by Penny Wylder
“Have your boobs gotten bigger, or is it just me?”
“I don’t know. My bra did seem a little tight when I put it on.”
He wags his eyebrows. “You won’t hear me complaining,” he says and goes back to playing with my breasts.
When he kisses me I can taste myself on his lips. “God, you’re beautiful,” he says when our mouths part and he slides into me. I moan loud, and claw at the skin of his back. I’m hit with wave after wave of pleasure as he rocks into me over and over again. My hands cling to his ass, feel the muscle flex as he drives in deep.
The more I relax, the deeper he goes until I feel him at my furthest depths. It’s really sensitive inside, almost to the point of being uncomfortable, but I don’t want him to stop.
“Fuck, baby, you feel so good,” he says. His urgency grows, the sound of his voice strained and I know he’s ready.
When he thrusts down, I push my hips up so that we are slamming together, my clit crushed against his pubic bone each time our skin hits. Just as he finds his release, I do too, and I can feel my muscles contracting around him.
He slows his thrusts until he gently slides in and out of me. Not to get off again; just because it feels good for both of us to be together like this. He rests his head between my breasts, his words muffled when he speaks.
“I love you so much,” he says.
I stroke his sweaty hair, soothing the welts I’d left on his back.
“I love you too,” I tell him. “More than anything.”
Reluctantly, he pulls out and curls up next to me. We fall asleep with our limbs tangled together.
The next evening after work, Mac turns the light off at the gym while I shut computers down. It’s the end of the day, my feet hurt and I’m feeling both nauseous and starving at the same time. My feet and ankles are swollen from standing most of the day at the silk screen in the back of the building that I use to make logos on T-shirts. We could out source, but I like doing the work myself. The least amount of money we have to pay contractors, the more goes toward patient care.
“What sounds good for dinner tonight?” Mac says as he wraps his arm around my waist, drawing me into his side. We walk out the door. He locks up while I stumble, exhausted toward the car. “Chinese sounds good—no, wait, Indian. No, no, Thai sounds amazing—or how do you feel about Pho?” I say.
Everything sounds good right now. I don’t know what’s up with the nausea, though. Did I forget to eat lunch? My brain is a mess. I’m tired and my memory is all over the place. Now I remember. Yes, I did have lunch. A tuna sandwich, pickle, chips, banana, and two homemade tamales that a patient brought to me. Well I guess all that food could be why I don’t feel so great right now. So why am I so hungry? Could be because I’m using Nathan’s gym to work out. I’ve noticed I’ve put on a few pounds lately, and I want to keep things under control.
Mac is staring at me.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Hop in, I know exactly where we should go,” he says.
I get in the car and I’m excited to see what he chooses for dinner. He always seems to pick a place that’s perfect. But instead of pulling into a restaurant, he pulls into the parking lot of a pharmacy.
“Um … this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I say.
He turns in his seat to face me, his eyes bright with excitement. “You’ve been nauseous, and yet you’ve been craving things you’ve never liked. When I first met you, you hated Indian food. And now your breasts are larger, and I swear there was something different about the way you felt when we had sex last night. Have you missed a period?”
“I’m not sure.”
“We should get a test. Just to see.”
I look over at the neon sign in the window and start to feel queasy again. “I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
He takes my hand in his and kisses my knuckles. “Baby, I will love you no matter what, whether we have kids now, years from now, or never.”
I nod, and he leans over the car seat and kisses me. We go into the pharmacy and buy two tests, just in case. When we get home I go straight into the bathroom and pee on the sticks.
For ten minutes I sit on the chair while Mac paces the floor like a caged animal. Though he says his hopes are in check, I can see the longing in his eyes. He wants a child with me in the worst way, and so do I.
The timer I’d set goes off. It’s time to look. We hold hands and walk into the bathroom where I’d left the tests on the back of the toilet. Before we look at the results, we kiss and hold each other for a while. Finally, we break away.
“Ready for this?” I ask.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
I lift up the first test and see a pink plus sign. My entire mind goes numb. I’m so distracted by that little pink symbol that it barely registers that Mac is dancing around the bathroom, hooting and hollering like a super fan whose team just won the world cup.
I pick up the second test. This one is a different brand, and instead of a pink plus sign it just simply says “pregnant.” Mac lifts me into his arms and swings me around. It finally sinks in and HOLY SHIT, I’m actually pregnant. We are both laughing and crying. I’ve never seen him cry before. He teared up a little during our vows at our wedding, but right now he’s practically weeping with happiness and so am I.
“Now what?” he says.
“I guess I call the doctor to make an appointment. And ribs. I definitely want ribs for dinner tonight.”
He laughs and squeezes me in a hug. “I will get you all the ribs you can eat tonight.”
“And ice cream,” I add.
“I’ll rent out the grocery store if that’s what you want.” He kneels down in front of me the way he did the night he proposed, and puts his ear against my belly. “My wife and my child—the two loves of my life—get whatever they want.”
He lifts my shirt and kisses my bare stomach. Nothing in this world could make me happier than I am at this very moment.
THE END
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DEEP IN YOU!
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Deep in You
Copyright © 2017 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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Books By Penny Wylder
Filthy Boss
Her Dad’s Friend
Rockstars F#*k Harder
The Virgin Intern
Her Dirty Professor
The Pool Boy
Get Me Off
Caught Together
Selling Out to the Billionaire
Falling for the Babysitter
Lip Service
Full Service
Expert Service
The Billionaire’s Virgin
The Billionaire’s Secret Babies
Her Best Friend’s Dad
Own Me
The Billionaire’s Gamble
Seven Days With Her Boss
Virgin in the Middle
The Virgin Promise
First and Last
Tease
Spread
Bang
Second Chance Stepbrother
Dirty Promise
Sext
Quickie
Bed Shaker
Deep in You
The Billionaire’s Toy
>
Buying the Bride
Dating My Friend’s Daughter
Big Man
Trapped with My Teacher
My 5 Bosses
Good Girls Say Yes
His Big Offer
Dangerous Love
The Roommate’s Baby
Perfect Boss
Cowboy Husband
1
I flick through the Pornfix selection until I find my favorite go-to. This one is particularly hot—two huge guys, both with 10” dicks, thick ones to boot—spit-roasting a buxom blonde girl. As usual, I’m picturing myself in her shoes, naked and on all fours between two hot-as-hell hulks of men, who are about to do whatever they please with me.
It doesn’t take long to get my panties damp and my clit aching.
I kneel on my bed, eyes still on the TV, mesmerized by the way their thick cocks look as they plunge into her—one guy taking her from behind, his dick already slick with her juices, and the other deep-throat fucking her from the front while she cups his ass with both hands, mouth wide open as she moans with desire. I know the feeling, girl. I’m thirsty too.
But unlike her, I’m going solo again. As usual. Frankly, I’ve never met a guy who can manage to make me feel as full or as satisfied as I can myself. After more than a few failed dates, hookups and one-night stands failed to perform, I figure I’m better off this way.
I finish lubing up my favorite toy—the XL realistically veined dildo, rainbow-colored just for fun—and grab a set of anal beads to slather in lube too. One hole has never really been enough to get me off.
My clit is aching with unfulfilled desire by the time the scene on screen shifts to the best part. The guys lift the girl up between them, one spreading her ass cheeks wide. I moan a little as I imitate the motion, sitting up on the bed and pushing the first bead into my ass. I can feel my sphincter close around that first bead, tight and aching for more. I watch the porn stars lower their shared girl, one still with his cock deep in her pussy, the other slowly entering her ass, inch by inch, as she cries out in pleasure.
I push a second bead into my ass, then a third. With each bead, the size increases and the delicious stretched, full sensation increases. By the time I have the whole string in my ass, I’m moaning alone in my darkened bedroom, my other hand hovering above my clit, rubbing across my mound, careful not to touch my clit directly, not yet. I want to make this last. I deserve it after the week I’ve had.
I take the dildo next and lean back, sitting on my ass just enough to make me really feel the beads stuffed in there. At the same time, I drag my gaze back to the TV, to the guys as they lift the girl between them and start to pump into her, fucking both holes, filling her completely.
I push the dildo into my pussy, a single hard, deep thrust to get me going. I cry out as it enters me, stretching my tight pussy wide, stuffing me fully. A little bit of my juices mingled with the lube drips down onto my fingers, and I imagine that it’s those guys’ fingers instead, feeling my pussy lips, enjoying the sight of me stuffed with their cocks.
I work myself with both hands, one tugging and pressing alternately on the string of anal beads and the other pumping the dildo deep into myself, faster, faster, until I’m working as fast as I can. I buck against the bed, moaning in sync with the girl on the screen being mercilessly fucked by those two hot, huge hunks.
She comes the same time I do, though her screaming sounds a lot louder. I gasp aloud as the orgasm rocks through my body, making my pussy clench tight around the dildo. I can feel the beads more than ever as my ass tightens too, my whole body reacting to the sensation of being so completely taken.
I sink down against the pillows, panting, my clit still twitching, the aftershocks of the orgasm rocketing through my nerve endings.
Then I pull the dildo out of me slowly, an inch at a time. I take out the anal beads next, shivering each time one pops free and sends another riot through my nervous system.
When I’m finished, I turn off the TV and lever myself upright. I tiptoe to the bathroom and turn the sink on warm. Wash down both toys and glance at myself in the mirror with a sigh. There are bags under my hazel-green eyes, and my cute, short little red pixie cut needs an update ASAP. The brown roots show and the ends are frayed and split. Signs of how little I’ve been paying attention to myself, what with all the insanity at the bakery.
But I don’t have time to fix myself up right now. I don’t have time to do anything, really, not even scope out a decent one-night stand at the local bar scene. I need to be back at work by 6am tomorrow, which means I should already be in bed. Even this one-on-one dalliance with me, myself and I took up more time than it should have.
I finish washing off the toys and pack them back into the drawer that currently holds my entire sex life. Some people might be embarrassed to own this many toys—everything from vibrators in every size, to anal plugs and beads and bullets, up to just about any flavor of dildo you can imagine, with and without vibration depending on the mood. Hell, there’s even a suction-cup model that sticks to the wall, for when I really need a hands-free moment. Another one is weighted to the floor so I can ride cowgirl without needing any one-night stand to ride.
My friends sometimes make fun of me—they don’t know what I’m into at all. They joke about how I haven’t gotten any for ages, but they don’t know that I can take care of my own needs—or that no guy I’ve found has ever even been willing to entertain the idea of helping out.
Much as I wish I could find a guy as kinky as I am, I don’t claim that persona in front of my friends. They know I like something unusual, but have no idea what exactly. The closest my bestie Lara ever came to finding out was when she almost stumbled onto one of my sex-toy-of-the-month club deliveries (which would have killed me from embarrassment). But honestly, what’s the difference between this and hooking up with strangers every so often? A girl’s got needs—and I meet mine just fine. I’ve yet to meet a guy who’s even come close to being able to fulfill me, so I’d rather take my sex life into my own hands, thank you very much.
I slide the drawer closed and turn off the light. Then I face-plant into bed and try to ignore the alarm clock in the corner with its huge flashing light-up display.
11:32pm. That only leaves me 5 and a half hours of sleep before I need to be upright and getting ready for tomorrow. Tomorrow, which will be just as insane as yesterday and the day before. Great. Can’t wait.
I pull my pillow over my face and try my best to doze off. In my mind’s eye, I can still see the chiseled abs and sculpted chests of those guys from the porno. I drift off imagining myself sandwiched between them. Though part of me still feels guilty, even now, for letting myself get this distracted.
Tomorrow I’ll fix it. Tomorrow I’ll get my head in the game.
Tonight, I let myself have my fantasies, if only for a little while.
2
Sure enough, my trusty old alarm clock sounds right at 5am on the dot. I groan and roll over to slap snooze, until I remember that it’s Friday, and I’ve agreed to bake three more wedding cakes than we can conceivably finish by this weekend, and I don’t have time to snooze, I need to get my ass out the door as soon as humanly possible.
So I squint through my morning routine, rubbing sleep from my eyes in the shower. I’m so exhausted I brush my teeth and accidentally spit toothpaste into the toilet, then try to put the brush itself back into the shower caddy. Once I finally manage to get myself in something at least approaching working order, I throw on the same outfit I wore yesterday—we have uniforms at the bakery, so it doesn’t matter if I re-wear it, right? —and jog out to my car.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. The fact that I have to stop by a Starbucks drive-through for an XL black coffee before I even make it past the end of my road, and then blast pop music at a near-deafening level in the car the whole drive to the bakery just to wake up, doesn’t change the fact that this is my dream. My best friend Lara and I saved and schemed for years to open th
is bakery. We expected to be in the hole for at least two years while we built up a name for ourselves.
But now, as we near the second anniversary of opening Red Velvet, we’ve already been named Best New Bakery in Town, Top 50 Bakeries in the State, and been featured on a few really well-known travel websites and bakery blogs. There’s even a whole Pinterest page we once found dedicated to our cakes. We’re more than solvent—we’re more profitable than I’d imagined we could be this soon into the game, and we’ve got a wait-list 3 months long for big event cakes like the weddings and anniversaries that got us this far.
So I’m not complaining. Not at all. It’s just that, with this much going on, everything else tends to fall by the wayside a little. I haven’t taken a vacation, not even a day off, since our opening day. I’ve hardly had time to see my friends and family, let alone meet new people or go on dates.
But I’m living the dream. If this is the price to pay, so be it. I’m happy to pay it.
I pull up to the shop just as Lara is opening the grill out front. She’s been my partner-in-crime this whole time, as we opened and got everything set up. Lara helps bake a little bit, but it’s mostly me heading up the kitchen and the small team of assistants we’ve hired over the past couple years. She handles the front-of-shop things—invoices, customer meetings, balancing the books. All the day-to-day of the business that make me want to rip my hair out and scream bloody murder. But that’s why we make the perfect team. I’m the creative crazy one and she’s the down-to-earth voice of reason that keeps me sane—and keeps the shop ticking.
