Dr. Travis, I Love You: A Secret Baby Medical Romance

by Cassandra Dee

  Shit! It didn’t work. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy. I tried another key, but this one didn’t even fit into the keyhole. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I tried a couple more keys, but none of them were a match. Goddammit!

  Exasperated, I tried my own key, the one for the coat check booth. With a gasp of surprise, the key turned and clicked, and the door creaked open. What the …? Why would the key for the coat check be the same for this obviously high-security door? But I didn’t have time to think. I let myself in, fumbling for the light switch.

  The light came on, glaring and bright. It looked like a standard office, two desks, two chairs, two computers, a file cabinet … and a stripper pole with a camera pointed at it. What the fuck?

  I was nervous, frazzled and jumpy. But I berated myself. This was investigative research for my senior thesis, and I wanted an A in the class.

  I tiptoed to the file cabinet and seized the handle. It was locked, but fortunately, one of Troy’s keys actually worked and I was able to open the top drawer. Oh. Boring. Just tons of files, papers everywhere. But I looked closely, and saw that each of the files was labeled with a name … a woman’s name. Carly, Jordan, Mikaela, there had to be at least fifty files in the top drawer alone.

  Curious, I pulled out Carly’s file for a peek. Inside the manila folder was a snapshot of a beautiful brunette, smiling. There were basic stats, her height, weight, eye color, that sort of thing, as well as a copy of her fingerprints and a credit report. Okay, whatever. This was a pretty standard background check.

  But I flipped to the next section, and saw that a thorough medical evaluation had been performed. Evidently Carly was healthy as a horse, with no known diseases or vectors.

  I flipped through more pages and saw a couple years of taxes, some bank statements, and then at the very back, boudoir photos of the girl. Already beautiful, she’d done herself up as a 50’s bombshell. She posed in revealing positions, first in some lacy black lingerie, and then wearing nothing at all, her luscious assets on display. What the …?

  I flipped open another folder, this one for a girl named Ekaterina, and saw much of the same. Financials, credit history, medical records … and boudoir photos again. Except this time, Katya, as she was referred to, wasn’t wearing anything except for spiky black stilettos in her photos, languidly spreading her ass cheeks and her labia in a series of X-rated stills meant to tease and tantalize, if not straight out make a man come. What the hell? Why would Club Luxe have files like these?

  My suspicions beginning to rise, I turned towards one of the computers. It flickered to life, but was password protected. Fuck, I was bad with computers. I tried a number of common passwords, including “password,” “12345678,” and “clubluxe” among others. No such luck. On a whim, I tried “twincest” and boom, I was in. What the hell? Alarm bells were clanging in my head now, but I ignored them.

  I looked through the files on the desktop and most of it was financial spreadsheets, blurry and incomprehensible. There was more than one business though … there was Club Luxe, Club Brass, Bar Brass, Steel, and a couple others which I didn’t recognize.

  But I hit the jackpot when I opened the “Photos” folder. There were multiples vids, all named with women’s first names and a date, like “Sandy 4-11-2011.” I clicked, apprehensive about what I was going to find.

  A video flashed on screen, and I could see that it was this office, the very one I was sitting in. A blonde sat on a folding chair, wearing nothing but a bikini, smiling and flirting with the camera. She tossed her hair as a male voice said, “Hold on, just making sure we’re recording ….”

  I gasped. It was unmistakably Troy’s voice.

  “And go,” he commanded the girl.

  Sandy got up and began twirling in her high heels, dancing on the stripper pole, shaking her hips and playing with her breasts. Teasingly, she pulled the bikini off piece by piece, revealing huge Double D breasts, firm and gorgeous, as well as a slick pink cunt, bare and nubile.

  I could hear men talking in the background, their voices somewhat muffled by the music, but could make out comments like, “Moves well,” “Great body,” and “Good attitude.” What the hell, were these the stripper tryouts? Were those my brothers’ voices making the comments?

  And as if in a nightmare, one of my brothers moved on screen. It was Tyler, dark and forbidding in a black shirt and trousers. Sandy shimmied up to him, completely nude, and dragged his head down for a deep kiss.

  I shrieked, my breath coming in gasps. A dagger of pain lanced through my heart, but I reminded myself quickly that this was filmed at least four years ago, long before I came into their lives.

  And the debauchery picked up steam. Sandy unzipped his pants, letting Tyler’s big prick free, and knelt to take it in her mouth, sucking on the veiny girth as she smiled coyly at the camera. And as Tyler moaned, fucking her mouth ever so slightly, damn if it wasn’t Troy’s voice off camera murmuring encouragement, saying shit like, “That’s right, show us your best slut technique,” “Get him wet, really wet, lick that cock like it’s your last popsicle.”

  My heart crumpled in my chest, searing pain at my brothers’ actions, despite the fact that I knew this was far before my time. The twins were engaging in sex with women they clearly didn’t know, and videotaping it to boot. Not that sex with strangers was so bad, but this seemed to go beyond that … they were clearly sampling her wares for an ultimate purpose.

  I forced myself to watch until the gory end, Tyler spurting hotly into Sandy’s mouth, overflowing her so that cum dripped off her chin. Troy had evidently been beating his dick off-camera because I could hear a roar as he came, a muffled “fuck!” as the camera shook from his thrashing arm. And as Tyler pulled off, I heard the words which changed my life.

  “Tyler, Troy,” said the blonde sweetly. “Did I get the job? I’d love to start working at Club Luxe … as an escort.”

  The blood rushed to my head and I collapsed in a faint from the realization that my stepbrothers were pimps.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Kristen

  I gasped as I came to, my head throbbing against the utilitarian carpet. I must have hit something on the way down, and it pulsed painfully, like a dagger in my brain every other second. Experimentally, I tested my body and was relieved to note that everything seemed okay, my limbs tired and curiously drained, but in sufficient working order.

  I pulled myself to my feet, grabbing onto the desk for balance. The last still in the video was frozen on-screen, a shot of the naked blonde with her mouth inches from my brother’s spent cock, smiling as she chewed on sperm.

  At this point, tears spilled from my eyes because of the import of the video. My brothers were honest to god pimps, and had been at least since 2011, when this tape was made. They were profiting from selling girls’ bodies, trafficking in the female sex, and I crumpled inside, devastated.

  I’d never meant to uncover something so damaging. In my mind, I thought I’d uncover the shenanigans and foibles of teenage clubbing, maybe documenting some wild nights of partying, recreational drug use, that kind of thing. Instead, I’d stumbled upon something much darker … with my stepbrothers at its decayed, rotted heart.

  Tiredly, I logged off the computer and returned all the files to the cabinet, making sure to put them in the same order. I crept out of the office, ensuring that the door locked behind me, and went out into the open dance area. Feeling nauseous suddenly, I ran to the bathroom and vomited, my stomach heaving its contents into the toilet. I was sweaty and panting, hugging the ceramic bowl, leaning my forehead against the cool porcelain rim when suddenly the door to the restroom swung open.

  A pretty brunette walked in. Oh it was Rachel, a bartender who usually worked weekdays. She came to abrupt halt when she saw me in the bathroom stall, kneeling on the floor.

  “Krissy, you okay?” she gasped, coming to stand by me. She handed me some paper towels, helping me wipe my forehead.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled feebly. “Just f
elt really sick for a second and had to heave.”

  “Oh poor you,” she said sympathetically. “Did you have a hard night last night? Or could it be something else?”

  I wasn’t sure what she was referring to, but I shook my head slowly.

  “Nah, just a bug,” I said, pulling myself unsteadily to my feet. “What are you doing here, Rachel? It’s only 11 a.m.,” I said frowning, looking at my watch. The club closed at 1 a.m. and didn’t re-open until eight or nine each night. Rachel’s presence was definitely unexpected.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” she laughed, taking in my dark, nondescript clothes. Oh right, I’d tried to dress like a spy, and this was what I imagined spies wore.

  But Rachel shrugged it off and said, “I’m here to pick up some files for Tyler. Have you seen him?” she asked.

  Tyler? My brother was here? Oh shit, oh shit.

  But as if reading my mind, Rachel continued.

  “Yeah, he wanted some historical attendance records to estimate tonight’s crowd. Making sure we have enough security tonight, that sort of thing,” she said. “You okay?” she asked again. “I’m supposed to meet him in fifteen, so I gotta run,” she said apologetically.

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” I mumbled. “Thanks for the paper towels,” I said, wiping my mouth again. “Sorry I was so gross.”

  “No worries,” said Rachel breezily. “I’m working tonight, so I’ll see you then?”

  “Yeah, see you,” I replied, and with that the pretty bartender was out the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Troy

  Krissy let herself into the house, looking terrible. She was pale, her complexion drained, and her hair hung lankly around her face. Usually well-dressed, she was wearing loose, non-descript dark clothes, baggy and unflattering.

  “Hey sis,” I called out, ignoring her outfit. “How goes?”

  She gave me a furtive look before looking away. Was it my imagination, or was there a bit of sadness in that glance?

  “Um, I’m good, thanks,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “Just going to take a nap,” she said, beating feet towards her bedroom.

  But what she’d forgotten was that her bedroom was now our bedroom. Since she became our girlfriend, Tyler and I moved into her room, sleeping with her cuddled between us each night. Sure, our clothes and belongings are scattered around the house, but for all intensive purposes, this is where Tyler and I belong now.

  I followed her, standing in the doorway as she stripped off her clothes. God, her body was amazing. Her breasts were creamy and white, the light blue veining a maze that I never tired of staring at. Her waist was narrow before flaring out into ample hips, with that cheeky, bouncy ass I loved to spank.

  Krissy was in the middle of pulling on her sleep tank, wearing nothing but panties underneath when suddenly she rushed to the en suite, making horrible gargling noises. Without any warning, she heaved into the toilet but nothing came out. It was all air, dry retching and painful, intense heaves from deep inside her abdomen.

  I rushed over, alarmed.

  “Sis, are you okay? What’s going on?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing,” she panted between another series of dry heaves. “Nothing at all,” she said, leaning her forehead against the porcelain bowl.

  That was clearly untrue. I moistened some hand towels and wiped her face gently, holding her hair out of the way as she retched again.

  “Baby,” I said gently. “When was the last time you had your period?”

  She looked up at me, stricken. Clearly, this hadn’t occurred to her.

  “I … um … I guess … maybe two months ago?” she said weakly.

  “Honey, I think I know why you’re ill,” I said gently. “It’s morning sickness because you’re pregnant … with our child.”

  This spurred another round of heaving, our little girl panting and spent, as news of her pregnancy sank in.

  “You think?” she asked weakly, her eyes looking at me warily.

  “Yeah, definitely,” I said. Okay, so the girl hadn’t exactly taken it well, but given that she was feeling miserable, who would? There was nine months of this ahead, not to mention an excruciatingly painful labor and delivery.

  But inside, I was jumping for joy. The thought of my beautiful little sister, her body swelling with our baby, made me incandescent with happiness. I loved knowing that our seed had bred her fertile body, that this lush, eighteen year-old was going to be a mother to our child. Stroking her head, I said, “Let me get you some crackers, that’s supposed to help with the nausea.”

  I was on my cell as soon as I exited our room. Tyler picked up with a grumpy “What? I’m busy.”

  “Glad you’re so polite, brother,” I said dryly. “Get back here right now. Something amazing just happened.” And I think Tyler suspected the pregnancy too, because without any argument or protest, he hung up, making his way home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tyler

  I let myself in the front door. Unlike my usual self, I was inordinately excited. I think both my twin and I had been having the same thoughts. Krissy was special to us, the first girl that we’d taken seriously, the first one we’d entered into a committed three-way relationship with. And it’s been an amazing experience. She’s sweet, sassy, and smart, all rolled into one beautiful package. I knew we wanted to keep her.

  She’s only eighteen, it’s true, but she fit into our lives perfectly. She’s been helpful at the club, working coat check night after night, and given how little she’s paid, we appreciated her unfailing loyalty.

  And after work finishes … god, in bed she’s amazing. She takes one of us, then the other, then both at once, and never says no. I mean, I don’t think she’s ever said no to sex when we ask, her body always willing, supple and nubile, ready to accommodate one cock or two.

  The only problem is that she’s our sister. I’m not sure how we’re going to bring this up with our parents, much less the wider world, but first things first. If she’s pregnant, then all the more reason to make it legit and public.

  But first, I wanted to confirm the good news. I strode into our bedroom, to see our little girl pale and motionless under the covers. She was gorgeous, her chestnut hair fanning out behind her, the sheets unable to hide the lusciousness of those curves.

  “Shh,” said Troy, coming up behind me. “She was suffering from morning sickness, she’s gotta be pregnant bro,” he continued.

  “Did she take a pregnancy test?” I asked.

  “No, not yet, but what else could it be?” he asked. “She hasn’t gotten her period in two months.”

  My brother was a dumb fuck. He wanted her to be pregnant so badly that he was ignoring the fact that her period may have been delayed due to stress, a change in diet, who knows? But honestly, I was just as elated and willing to engage in some magical thinking. If our little girl was pregnant … god, it made me so happy, the thought of being a father to her child.

  Despite our hushed whisperings, Krissy woke up and caught us in the doorway, gazing at her as we spoke. Instead of smiling with welcome, she started crying, the tears rolling down her cheeks, her muffled sobbing heart-wrenching and miserable.

  “What is it baby?” I murmured, stroking her head, sitting next to her on the bed. Troy sat on other side, holding her hand. “Is it the morning sickness? It’s bad, but it should get better,” I promised.

  She cried for a bit, hopefully out of joy, but it didn’t seem like it. I’ve never cared much about a woman’s emotions, and this why being with Krissy is so amazing. She’s the first woman that I want to be attuned to, want to know what’s going on in her pretty little head.

  But the crying continued for a few minutes, wrenching and sorrowful, and Troy and I looked on, puzzled. These definitely weren’t tears of joy.

  “What is it baby?” Troy tried again. “What’s got you so unhappy?” he asked.

  It came pouring out then.

  “I went to your office,” Krissy choked
. “You’re not the bouncer and bartender at Club Luxe … you’re the owners!” she accused.

  “Yes, that’s true,” I said with a warning glance at Troy. Okay, so she’d broken into our office, which was bad, but never assume the worst without confirmation. “We’re the owners of Club Luxe,” I agreed, “and we also own a couple other businesses in the city,” I soothed.

  “That’s not all,” she said, glaring at us. “I saw the files. I saw the videotape,” she said flatly. “You’re pimps. I saw that girl dance around naked, sucking you off, and then asking for a job as an escort,” she screeched, her voice growing in volume with each accusation. “You’re using women! You use women’s bodies to support your lifestyle! You’re criminals!” she screamed this time, waves of anger rolling from her small body.

  I sat stock still for a minute, motionless, the air humming with tension. The things she was saying were technically true. We made money from women who had sex, taking a cut of their earnings. But explaining the complexities are tough – the way we protected our charges, that they were smart and hard-working women, appreciative of the job in most cases. And most weren’t lifelong hookers. Instead, they were women who needed some fast cash, and this was an easy route, with us as their middlemen, their protectors in some sense, as they tried to make a living.

  Unfortunately, it sounded like the moral aspect meant a lot to our little sister, and she couldn’t absorb the nuances of our job just now.

  “Shh,” I soothed. “Just sleep. You’re tired and sick, and when you wake up, we’ll explain,” I continued.

  “Just rest, sister,” added Troy. “It’ll all make sense, I promise.”

  But our assurances fell flat.

  “How can I sleep?” she asked plaintively, her eyes filling with tears. “Especially if I’m pregnant. How can I go on knowing that the fathers of my baby are criminals?” she reiterated, hot tears rolling down her cheeks.