His Baby: A Babycrazy Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  So within a week, the eight of us moved into a giant house on the outskirts of the city. It has nine bedrooms. Count ‘em, nine! What does anyone do with nine bedrooms? You’d think that each brother would have their own, and then one for me, plus an extra for guests.

  But that’s not how it is at all. Instead, all eight of us are in the master suite most of the time, going at it hot and heavy. They’re either enjoying my body, taking turns enjoying my body, or watching others enjoy my body.

  Depraved right? But it works great, and I’ve never been so fulfilled and satisfied. Caring, in the Morgan world, means making love constantly. And we’ve done a lot of it, it’s just how they communicate.

  Of course, the brothers show their adoration in other ways as well. Like this giant chef’s kitchen that’s custom-designed and perfect in every way. It has a sub-zero fridge, a gorgeous temperature-controlled wine cooler, two convection ovens, and even a full set of Le Creuset fancy cast-iron pots, in case I want to go crazy. It’s pretty much straight out of a decorator’s magazine.

  But the Morgans have taken it one step further because they installed special lights and mounts, and there are cameras everywhere, controlled via iPad. You can guess where this is going. That’s right, it’s a perfect set for a cooking show, every tool at my disposal, every single utensil you can think of to create perfect-looking food that’s camera-friendly and delicious.

  Of course, I use it for other things as well. Just this afternoon, I filmed myself making a cherry pie. It started out innocently enough, me in a frilly blue apron, hair down, happily mixing flour and water.

  But pretty soon it turned into a full-on show. Oh yeah, I’m a cam girl for the ages, humping utensils on the marble counter, sticking them deep up my snatch and screaming wildly as my pussy explodes in front of the live stream.

  Because what could be better? I’m performing for the audience of my dreams, a direct feed going to my seven lovers at work, and I’m sure they get off too. Oh yeah, these guys are probably stroking their dicks, milking the cum out as they grunt, hungrily devouring my wetly creaming body while staring at their computers.

  But I have to admit that it’s not all fun and games. Because what am I doing, really? Am I getting ahead in life? Making something of myself? Call it the remnants of childhood, but Jim and Marsha instilled a value system long ago, and it’s hard to completely forget it all. So how can I leave that all behind?

  Because it’s not like I’m some super-successful Food Network host. No, it’s just me in a fancy kitchen, doing amateur porn for my boys. Is that an accomplishment? Can I add that to my resume? Sure, I cook them dinner each night, but there’s been no progress made on my book, and school is long since gone. So what am I doing, really? Hanging around, waiting to get pregnant? Is that my goal in life?

  I want it, but at the same time, I don’t. It’s like two competing value systems pulling against one another. On the one hand, yes, the idea of a baby makes me bloom with happiness, contentment bubbling inside when I imagine a cooing infant, blue eyes just like his fathers’.

  On the other, my mind screams, What the hell are you doing? This is no normal situation! This is never what you planned! Because there are SEVEN MEN, not one! Are you nutso?

  And then the world darkens. Clouds cross the sky, blacking out the sun and my mood inevitably swirls down the drain. Because I have nothing to show for the last couple months of life. No accomplishments. No achievements. No awards. Nothing, not even a ripe, swollen belly.

  And if I do get pregnant, what are people going to say?

  Who’s the father?

  Shit, do Ted and Maddy Morgan know?

  How about the girl’s parents. Do they know?

  What a fucking slutty slut, she’s boinking seven dudes at once.

  Any way you turn, the result’s pretty grim. So what do I do now? Where does that leave me? Do I just get pregnant and have a baby, cowering under the world’s glare, trembling at its disapproval? Will anyone be friends with me now, if they know my situation? Or do I go into hiding? Even in the lap of luxury, a prison is still a prison, and a flatscreen in every room doesn’t make it better.

  Plus, what about my career? Sure, I’m hardly the most ambitious person, but that doesn’t mean I want to do nothing at all. So should I plow ahead with my cookbook dreams? Will anyone buy my volume, if they realize I’m with seven men? Will any publisher take me as a client, given my non-traditional lifestyle?

  So many unknowns. My head drops, heavy and filled with a dark mass of confusion. Because this is beyond my wildest imagination. Somehow, my fantasies have come true but there’s a troubling side too. There’s an angle that blows my mind, overwhelming for a girl of eighteen, and I sniffle then, heart a solid rock in my chest. A single tear drops down my cheek as I stir cake batter listlessly, all joy evaporated. Because what does this mean? What have I gotten myself into? I want it, but I don’t, and misery consumes me then.

  Suddenly, the phone rings. Oh god, it’s Marsha. Things haven’t improved since that fateful night, but at least we convinced my parents not to press charges. That would be the kicker. Tim and Will in jail, for what, exactly? I’m of legal age. They’re of legal age. It’s not a crime to love two men, or to give your body to multiple men.

  But Marsha had been so angry that anything could have happened. So we dodged a bullet for sure. Taking a deep breath, I pick up the receiver with a trembling hand.

  “Hi,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. “How’s it going?”

  “How’s it going?” she screeches immediately, making my eardrums wither. “Did you ever think of us? Did you every think of your father and me for one moment, Macy? You know we can’t get a refund for all the tuition we paid on your behalf! Did you think of that, hmmm? Did you think of how much Jim and I invested in you? And to throw it all away,” she snaps with an angry harrumph.

  “I’m sorry,” comes my trembling voice. “But I told you all along, college isn’t my thing. The Morgans agree,” I say staunchly, back straightening even if she can’t see. It helps just to conjure the image of my lovers, standing in solidarity in the kitchen.

  But Marsha’s relentless.

  “Of course they tell you that,” she sneers. “Those men have you pussy-whipped. You know what that is, right?”

  I’m unable to answer, the receiver trembling in my numb fingers.

  “You’ve never had a man before,” says Marsha, her voice going low and venomous. “They’re your first, so you believe everthing they tell you. You think they want what’s best for you? You think the Morgans care about your welfare?”

  “I know they do,” I interrupt, voice bold even if my heart’s shaking. “Because they tell me all the time.”

  “Bullshit,” sneers Marsha. “That’s a load of crap if I ever heard one. Those assholes are gonna get a pretty eighteen year old knocked up and then walk away. The men get off scot free, and you know what happens to you? You’re marked with a scarlet letter, shamed in front of the world.”

  That can’t be true.

  “No, you’re wrong,” I say in a low voice, trying to keep the tremors out. “The Morgans love me, and they want our baby. I know that. They’d never do what you’re saying.”

  “Please,” snarls Marsha. “Tell that to their other baby mamas. Or wannabe baby mamas.”

  The air evaporates from my lungs, making it impossible to breathe then. What other baby mamas? Are there other women out there that the Morgans are trying to impregnate? How can that be? They’re with me all the time, it can’t be true.

  But Marsha’s unstoppable.

  “Oh yeah,” she caws. “There’s a woman out there, Heather something or other, who’s also their whore. Get that, sweet daughter of mine. You think you’ve got a harem going, but the game’s on you. They’ve got a den of women that they keep for nefarious purposes. You’re nothing special.”

  And at that, the receiver drops out of my lifeless fingers. It can’t be. I am special, I’m the one w
ho’s going to have the Morgan heir, my lovers have made it clear again and again. They caress me all day, stroking my curves, praying that their seed takes hold. So how can my mom even say this? How does she know?

  But somewhere, a kernel of doubt blooms. Marsha’s succeeded in poisoning the well and my mind goes blank before jumping to life, spinning furiously. Somewhere, there’s this Heather woman and I’ve got to find her. I’ve got to figure out the truth … otherwise my whole life is just one great, big lie.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Macy

  The phone jerks with a sharp brrriiing!

  Oh shit!

  It’s too early!

  I’m not ready!

  Quickly, my thumb stabs the off button, breath coming fast.

  But an inner voice speaks then. You gotta get with it Macy. You can’t just sit here staring at the bedspread forever like a lump of lard.

  So with trembling fingers, I dial once more, heart beating fast, nerves on edge. But it’s a letdown because an automated system at Morgan Enterprises picks up.

  “Enter the extension of the party you wish to reach,” says a friendly robot-lady on the other end of the line. “Dial three for a directory by name.”

  I dial three. And then my fingers fumble to press four-three-two-eight-four-three-seven, spelling out H-E-A-T-H-E-R. My heart is about to beat through my chest, I’m so nervous. What if it sends me to some random Heather who has nothing to do with this insanity? What if it sends me to the Heather? What if there is no Heather at all?

  “No matches found,” says the voice flatly. “Dial zero for operator.”

  I let out a relieved breath and dial zero, asking for the human resources office. It goes through in an instant, and a woman named Jill answers, chirpy and sweet.

  “Hi,” I stammer, trying to think on my feet. What do I say? How can I get the information I need? I wanted to use the company directory, but that was a bust. So what do I do now?

  “Um,” I improvise quickly. “I work for Jones Incorporated and I, um, have an application for a Heather but the last name is illegible. Her last place of employment listed was Morgan Enterprises and I hoped you could maybe help me confirm the name?”

  Wow. Good one. I mentally pat myself on the back.

  “I’m sorry, what was your name again?” Jill asks in a sweet voice.

  “Macy Jones,” I say. “I’m a chef and I’m opening a new restaurant downtown. She applied to work in our business office.”

  “Oh, okay Ms. Jones,” she says. “I can’t confirm any contact information but the most recent Heather we had on staff was Heather Mastricci.”

  Bingo.

  “Mastricci,” I repeat, saying the name like it’s already familiar. I have her spell it out for me, then thank her for her time. That was easier than I thought. Too easy, to be honest. I guess anyone can find anyone in our interconnected world these days.

  But oh no. This opens up a new can of worms. Do I really want to go down this path? Do I really want to meet a woman who might have been me not so long ago, completely nuts for these seven gorgeous, talented brothers? What if she’s crazy and tries to kill me? Or what if she’s pregnant?

  I don’t know what I’d do then.

  My stomach drops, throat growing tight.

  All these conflicted feelings run through my frame. I should be happy if she’s pregnant right? If this Heather chick is pregnant, then I’m off the hook. Everything my mom said is true, and I can count my blessings it’s not me.

  But on the other hand, I want it to be me. I want to be the mother to the Morgan heir, the lover of seven men. I want to feel the brothers pulse between my legs, their semen taking hold deep within. And I want to cuddle a child, nursing him at my breast, loving the babe.

  My head shakes ruefully.

  Marsha’s gotten to me.

  My mom has obviously gone straight off into the deep end with her crazy sinner talk, but maybe she’s right in a way. Maybe these guys are love-em-and-leave-em types. Maybe they chew up and spit out curvy virgins, leaving them as roadkill. Don’t I want to know the truth before going any further? Before I commit to giving them what they want most?

  But then again, what if Marsha’s wrong? I mean, she hears gossip among her country club set, sure, but how would they know anything about the Morgan boys and their sexual proclivities? Those country club ladies are vicious bitches. They’ve cast many a stone against women who were allegedly “less than godly” over the years. Good Christians, my ass. More like hypocritical vipers, holding a Bible in one hand and a drink in the other.

  So where does that leave me now? My head whirls. Marsha’s probably lying, more concerned about her social status than my well-being. But at the same time, there’s an edge of doubt now.

  Mastricci.

  That name can’t be too common, right? It sounds Italian American. Can’t hurt to just look.

  So with trembling fingers, I google the name, then search Facebook. And oh god, but the girl exists. Of course she does, Morgan Enterprises already confirmed that for me.

  But the thing is, Heather’s more than just a ghost now. Seeing her picture, the brunette is real, with a nice smile and friendly brown eyes.

  Normal.

  Kind.

  Probably a good person.

  Her last post on Facebook was three years ago though. Weird.

  Stop now, whispers the voice within. Don’t do this to yourself. You’re just going to uncover a world of hurt.

  But I can’t stop. The thing with Internet searches is that you fall into a hole, finding more and more and more, until you’re sick to your stomach. It’s like a drug you can’t stop taking. So staring at the screen, I enter Heather’s name into a site called www.whitepages.com. It’s a version of the old white pages, a digital phone book for the ages.

  And there she is. Heather Mastricci, living maybe twenty minutes from where I am now. She’s a real person, this Heather, not a figment of my imagination. What is she like? Does she have a funny laugh? Does she laugh when the Morgans laugh? But no, there are a billion Heathers in the world. Even other Heather Mastriccis, with the unique last name. No reason to think this specific Heather knows my boys. Right?

  Honestly, it makes me sick even thinking about it. About there being some other girl like me, smitten by seven alpha males, in thrall to their charisma. If she was like me, she might be curvy, maybe a little shy. Maybe she felt like she didn’t quite belong most days, couldn’t quite figure out who she wanted to be. And then seven men dazzled her, made the woman feel special.

  So can I do this?

  Or more accurately, do I want to?

  Moving in a daze, I leave the house, taking the Mercedes out back. Yeah, the Morgans bought it for me, said I could have any car I wanted. But right now, it makes no difference. Staring like a zombie, my foot hits the accelerator and pretty soon, I’m on the road.

  The drive is short but harrowing. Crazy thoughts run through my head. I don’t need to know this. Everyone has previous relationships. Even me. I mean, my past doesn’t come with a huge family fortune or kinky sex, but I’ve had sort-of boyfriends, for sure. But the past stays in the past, right? It’s bad form to bring up ex-lovers with your current lover.

  So maybe I should turn around. Of course the Morgans have been with other women. They’re virile men; I’d be totally naïve to think I was the first.

  But still, my hands keep gripping the steering wheel, foot on the gas pedal. And before I know it, I’m in front of a two-story house, real fancy. Wow, Heather lives here? Shading my eyes, I stare up at the second floor. There’s a balcony with trim, and big casement windows for light. This is a nice place to live for sure.

  But right. I’m here on a mission, not to scope out real estate. So taking a deep breath, I trudge to the door, trying to summon the courage to knock. Oh god, there’s no turning back if I do. Should I? Maybe this was all a bad idea.

  But again, Marsha’s words ring in my ears. You think you’re the only one?
Try again, comes her screechy voice.

  And in slow-motion, my hand raises, knuckles tapping against the wood. There’s no sound for a couple minutes, but then some shuffling comes from inside. I can literally feel someone staring at me through the peephole, an unseeing eye.

  The door swings open, and I don’t move, just staring. Because the girl before me is Heather Mastricci from Facebook, sure. But she’s also not. Because this female is bony, skeletal almost. She looks like she’s wasted away and I wonder if I’ve stumbled upon a drug addict, it’s that bad. Her skin is pale and waxy, and long, dirty blonde hair hangs in chunks around her face, stringy and unwashed. It’s all I can do not to gasp aloud because why would the Morgan boys want someone so used up?

  Or maybe she looks used because of them ….

  My nervous stammer breaks the silence.

  “Hi. Um, are you, um, Heather? By any chance?”

  The blonde squints my way, shielding her eyes against bright sunlight. Is she a hermit? It’s like she hasn’t been outdoors in weeks, if not months.

  “Yeah,” she says finally. “And you are?”

  “I’m Macy,” is my hurried reply. “I, um, wondered if I could talk to you about something. Like the Morgan brothers?” My voice ends on a hopeful note, the question dangling in the air.

  And that gets a reaction from the corpse in front of me. Her eyes widen, big blue orbs in her thin face, before stepping aside to let me into her house. We make our way to a living room, and my stomach sinks with every step. I could leave now, without asking even one question. I can close my eyes and live in happy oblivion, with no problems whatsoever.