Chapter 10: Shower Surprise
The community center hummed with a warm, chaotic energy. Paper streamers in soft pastels coiled from the ceiling, and the air was thick with the scent of sugar cookies and the murmuring of dozens of conversations. Pregnant men, their bellies rounded and proud beneath soft sweaters and loose dresses, sat in clusters, hands resting on their bumps as they exchanged stories. Their partners, women with strong builds and confident stances, circulated with plates of food, their laughter a lower, grounding counterpoint to the higher-pitched excitement.
Aaron smoothed the soft, stretchy fabric of his navy blue maternity dress over the significant swell of his twins. He felt conspicuous, a sapling among oaks. Valeria was a steady presence at his side, her hand a firm, possessive weight on the small of his back. She’d been surprisingly patient, nodding along as Mrs. Gable from two streets over recounted her husband’s peculiar craving for pickles and gravel.
“It’s the iron,” Valeria had said, her voice a low rumble that commanded respect. The older woman had blinked, then nodded vigorously, as if Valeria had delivered a profound medical diagnosis.
But the patience was a thin veneer. Aaron could feel the restlessness building in her, a coiled spring of energy. Her thumb began to stroke slow, deliberate circles against his spine, through the fabric of his dress. The touch was no longer comforting. It was a brand.
“You’re leaking,” she murmured into his ear, her breath hot.
A flush crept up his neck. He’d felt the dampness, the familiar tell-tale seepage that had started in his second trimester. Two dark, small circles were blooming on the front of his dress. He crossed his arms over his chest, humiliated.
Valeria’s eyes darkened with something that wasn’t embarrassment. It was hunger. Raw and immediate.
“Come on,” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She took his hand, her grip firm, and began to weave through the crowd, offering tight smiles and curt “excuse us”es that brooked no argument. She didn’t stop until she found a door, slightly ajar, marked ‘Supplies’. She pulled him inside and clicked the lock behind them.
The world shrank to a cramped, dim space. The air smelled of lemon-scented cleaner and dusty paper. Towers of toilet paper and stacked chairs created jagged shadows. From the other side of the door, the party was a muffled, happy drone.
“Val, we can’t—” he started, his heart hammering.
She silenced him with a look. Her hands went to the collar of his dress. With a single, brutal tug, she ripped the soft fabric open, buttons pinging off the concrete walls. The cool air hit his exposed skin, his heavy, sensitive breasts, the dark, coarse hair that curled across his chest and trailed down his stomach. He gasped, trying to cover himself.
“Don’t,” she commanded, slapping his hands away. Her gaze was fixed on his nipples, dark and pebbled, beaded with droplets of milk. “Fuck, look at you.” She grabbed his hips and spun him around, bending him over a stack of cardboard boxes filled with paper plates. “So fucking fertile. Dripping for everyone.”
Her hand shoved his dress up around his waist. He was exposed, the thatch of dark hair between his legs, his swollen sex already glistening with anticipation. He heard the rasp of her zipper.
“Please,” he whispered, the word torn from him.
“Please what?” she grunted, her cock, thick and already slick at the tip, pressing against him. She didn’t wait for an answer. She drove into him in one relentless, stretching thrust. The air left his lungs in a choked cry.
She fucked him with a punishing, rhythmic force, her hips slamming against his ass, the sound of their bodies meeting a wet, sharp slap that echoed in the small room. The boxes dug into his belly, his pregnant weight jostling with every impact. One of her hands tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. The other hand snaked around his body, her fingers finding his nipple, pinching and twisting. A sharp, bright pain lanced through him, and a fresh trickle of milk wet her fingers.
She brought her wet fingers to his mouth. “Taste it,” she growled. “Taste what you’re making for my daughters.”
He opened his mouth, his tongue licking the salty-sweet fluid from her skin, the act of submission sending another violent shudder through him. She was everywhere, in him, on him, her scent, her strength, her possession a cage he never wanted to leave.
“This cunt,” she panted, her thrusts becoming erratic, brutal. “This perfect, hungry cunt. It knew. That first night. It knew it was made for this. For taking my cock. For carrying my children.” She bit down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a sharp, claiming pain that made him scream into the cardboard.
His orgasm ripped through him, a silent, seizing wave that locked his muscles and squeezed around her, milking her deep inside him. He felt her own climax, a guttural roar torn from her chest as she buried herself to the hilt, pumping hot and deep, her release flooding him, mixing with his own, a hot stream that began to drip down his inner thighs.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. The party outside seemed very far away.
She slowly pulled out, and he winced at the feeling of emptiness, the cool air on his wet, used skin. He stayed bent over the boxes, trembling, spent. He looked down. A single drop of their mingled fluids fell from him, landing with a silent splat on a party hat still in its plastic wrapper.
Valeria gently turned him around. Her eyes, once blazing with lust, were now soft, almost reverent. She looked at his torn dress, his marked skin, his messy, well-fucked body. She leaned forward and captured his leaking nipple in her mouth, not with brutality, but with a slow, sucking tenderness that made him whimper. She drank from him, her eyes closed, and for a moment, she looked like the most vulnerable person in the world.
When she pulled away, she used her thumb to smear the excess milk across his lips. “My girls are going to be strong,” she whispered. Then she tucked herself away, zipped her jeans, and looked at the wreck of him. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “We should get back. Don’t want people to talk.”
He looked at the torn dress, the love bite on his neck, the sticky evidence on his thighs. He started to laugh, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound. People were going to talk. And he found, with a shocking clarity, that he didn’t care at all.