Getting My BBW Wife Pregnant! (Bareback, Fertile)

by Sienna Harte

  Copyright Sienna Harte 2014

  All rights reserved.

  Getting My BBW Wife Pregnant!

  Book design by Sienna Harte

  Cover image ©2014 Depositphotos.com/dashek

  ONE

  I want sex. So what? Does that make me a terrible husband?

  I’ve talked to my friends. Some are married and some aren’t. Some of the single guys get laid by strange women every other weekend. The ones who are married? They’re in the same situation as me – working their asses off 50 hours a week just to come home to a lazy, apathetic, frigid wife.

  It wasn’t always this way. When she was pregnant with our daughter, my wife had a voracious sex appetite. All I had to do was look at her a certain way, or walk around without a shirt on, and she was on me like a wild beast. There were times she wanted it two, three, or four times a day. There were times I was so sore, I had to turn her down.

  My, how things have changed. It’s been over three years since my wife gave birth to our daughter, and since then we have had sex exactly twice. Both times were a result of my badgering (not proud of that). Both times ended in depressing silence as we retreated back to our sides of our cold king size bed and fell asleep.

  I’m not a selfish lover, either. I do everything, for as long as needed. I massage her, stroke her, kiss her…when I try to give her oral, she shoves me away. The odds of her giving me oral? Ha. Maybe in the next lifetime.

  You might think this is just part of getting older, but she’s 29. Surely that’s young enough to still be having sex at least once a month. Is it honestly too much to ask for?

  After the pregnancy, she struggled with confidence. Her body had changed, and though I tried I could not convince her that I was still as attracted to her as ever. If anything, more attracted. Her breasts had expanded when they filled with milk, and after the birth never really went back down in size. Her hips, too, had widened, and now they swayed when she walked. She had a little belly, but it was cute if anything. Nothing worse than my own gut, and surely nothing to distract me from her luscious curves. She was soft now. I longed to put my head on her chest, to feel her large breasts cushion it as her heart beat beneath my ear.

  But she could hardly stand for me to even touch her anymore.

  When I get home from work, she and our daughter are nowhere to be found – probably swimming at the in-laws.

  And now, I’ll divulge to you how low I’ve stooped. Every chance I get, I masturbate. It’s become a sick addiction; but it’s the closest thing I can get to sex without cheating. I’m a pathetic man – I’ll admit it. But I’m not an adulterer. I don’t do internet porn. Any time the house is empty, I go to my stash beneath the bathroom cabinet.

  The magazines are old – almost older than me. That’s because I sneaked them out of my father’s garage when I was a kid. The pussies are hairy, the women’s hair fluffy and the women’s makeup too harsh – the eye shadow too blue and the rouge too red. I’ve read all the jokes, taken all the quizzes, and actually put the blue martini recipe to the test (tart, like ill-mixed Kool-Aid). But I’ve been spanking off to these rags since I was a teenager; without a doubt, they’ve got more comfort to offer me than my 3 dimensional wife.

  I told you, it’s pathetic. What’s the saddest image in the world? Not dying puppies. Not slaughtered kittens. The saddest image in the world is a man in his mid-thirties, fat and balding, bent over himself, choking his dick to a tattered nudie magazine he hides from his own wife. That’s the saddest image in the world. Trust me.

  It’s no different than any other day. I go underneath the counter, past reserve bottles of shampoo, countless bottles of nail polish, toilet paper, and more to find what I’m looking for. A hole in the backing of the cabinetry. The glue has come just lose enough to pull back the material and slip in a couple of Playboys. Today, however, my fingers came into contact with a strange, slippery substance. I withdrew my hand and investigated. It seemed to be some kind of white opaque goo, very slippery to the touch, with the slight smell of strawberries.

  “Emily’s put her hair shit in the drawer without screwing on the cap again,” I muttered, wiping it off on my jeans. I sighed; the goo didn’t want to be gone despite the friction. As it dried, it became sticky, gluing small chunks of denim lent to my fingers.

  I washed my hands twice with soap, which seemed to rid them of the weird liquid, but my fingers still felt slick.

  “What the hell is this stuff?” I growled in annoyance. The mess had cut into my masturbating time; I could be halfway to orgasm right now. I opened the drawer forcefully, causing the contents to slide forward. That was when I saw it.

  It was the bottle of opaque goo. The label read Pearly Dream, personal lubricating gel. Beside it, rocking to and fro in the drawer was a hot pink dildo twice as large as my cock.

  I stared at it in shock for a moment. It was so out of place in our ordinary, meticulously cleaned bathroom.

  “So this is what you do while Violet’s in daycare,” I murmured, picking up the dildo and turning it in my hands. On the bottom there was a button. I pressed it, and the toy emitted tremors so strong that the entire thing shook violently, nearly escaping my hands.

  I quickly pressed the button again, ceasing the vibration setting, and dropped it back into the drawer. Then I picked up the lubricant. This was no ordinary lube; it was colored and scented. I understood women liking the smell of strawberries, I guess – but why the weird color? Why not pink or purple?

  When I turned the bottle over in my hands, it all became clear. This lubricant was clearly meant to mimic semen!

  TWO

  I didn’t know what to think. This was my wife we’re talking about – my frigid, only lets me fuck her twice in three years wife. And she had not only a vibrator the size of a large cucumber, but specialized lube for it as well? Where does one even buy such a product?

  I tried to picture my buttoned-up, conservative wife entering one of the novelty stores on the sides of highways. Then I shook my head. It just didn’t make sense. It just wasn’t her – or so I’d thought.

  Apparently, I didn’t know much about my wife.

  I put the bottle back beside the dildo and shoved them toward the back of the drawer, trying to make it look like they hadn’t been touched.

  Returning to the bedroom, I saw a peculiar sight. It was my wife’s laptop. She hardly ever uses her computer; its pristine condition was evidence of that. It still had the stickers on it and not one smudge on the monitor. The sight of it here raised suspicion in me. She never used it in the bedroom – she insisted on keeping it planted firmly on her desktop, despite its mobility.

  Figuring it couldn’t hurt anything, I pulled the lip open and let it turn on. There was no password; my wife was the opposite of tech-savvy, and probably didn’t even know how to set up a password to begin with.

  She probably doesn’t know how to delete browsing history either then, I thought wickedly.

  Was it possible that my wife watched porn? I didn’t think so, but then again I didn’t think it was possible for my wife to even enjoy sexual stimulation, much less own a massive dildo with the vibrating capabilities of a full-sized motor.

  Listening closely for the sound of a car outside, I clicked on the internet icon and pulled up her browser. It was still on the default page from the manufacturer; anybody who found this laptop would think it was brand new. For some reason, I felt nervous as I dragged the mouse and clicked to the history.

  Porn.

  Porn, and more porn. Occasionally the lascivious URLs would be interjected by a recipe website or email service. But overall? Porn.

&nb
sp; The domain names were things like MommyWantsCock, DaddyWantsABaby, and TheresABabyCumming. I was fascinated. I clicked on a few of the pages Emily seemed to frequent. The page was filled with unprotected sex. The videos had strong themes: the man wants a baby, and he wants it with her. He fucks her mercilessly, all the while telling her how her body would soon hold his child. At the end, there’s a gratuitous close up shot of their genitals as he pumps her pussy full of his semen – which is more often called his “seed” in this context.

  I clicked another page. In this one, the theme was pregnancy sex. Women at 6, 7, even 9 months were lain out on beds. The men fucked them greedily, many times pulling out at the end and cumming on their swollen bellies.

  My cock was hardened and ready to blow. Frantically I unbuttoned my jeans and freed my erection from my boxers. I watched as the men fucked their pregnant wives. The women seemed to love it, thanking their husbands for the cock. I imagined Emily, begging for me to impregnate her. I imagined Emily, heavy with child, kneeling before me.

  I came hard on the bed, squirting my cum – my “seed” – all over Emily’s side of the bedspread. On the comedown, I watched the rest of the video.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” the pregnant blonde simpered, smiling up at her man.

  CLAP. The sound of car doors opening and closing below made me shoot up from the bed, trying to put everything right. The front door opened, and I could hear Violet telling Emily a story.

  “Mmhmm,” Emily asked. “And what did you do?”

  “Shit!” I hissed. I closed the browser and then the laptop, placing it just so on the bed.

  The bed! It had my cum all over it! I wiped at it with a bit of toilet paper, leaving a faint shimmer stain. Just as Emily began to climb the stairs to the second floor landing, I rushed to the bathroom, flushing the evidence of my masturbation down the toilet.

  “Hello,” I said as I entered our bedroom. My voice was too high; unnatural.

  “Hi…” Emily said. She had her back turned to me while she removed her jewelry, placing it piece by piece in the small silver chest on our dresser. I breathed a sigh of relief; a fortunate side effect of a negligent wife was that she never noticed if anything was different about you – be it a haircut, weight gain, or in my case, my flushed face and falsetto greeting.

  “The washing machine isn’t working,” she said in a flat tone.

  “Oh no,” I said too quickly. “What seems to be the problem with it? That darn drive shaft again? I’m telling you, Em, those cheap Chinese parts are the worst. Next time, it’s German appliances for us.”

  “Ted.”

  “I mean, how long ago was it that I replaced that shaft? A year, two years? Ridiculous if you ask me. I remember my mom and dad’s washing machine – now that was a proper machine.”

  “Ted.”

  “They don’t make them the same way anymore, no sir-ee. The things they pass off as engineering these days – ”

  “TED!” Emily finally turned to face me, her eyes slightly narrowed.

  “Honey?”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “Did you get laid off again?”

  “What?” I asked. I seemed to be unable to lower the pitch of my voice. “No! No no no, of course not honey. I’d tell you.”

  “Then what’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You’re acting so…weird.”

  “Actually I think I had some bad meat earlier,” I admitted. “It was at Burger Town, you know I said I’d never go there again, but a bunch of the guys wanted to go and I thought I’d only have a salad, but…”

  Emily was already disinterested, turning back to her mirror to primp her hair.

  Close call, I thought.

  That night it was my turn to read to Violet. My sweet girl; she was what had kept me in this ill-fitting marriage these last three years. I wanted to make a good home for her, one where Mom and Dad stayed together forever.

  When I returned to our bedroom, Emily was sitting up in the bed in raptures toward her digital reader – god knows what she read on the thing. All I knew was she took it everywhere she went – vacations, planes, long car rides, waiting rooms, in the car to read while she waited on daycare to let out.

  I’d given it to her as an anniversary present, little to my knowledge that she would be putting her hands on it far more often than she put her hands on me.

  I undressed, taking unusual care to fold my clothes before putting them in the hamper. Emily remained stationary in bed, her eyes moving rapidly from left to right, following the lines of her book. What could possibly be so interesting that it justified ignoring her husband every night?

  I remembered the porn on her laptop, and wondered if she was reading porn. Did they even make books like that? In our early years of dating, she would always have a paperback romance novel on her nightstand. The covers were cheesy looking; nothing you’d want to show off in public. Perhaps behind the sleek exterior of her device she was concealing a scandalous literary collection.

  I pulled back the covers, sliding into bed beside her.

  “Hey sweetheart,” I murmured, kissing her hand.

  She said nothing. I took my lips from her hand to her elbow, then her shoulder. No reaction. Finally, I brushed some hair away from her shoulder, landing a wet kiss on her collarbone.

  “What?” she snapped, finally looking up from her reading.

  “Just haven’t talked to you in a while,” I murmured into her shoulder. “How was your day?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you talk to your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. How is she doing?”

  “Fine.”

  I was getting nowhere with her. I leaned back against the headboard, squeezing her shoulders. She tensed for a minute, then went back to reading her book. I pressed my thumbs into her back, little dots of pressure along her spine up to her neck. She did not acknowledge me. I kissed the back of her neck.

  “Ted,” she said suddenly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Knock it off. I’m not in the mood.”

  Too busy fucking your plastic husband all afternoon? I wondered angrily.

  “Oh, right,” I replied. “Sorry, hon.”

  She turned off her ereader and drew the covers back.

  “That washing machine,” she said, turning away from me.

  “I’ll take a look tomorrow,” I promised.

  “Please do.”

  Ten minutes later she was asleep and I was still awake in bed, my appetite for sex unquenched. I ought to be accustomed to that by now. I just thought, if she was pleasuring herself lately… But it was stupid. Of course she didn’t want to fuck me. She never wanted to fuck me. She’d probably been masturbating all this time, just changed where she hid her stuff.

  Anger brewed in me, and hurt. I hadn’t been the best husband; we’d fought, we’d made mistakes. I’d let myself go, and she her. Maybe she simply wasn’t attracted to me anymore. Maybe she was having an affair.

  I remembered the early years of our relationship. She hadn’t despised me then; she had been infatuated. I worked and she stayed home attending to her garden and painting projects. It was a great union, even better when we got married and had Violet.

  Oh, I remember the pregnancy. A lot of people say it’s hard, and it is – but Emily was such a happy pregnant woman. Glowing and shining to the entire world, all smiles all the time. And when we were alone – holy shit. That woman wouldn’t get off of me. She’d constantly want it. Anywhere we went – the bus station, the movies, a restaurant. She gave me blow jobs while I drove us home.

  She had no boundaries during the pregnancy. Nothing was off limits. She’d do everything. Stick her finger in my ass, lick my balls – all things she’d find disgusting now. That’s when we had anal sex for the first time, and then had it again…and again…and again. In the middle of the night, she’d wake me up. “What’s wrong?” I’d ask. “Are you having contractions? Are you okay?” She would say nothing, just pull me on
top of her and kiss my mouth, her contorting tongue asking a question I knew well by then – fuck me?

  And I obliged.

  My dick was getting hard just thinking about it. Was it weird, having sex with a pregnant person? No, not really. There were myths – that it was unclean, that it would damage the baby, complicate the pregnancy…all bullshit. And there was something undeniably sexy about fucking a woman you had impregnated.

  I’m a modern man – I don’t think I own my wife, and I don’t think women can be owned period. But there’s a feeling of proprietary security. This was my wife I was fucking. She was pregnant with my baby. She wanted to fuck me, her husband. Each time I was inside of her, it was like I was confirming all over again the vows we had said to one another on our wedding day.

  Knowing that it was my sperm that travelled inside of her and made her this way, my sticky semen bursting inside of her that had caused this result, only turned me on more to her. The weight gain? Didn’t matter – it only meant she had bigger tits and hips. The swelling belly? Hot. Unexplainably sexy. And when she began to lactate – God almighty. She let me suckle her breasts until the baby came.

  If only we could have that experience again…

  I sat upright in the bed, a brilliant idea coming to me.

  Emily stirred beside me.

  “Mmr,” she grunted. “What are you doing?”

  “Gotta pee,” I whispered. “Sorry babe.”

  She didn’t reply, just snored softly.

  I tiptoed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Flipping the light on, I listened for a moment. No sound came from the bedroom.

  I had wanted this for a while, but now that I’d discovered Emily’s secret sex stash, I knew exactly what I needed to do. I winced as I reached back to the cabinet, pulling the now sticky magazine out from behind the lose backing. The pages were saturated with the Pearly Dream lube, strawberry scented and possibly ruined. Did lube every truly dry?

  But it didn’t matter. Perhaps it was a sign; it was time to throw out the old magazines and kick the pathetic old man habit for good. Real pussy was what I wanted, and I wanted my wife’s.