I’m sitting down, wearing a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. The memory is torture. Back then, sweats and lounge wear were the only types of clothing that would fit me.

  I’ve come so far, but the pain of knowing that this wall is covered with my past ugliness is filled with venom. Somebody did this on purpose to hurt me, and I have a feeling it’s my bitchy ex-boss.

  I take a deep breath, trying to shake off my feelings of contempt and remorse.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and ball my hands into fists, gearing up to rip the posters and pictures off the wall.

  Before I get a chance to charge over to the first picture and destroy it, ready to tear it in half, I hear cackling laughter behind me.

  The other girls are looking at me, watching and giggling at my fucking shame—with Miss Australia front and center, laughing twice as hard as anyone else.

  I glance down the hallway, hoping to see Chase and Eric still lingering backstage, but I can’t find them anywhere. How the hell did they disappear so quickly?

  I push through the other contestants and step back inside my dressing room, trying not to have a panic attack when I feel my throat tighten and the air becomes hard to draw in to my lungs.

  “Mon Dieu!” one of the other pageant contestants―a beautiful, tall and bronzed tan girl with a sash that reads Miss Sexy France―laughs as she points at one of the most unflattering pictures of myself that’s ever been taken.

  Why the hell did I let anyone document me via photos when I was that heavy before?

  I gulp and watch with horror as she walks inside the dressing room to join me, but I’m powerless to stop her, frozen in fucking place.

  “Jackie, come in here, mon petite. You must see zis,” she erupts with laughter and a Parisian accent.

  Then Miss Sexy Australia, my arch-fucking-nemesis, stalks into my room. I grit my teeth and glare at the girls as they come into the room, flocking one by one to see the freak show, me.

  “Do you not have anything better to do right now?” I ask her as she cackles at the photos on the walls.

  “Better than this? Not fuckin’ likely, mate,” she snorts.

  It’s only then that I notice a note sitting suspiciously on the top of my makeup bag.

  I know exactly who it’s from the moment I see it.

  Evian.

  Good luck today, Kara! Never forget where you came from, it says.

  Which would maybe be nice, if she hadn’t included a little doodle of a whale beneath her words.

  I might have lost all the weight, but right now I feel fatter than ever.

  And any minute now, I’m going to have to go out on that stage and show my disgusting fucking body off to the crowd—and the entire fucking world to boot.

  Kara

  My legs refuse to fucking move. I can hear the announcement for the contestants to go out onto the stage, but it’s as if I’ve grown roots here behind the curtain. Every pore of my body feels filled with fucking lead.

  Who the fuck am I kidding? I lost the weight. I gained the muscle.

  But there’s no escaping who I once was.

  Suck it up princess, I try and tell myself and take a deep fucking breath. One foot in front of the other the way you’ve practiced. Off you go.

  I try to imagine what the boys would say. Probably something like, Fuck it, Kara, you’re hot, suck my dick, babe.

  It’s not a bad idea, but it’s not exactly, y’know…helpful right now.

  Neither of them would let me get away with hiding in my dressing room, though. Both of them would reassure me and shower me with compliments, I bet.

  Come on, Kara. I try a little mental nudging.

  It’ll probably take more than a nudge. Right now, I feel heavier than ever. The images that Evian sent to my dressing room are impossible to shake off from my mind—and now, I feel fatter than ever. At the worst possible moment, too.

  Inside, I’m just a fucking shadow of the woman I was when I won Miss Sexy USA.

  I miss that bitch. She was hot. She was confident.

  And she wouldn’t have let Evian get to her like this.

  I miss Chase and Eric, too. I don’t need a man to make me feel good about myself…but right now, I’m at a fucking low point. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a little pick-me-up.

  Fat feet. Fat knees. Fat thighs.

  Fat, fat, fat. It’s all I can think about right now.

  I need to walk perfectly across that stage in just a few moments, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to manage it.

  Fat does not walk. Fat wobbles. Fat rolls.

  Why don’t you fucking try rolling out onto stage then? a nasty little voice taunts. I don’t know where the fuck it came from, but it sounds awfully like my ex-boss. I need to quash it before it gets the better of me.

  There’s no fucking way I’m going to be able to walk the entire length of the catwalk poised and with elegance and confidence.

  I mean, like, how many face plants have I had already? I don’t need another addition to the Kara Gilmore Blooper Reel.

  I need to stop thinking about falling.

  I take a step out onto the stage.

  Any second, I’m sure I’m going to face plant into it. It’s going to fucking hurt, too. Chase and Eric aren’t going to be able to catch me this time, and my lack of grace under pressure isn’t going to charm the crowd if I keep fucking beefing it every time I walk on stage.

  We’ll always catch you, they told me once. That’s what they fucking said—and they’ve been doing it good every time so far.

  To my own surprise, I’m still on my feet. It takes great fucking effort to push those negative images out of my head. They’re persistent and try to worm their way back in.

  I need a lifeline. I need something to fill my head with so I can keep every bad thing I’ve ever thought about myself out.

  Something…or someone.

  Maybe a couple someones for that matter.

  I search among the hundreds of onlookers, but the spotlights make it
hard to see.

  I’ll just have to hold them in my mind, then. That’s what love is, right? Whether they’re right beside me, a thousand miles away, or somewhere in a faceless crowd watching me have a mental breakdown on live television wearing nothing but stiletto heels—they’re still in my heart.

  And in my pussy, too, apparently—because just as the spotlight raises, I spot them in the crowd like tropical islands in a big, scary ocean. They’re both smiling and they both only have eyes for me.

  Eric even gives me a dignified thumbs up.

  I feel my lips slowly curl into something near a smile.

  Keeping my eyes firmly on them, I shove the negativity out of my head. As I focus on Eric, I imagine I’m walking toward him.

  As I do so, he’s pulling his fucking massive cock out of his pants and wrapping his fingers around it. His eyes are begging me to come closer, to get a fucking good look and make sure I don’t miss a fucking thing.

  With each step, my poise and confidence grows. Gone is the feeling of fucking jelly in my knees, gone is the fear of falling, and gone is the image of a flabby walrus with my face rolling down the catwalk and squashing the entire front row.

  Instead, I grow taller, my shoulders held back and my step more nimble. I don’t take my fucking eyes off Eric or his cock I’m imagining right now.

  We practiced this walk over and over again. I can do this. I can do this.

  I repeat this mantra like over and over until I’ve completed the first part of the fucking pageant.

  There’s no time to have a breather or take a break, though. The contest goes straight into the weightlifting section.

  I watch the other perfect, oiled, glistening bodies and bite my bottom lip. I know I can do this. I’ve done this a thousand times before—naked, clothed, on a dick, whatever.

  But all that shit with Evian and my photos made me feel so fucking weak. I’m having a hard enough time lifting my fucking spirits right now, let alone weights.

  I mean, just look at the other competitors, right? They don’t have tiger-striped stretch marks slashed across their ass and thighs. They’ve probably never been more than five pounds over their ideal weight in all their perfect fucking lives.

  You’ll never be anything but fat, Kara. I’m pissed that I can still hear Evian’s voice in my ear. Like, who the fuck does that cunt think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do? Lucy has coughed up hairballs with better personalities than Evian Sprague.

  But rationalizing it is one thing. Going through with the next portion of the pageant is another.

  Tiny sweat droplets run down my spine and the gap between my tits. I’m nervous and angry—and honestly, kind of hungry. I either want to eat something, punch something, or curl up into a ball and not exist for a while.

  Instead, I fucking stand there with my tits out and wait for my turn to hopefully not fuck up.

  When my name is called, I stumble out onto the stage. Instead of the beautiful squat the girl before did, my knees knock together as I go to bend down.

  Shit.

  My heels have come off the ground, and if I shift my weight a smidge to the left I think I’m going to fucking fall. It was cute the first time. Fall over again, and I’ll be pushing my luck.

  Before I even lift the bar, I can see myself getting crushed by it, like I almost did the night I met Chase and Eric.

  They were there to catch you then, I remind myself. They’ll be here to catch you again.

  Valuable seconds tick by. There’s no fucking way I can do this.

  I’m not a weight lifter. I’m not gorgeous. I’m not any of the things the other competitors are.

  But just as I’m ready to give up, deep within me, something stirs.

  An image. It’s faint at first, but when I focus, I can imagine it clearly.

  It’s Chase, helping me through my squats—just like the old times.

  He’s standing behind me, hands on my hips, guiding me through the movement.

  I force myself to relive the many times I’ve done this move with Chase.

  I can do this. I can actually fucking do this!

  The fantasy shifts. Instead of Chase positioning my hips, his massive fucking cock is under me. I picture myself squatting onto his fucking dick.

  I concentrate on the way my muscles contract as I slowly go down. Only to ninety degrees, which is just enough to have him push all the way into my fucking tight pussy.

  Gently, using all of my muscles in my quads, I push upward. I ignore Fantasy Chase’s protests—because like, obviously he would be left begging for more—and keep going until I’m upright again.

  When I hear applause, I snap out of my imagination and am transported back to the contest.

  I’ve done it. I’ve really fucking done it.

  When I find Eric and Chase in the crowd, I catch their eye. They both give me the thumbs up sign, and I feel like running over and throwing myself at them.

  I don’t, of course, because that would be like, super unprofessional of me and stuff.

  But I think about it.

  Oh, I think about it hard.

  Fuck Evian. Fuck all the people who thought I couldn’t do this.

  Getting fat might have been a curve ball for my career…but it also got me here, didn’t it?

  Without those years of dieting and starving, Atkins, keto, fasting and worse, I wouldn’t have met Chase and Eric. I wouldn’t be competing in an international nude beauty pageant. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be the woman that I am today.

  Whatever this pageant throws at me next, I’m fucking ready.

  Bring it.

  Kara

  Two sheets of long white silk hang from the ceiling. Nothing else. No harness, no other safety precaution—only fabric.

  I must be fucking insane.

  The fabric looks so flimsy with the stage lights shining through it, and the photos from Evian are still fresh in my mind.

  Will these sheets even hold me? They have before…but will they now?

  The ugly image of my body sprawled on the polished floor takes hold of my mind and refuses to let go.

  How much fucking soap will it take to clean up the blood? Will they ever be able to get it all out, or would the floor be stained forever?

  Loser. Fucking loser. That’s all you are—a loser. Kara the Loser.

  The words repeat over and over in my head until I think I might explode.

  Shit.

  Self-doubt creeps into the crevices of my mind and spreads throughout my entire body. It oozes through and out of me. There is no fucking way I can do this.

  The music starts playing. It’s my cue.

  My heart beats wildly in my throat. I’m afraid I won’t be able to breathe, let alone perform. My mouth is dry, and it’s difficult to swallow.

  But then I think of my men. I think of Chase and Eric.

  Briefly I see their eyes, their smiles, their cocks.

  I reach for the silk sheet hanging in front of me. Instead of wrapping it skillfully around my ankle, I end up with my leg badly tangled in it.

  Not a good fucking start.

  I disentangle myself from the silk and try again. This time, I wrap my ankle up in the silk properly and begin to climb—but then my secondary fear sets in.

  I’m scared that the silk wraps aren’t going to hold my weight. As soon as I’m wrapped in them, they’re going to rip and tear, and I’m going to fall onto the ground.

  Splat.

  I reach up with sweaty palms, trying to focus on the music, the silk, and the climb.

  They’re not so different from silk bed sheets, really, when I think about it. I imagine being in Chase and Eric’s bed, with the sheets tangled artfully around me.

  It provides a little comfort.

  Up and up, I need to move. Turn, rotate, split the leg, and stretch. There’s applause. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief.

  But the higher I climb, the harder I will fall.

  Fuck.

  I nee
d to fucking concentrate.

  Left hand around the silk, pulling upward. Up and up, I go.

  Weightless in the air, light as a feather. The only thing that matters is the way the silk caresses my body and—here’s the real kicker—making sure that I don’t let go.

  I still can’t believe I’m doing this, but I guess that’s not the most important thing anymore.

  Chase and Eric believe I can do this. They love me, they care about me, and they’ve been the driving force that’s propelled me this far.

  I can’t let them down.

  But if I don’t stop fucking worrying, I’ll ruin the routine and all of our chances at the crown with it.

  I push all other thoughts out of my mind. I glance below, trying to pick Chase and Eric out from the crowd. I’m too far up to actually make out individual faces, but there are two forms in the seats below that look bigger, burlier, and sexier than the others.

  Somehow, in my heart, I know it must be them.

  Chase and Eric are watching me. I’m dancing only for them.

  God, they’re so fucking hot.

  A tingling sensation spreads through me. The silk is cold against my hot skin, and, if I imagine hard enough, I can feel Chase and Eric’s hands on my body as I spin high above the ground. Below me, a sea of faces goes in and out of focus, but I only have eyes for two of them anyway.

  I spin faster and faster until I come to an abrupt stop.

  The material rubs against my skin, and tiny electric shock waves pulse through me. I rock forward, then back, swinging above the crowd.

  Then, I rock forward again and allow the silk sheets to unfurl around my thighs, calves, and ankles, sending me plummeting towards the ground.

  The crowd gasps—I hear their concern and feel the tension in the air, especially when I keep falling, faster, and faster towards the stage until it looks like I really am going to go splat against the floor.

  And if that happens, I’ll be a Kara pancake.

  I imagine Chase and Eric’s bodies against mine, kissing and touching me as I fall. They caress my body, and they tease and stroke me in places only my men are allowed to stroke.

  About ten feet off the ground, I stop, and the crowd applauds with relief and awe.