Work Text:
Emma hadn't left her apartment for weeks, relying on food deliveries from nearby restaurants. Every time she managed to get herself ready to go out, the mirror at the entrance reminded her of how fat and ugly she was now; and she would turn around and sit back on her couch, defeated. The pain in her back and swollen ankles were other reasons to excuse her seclusion. Her lack of self-esteem made her feel worthless, incapable of caring for her child, finishing her off mentally and emotionally.
Since Owen left, her social anxiety had gotten worse. So much that she feared the stares and comments that people would give her if they saw her swollen belly. After all, she was a woman in her late twenties with a child bump and no father in sight. Living far from her hometown, alone in the city, most of her friends were from her kindergarten job. They hadn't heard about her in months. She was too ashamed to tell them the truth about the baby's father, so she made up excuses. If only she hadn't bragged so much about the gorgeous, sweet guy that had been fucking her brains out for months, it wouldn't have been so hard to say he had run away after getting what he wanted from her. How could she tell them the truth? It was humiliating. From what they knew, she was at her mother's place. It was a dubious excuse; her mother and her had been estranged for years now. Emma had no one to turn to. After a while, her friends stopped asking questions and eventually, they stopped calling her. Now, alone and depressed like she didn't believe was possible, she felt like a prisoner inside her own body.
Owen had been her everything. From the very first night they'd met, things had been intense. He had been the first, real lover in her life, and she'd thought he would be the last. His departure had ripped out her heart.
Before him, she didn't know a thing. Sex, for her, had always been quick and awkward. With him, it was something entirely different. Sleepless nights of raw fucking in every corner of her small apartment, overflowing with passion. He'd awakened something inside of her, making her crave physical intimacy like she never had before.
Now that he was gone, the feelings came back, tenfold, and her hormones didn't help—pregnant and horny—she couldn't keep her hands off her pussy, fingering herself constantly without getting the gratification she desired. It was more than raw stimulus that drove her to it, but rather the memory of Owen between her legs, fucking her senseless all night long.
The moment she said the word 'pregnant', he'd run away from her like his ass was on fire. Sex, he said. Their relation was about sex, not love, and 'that' wasn't part of his plans. He had glared at her belly—flat back then—like it was a disgusting tumor and spat that he wasn't going to take care of someone else's mistake.
Asshole!
What an idiot she'd been to trust him, to believe he would stay. A hot and hunky biker like him. What was she even thinking? Bikers are never faithful. Everyone knows that. Yet, in her silly fantasy, she thought they would be different.
His absence drove her crazy. Not really his words—they were crude—or his presence, but the raw, carnal sex they used to have; the way he filled her so deep that she never wanted him to leave her body.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Again!
On her couch, slumped like the fat cow she felt like, Emma turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the coffee table. She had been binge-watching shows for weeks now, unable to stop herself even though she hated doing it. It was the only way she had found to turn the cranks of her mind away from what her life had become.
She wondered what day it was… Yes, Friday evening, because she'd watched the latest episode of "That '70s Show". That was all she had to look forward to nowadays—the batch of new episodes every Friday. She recalled a time, not so far back, when she'd go out with friends, have drinks, talk about the guys they liked. Have fun! What happened to those times? Was this how her life would be forever?
Without the light coming from the TV, the living room was shrouded in darkness. Waiting for her eyes to inure to the dimness, she sensed the vast silence around her. The obscurity swallowed her, and for a moment, she gave into it. It was freeing. Being alone, in the dark, in the stillness. Without a body to look at, the flagrant evidence of her misery. She could lose her sense of self. Perhaps this was how she would spend her days for the rest of her life—in the dark.
Ouch!
The baby kicked, and her bladder wailed in protest. She needed to pee. For how long had she been holding it in?
The baby had been quiet for the most part today, but now, she could feel its movements—a flutter here and there. Her emotional connection with the little bean growing inside her was like a gossamer thread, fading in and out. In the beginning, she'd hoped it would get stronger, but it didn't. Not love, nor hate. Her motherly instinct hadn't kicked in yet. It was hard to imagine she was carrying a human life. The poor soul fidgeting in her uterus was an innocent reminder of her foolishness.
The tread of someone in the hallway outside of her apartment made her snap back to reality. It resounded with more intensity than usual, and she recalled she had left the door ajar for the delivery guy who was bringing the pizza she'd ordered. Her ear perked to the soft shuffle of footsteps on the carpeting approaching. Her apartment was near the end of a long corridor; the last one being the boring-guy's apartment: Mr. Harris. She didn't know much about him apart from his unusual work hours. More than once she had seen him coming back from work when she was leaving to party with her friends. How long had they been living next to each other? They had barely shared more than a few words over the years. A greeting in the hallway, a nod, and that was all.
With a hand pressed between her legs, her bladder crying to be relieved, she waited for the sound of the steps to fade. She unfurled her legs and planted her feet on the rug. The numbness of her extremities screamed in protest.
The stride was definitely masculine, heavy footfalls echoing down the hall. She tried to picture him in her mind. She hadn't seen another human for so long. I have to get out. The neighbor was nothing like Owen. The opposite of him, actually. The guy was the most plain looking person she had ever seen: wearing a drab buttoned-up shirt, chinos, and nerdy glasses. His build was average, not too buff, but fit enough. His dark, brown hair was neatly combed back, his face clean-shaven.
Boring!
The guy was polite, but not very sociable. He never tried anything funny with her, neither did he show any interest in her. Once, he came knocking at her door to complain about 'the noise' coming from her place—Owen and her had been having a heated argument that had turned to passionate, rough lovemaking. Apart from that incident, he never made any attempts to strike up conversations with her; maybe he saw her like the fool she was.
The muffled footfalls passed by her door, not stopping. It was him. He was unusually early. She wondered what he looked like today. She missed seeing people. Then she recalled seeing her reflection in the mirror. Slovenly looking, she wouldn't want him to see her like that. Her greasy hair and her puffy face, a bloated mess. He was the closest human being to her. The closest that could comfort her with his presence, if only for a moment. Yet, her condition kept her frozen on the couch.
The clatter of keys and the jiggle of the doorknob followed by a door opening and shutting; he was in his apartment. Silence reigned again.
She sighed. Time to stand up. Pulling her weight with her arms on the couch's armrest, Emma stood up, steadying herself on wobbling legs. At eight months pregnant, even the most basic movement was a challenge. The exertion to stand up, a feat. In the dark, she pictured the coffee table in front of her and the short distance between the sofa and the bathroom. A tentative step toward the latter sent her stumbling. The floor rose up to meet her bottom while the low table kissed her ribs with a squeal. She fell, sprawled on the rug. The pain spread to her belly and her chest, taking her breath away.
From the impact, her bladder let go, and a hot gush of urine soaked her sweatpants. She didn't even try to shut the tap off. The warm stream flowed freely, pooling beneath her. Freeing in an odd sort of way, it felt good. Tears welled up in her eyes. From the pain of the fall, and from the shame.
In her aching haze, she imagined someone turning on the light in the living room, seeing her like that: emptying herself like the kids at her kindergarten sometimes did. The pain on her side stung with renewed vigor. She writhed in the pool of piss trying to alleviate it, her hands squelching in the wetness. When her waterworks finally stopped, it gave way to uncontrollable sobs. She cried out loud like a little girl, with loud hiccups. Her weight, too heavy for her back, compressed her lungs painfully. She couldn't move, her ribs pounding every time she took a breath. Helpless, alone, in a pond of her own making, she sobbed in the dark.
When the door to her apartment creaked open, the bright light from the hallway blinded her. "Hello?" a voice called out. "This is your neighbor. I heard a noise coming from your place." Her whimpers echoed in the living room, and she couldn't answer. "Is everything all right?"
A strange mix of dread and relief washed over Emma. On one hand, she didn't want to be discovered, soiled and sprawled like an infant in her own filth, but on the other, she needed help. The latter feeling won over the former, and she managed to speak between sobs, "I fell." There was a sense of desperation in her voice. One that made her tear up more.
"I'm coming in…" The voice trailed off. The light from the hallway spilled into the apartment, throwing his shadow across the floor. The door creaked on its hinges. From where she lay, a halo of light framed his figure. "Can I turn on the light?" He had to raise his voice to make himself heard over her whimpers.
A sense of embarrassment tightened her chest, and she wished he wouldn't. "Yes," she said with a brittle voice, wiping the snot from her nose with her sleeve. The dazzling glow of the light bulb from her entrance lamp stabbed her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, raising a forearm to her face.
His footsteps drew closer, and through her squinting eyelids, she glimpsed his shadow looming over her. He knelt, and she flinched when a hand grasped her shoulder. He didn't look as she remembered him, but perhaps it was because she was used to seeing him in the dimness of the hallway. His dowdy look was gone, replaced by something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. He still wore the boring office clothes, but there was a sensual appeal about him now. An air of confidence, of strength, that oozed out of him.
His eyes skimmed over her debilitating condition; she eyed him back. Nothing betrayed his feelings—no shock, no disgust. The same ingenuous, insipid expression she had always seen on him. Not judgmental either.
He stared at the puddle of piss below her and then his gaze drifted to her bottom, soaking in the yellow, smelly liquid. His mind seemed to have quickly nutted out what had happened, and it didn't seem to bother him. He looked calm with a hint of caring in his dark, brown eyes behind his rimless glasses. "Ya hurt?"
She nodded. The heat on her cheeks told her they were flushed red. "I-I can't move. My back." She accompanied her words with a gesture to her lower spine.
He looked around the place. The light coming from the entrance was the only source of illumination. "Where is…" His eyes locked on the nearby light switch, and he stood to turn it on.
Another wave of embarrassment washed over Emma when she realized how messy her apartment was. Stinking and dirty laundry littered the place. She had been living like a pig since Owen left her. The second light went on, and she winced at the brightness. "Can you close the door?" she said between sniffles. At least, he would be the only one to see her like that.
"Sure," he said and clicked the door shut, leaving the two of them alone, plunged in the light. "Did you hurt your belly? Is the baby okay?"
"She is fine. I fell on my ass." My fat, stupid ass.
His gaze lingered on her legs, her hips, and her tummy. He didn't wince or scowl. His eyebrows arched in a concerned frown. "I will lace my arms under yours and lift you," he said and pointed to the sofa with his chin. "Is that fine? You can lean on me if you need to."
"Yes, thank you," she said, grateful that he was there. A waft of his aftershave tickled her nostrils. The scent was familiar; Owen had worn a similar one. The redolent memory of her ex-boyfriend's presence flooded her mind, and her pussy clenched with longing when he crouched down beside her.
He leaned forward, looping his arms under her armpits and lifted her off the ground without sighing or straining. He was clearly not the feeble man she'd taken him for. With most of her weight supported by him, she hobbled to the couch, and he lowered her gently on the cushions.
A whimper escaped her lips when her rear touched the soft padding, and she fell back onto the seat, panting for air. The throbbing ache in her back flared and pulsated in sync with her breathing.
"Feeling okay?" he asked, his feet squishing in the wet patch of carpet she'd made.
Tears welled in her eyes, again; she couldn't help herself. The pain, the shame, everything piling up. Months of pent-up emotions poured out of her, and she broke down into uncontrollable sobbing. Her vision blurred by her tears, she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands, unable to keep herself together any longer.
He rushed forward to sit next to her. An arm, wrapped around her shoulder, drew her to his torso. "Shhh! It's going to be all right. Don't worry!" he whispered, drawing her closer, pressing her cheek against the thin fabric of his buttoned shirt.
For the first time in months, another being was touching her, and as strange as it sounded, her body melted into his. The sensation was overwhelming, tapping into the most primal, animalistic needs she had hidden deep within herself. She barely knew the man, but in the midst of the most disgraceful situation of her whole life she connected to him in a way she never believed was possible.
He gave her the time to cry it all out, his gentle strokes along her arm calming her. His warmth felt good. His tender caress on her hair stirred sensations she hadn't felt in ages—maybe ever. When she finally ran out of tears, her head was resting on his lap while his fingers traced the line of her neck, soothing her. She didn't recall having been coddled like that by Owen. His 'shhh's staggered into whispers. "Let it go, don't keep it inside." His shirt and pants were marred with drool and tears.
"I'm s-sorry," Emma managed to say between sobs. "I-I didn't mean to–to–" Her sobbing didn't allow her to finish her sentence.
"Don't worry. Everything's going to be okay now."
His reassuring words eased her distress, but her bladder still felt full, and she needed to relieve herself. In her current predicament, she still needed his help. She didn't want to look too desperate, though. "I—I need to use the toilet," she said with a weak, embarrassed voice. She knew he'd understood when he stirred, slipping his arm under hers. He draped her weight on his sturdy frame. She could feel his muscles flexing and bulging through his shirt, firm and strong.
"Ready?" he asked, his hot breath whispering in her ear.
She nodded, wiping away the last of the tears with her sleeve. It was odd to think that just after a short time with him, she had already grown accustomed to his smell, to his touch.
He lifted her and guided her to the bathroom, supporting her with each of her steps. The pain in her back flared, but she ignored it, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other.
The bathroom was a mess of scattered towels, dirty underwear, and sanitary pads—her bladder had been giving her trouble these days. She was about to say something at the egregious sight but, before she could open her mouth, he spoke first, "Everything's going to be all right." Those simple words, and his tight embrace, were the most comforting thing she had felt in weeks.
The shower on the back of the room was covered in soap scum and mold. Hair stuck out of the drain like spaghetti strands. The shower? Yes. She needed one, but with her back hurting this bad, there was no way she could stand for a full-body wash. She had been ignoring her personal hygiene lately and her body felt crusty. The stench of dried sweat was certainly covered by the smell of ammonia from her accident.
And when she felt nothing could be worse, they reached the toilet bowl. She winced at the state of it. A carpet of toilet paper was strewn all over it, surrounding the top of the waterline. The murky water reeked of shit and piss. She had been having issues with constipation, so she had been drinking diarrhea remedies bought from the drugstore nearby—they hadn't worked. Her toilet had clogged up multiple times, and she'd been using it anyway, unafraid of the consequences.
This time, she had hit rock bottom, until a sudden twinge in her lower abdomen told her she was about to soil herself again. Too ashamed to look at him, she tried to hold herself on the sink, but the pain in her back made her urinary muscles relax. "Fuck!" She cursed silently, and another hot gush of pee spurted out of her, dripping down her legs to form another puddle on the tiles.
He acted promptly, and seated her on the toilet without a word. When he saw her struggling to remove her pants, he laid a knee on the floor and helped her out, peeling the stained garment off her thighs; her panties coming down with them. The incontinence liner lodged in its gusset got stuck on her crotch, and without an ounce of hesitation, he pulled it off, freeing the soaked fabric from her sticky labia.
When he tugged on the pad, an unmissable moan escaped her—one she would have preferred to keep to herself. The sensation was unexpected, and for a second, she lost herself in it. The flow of her urine continued, gushing with a renewed vigor into the murky water of the bowl. The pleasure of letting go mixed with the shame of him watching her in that condition was too much for her brain to handle. Exposed in front of the man who was nothing but a stranger, she felt humiliated but also relieved, in more than one sense of the term. Nothing in her whole life had been so embarrassing, yet, deep down, in that perverted corner of her mind, she enjoyed it. The sight of the sullied panty liner in his hand, his eyes on her pussy as she pissed like a racehorse, she found a semblance of intimacy with another human being—something she'd been craving for months.
Peeing in front of him should have been an outrageous thing to do, but she didn't care anymore. The tepid yellowish liquid gushing out of her privates mingled with the despicable mash in the toilet, creating an effluvium that would have made any normal person gag.
Not him.
He stared at the forceful, splashing jet of piss shooting out of her pussy. He seemed fascinated by it. Emma stared back at him, wondering if he was ogling on her sex, or simply observing her like she was some sort of freak show.
A glance at her crotch gave her a chilling realization: her pubis was a bushy forest, untrimmed and unkempt, with thick black hairs sprouting wildly all over. With Owen, her crotch was always well-groomed. Her ex was fond of neatly trimmed bushes. He had a preference for the landing strip. She hadn't preened herself since he'd left her, and her pubes had grown untamed, cascading down to her inner thighs. The kind of horror that even the most liberal hippie would shrink away from.
Not him.
He kept staring at her lush bush, like a hungry voyeur, without a hint of contempt on his face. His nostrils flared, and she heard the whistling as he sucked in his lungs the musty odor of her unwashed pussy. The incipient bulge between his legs confirmed her suspicions: he was turned on by what he was seeing.
It wasn't long before her bladder was empty. "I'm done," she said, snapping him back to reality.
His countenance turned sheepish, like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. "Sorry, I zoned out." He averted his gaze from her pussy and reached behind to flush the toilet, but she stopped him.
"Don't! The toilet is clogged."
Back to ashamed land.
"Sorry if I went too far with…" he said, looking at her sweatpants and panties pulled hastily down to her knees.
Her back was starting to hurt from her slouching on the toilet seat, so she tried to sit upright, but a bolt of pain seared her lower spine.
"Still hurting? I can carry you to the shower if you want."
She was surprised how well he had taken it all. She pondered how someone could handle a situation like this one with such aplomb. Apart from his luscious stare at her privates, he had shown no signs of repulsion whatsoever. As if he wasn't even bothered by the fetid stench of the bathroom, or the mess she had made on herself and on the floor. She was disgusting, she knew it, but he was acting like it was nothing. Her curiosity got the best of her. "Why are you doing this? I'm filthy."
His brows furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I haven't showered in days. I pee on myself, my bathroom, my whole apartment"—my whole life—"is a dump, and you seem… I don't know… fine with all of that." She took a deep breath, grimacing at the reek of feces mixed with the sour stench of urine that clung to the air.
Again, his stern expression gave nothing away. He neared her, his second knee joining the first on the bathroom's tiled floor. Out of the blue, he led his palms to her bare thighs and caressed her skin with his fingertips, sending shivers up her spine. Like he wanted to feel her body's warmth. His eyes met hers.
She should have shooed him away, but she didn't. Instead, she spread her legs a little more. A familiar tickle between her legs awakened, and she knew she wanted more.
He bit his lips before speaking, staring into her eyes with a sense of compassion. "Because I understand how you feel."
His words caught her off guard, and for a moment, she forgot about her sore back, the mess, the smells. Her mind reeled at what he meant. Could it be that he too had gone through something similar? Loneliness? Depression? His thumbs traced slow circles on her skin, sending pleasant vibrations throughout her body. "You… You also… You know?"
"Yeah, I felt that despair a few times over the years." His husky tone lapped her ears like the sweetest music she'd ever heard. Manly. The word popped into her mind. "I've seen that mess." He glanced around the room. "I don't mind, really. I know where it comes from." His hands crept upward, toward her sex. "I'm not a saint, and I won't deny I find you attractive like this." His tone turned somber, "But if you don't want me to go further, I'll stop." Her eyes wandered to his crotch, and he knew she'd seen his boner.
"What do you like about it?" Her voice was low, almost whispering.
"I like girls who show their vulnerable side," he said, his thumbs lowering down her inner thighs.
It felt good. "Vulnerable?"
"Yes. I'm kind of a boring guy, reliable but boring. The girls that stir my blood are the opposite: passionate and…" He looked around. "And a little wild." His smile caught her off guard.
She was tempted to stop his journey to her sex, but her desire was stronger than her prudence. She was starving for his words—his touch. "You… You like it?" She was astonished by his confession, yet somehow, she knew he wasn't lying. The thing between his legs couldn't lie. "The mess?"
His thumbs had reached the creases between her groin and her legs. He stilled—to her dismay. "It's a pathway to your core. Who you really are, the true you. With all your flaws and imperfections. Something that can take years to find out in a partner. But here it is, bare, unveiled." Looking deep into her eyes, piercing right through her soul, his fingertips continued to scrounge deeper into her flesh.
Love—long forgotten—fluttered in her heart. "H-how? How did you see it?"
"In that mess, I can get a true, genuine glimpse of you."
Me?
He continued, "You're never more yourself that when no one is looking. When you are alone, undisturbed by the judgments of others. It isn't about the mess, the smell, the pee, or anything like that. It's about the path leading to your innermost self, the part that others aren't allowed to see, not even the ones closest to you. Not in normal circumstances." He paused, his eyes searching hers.
"Those aren't normal circumstances, I guess." A part of her wanted him to see her, all of her—warts and all.
With the tip of his thumbs, he parted her damp pubic hair, exposing her puffy folds to his stare. "Being vulnerable and knowing that someone is seeing who you really are—accepting you—that's what turns me on."
Emma's mind was clouded with yearning. She opened her legs wider, urging him to explore her deeper. "Please, go on."
He smiled at her plea and resumed his course, sliding his hands closer to her pussy, his thumbs brushing her outer folds. "I like that bump here too."
"Mmm… My belly?"
"Yeah, there's life blossoming inside."
Life—Blossoming—Inside? She liked the way he put it.
"The most beautiful thing in the whole word is a pregnant woman, especially when she's in need of a man to care for her." He craned his neck to kiss her, but he moved so slowly that she met him halfway and swatted her lips on his.
The warm, soft touch of his mouth on her chapped lips made her gasp. An unbidden moan escaped her throat when his tongue met hers in a warm, wet dance. She didn't know that man, but the way he kissed her—so deeply, so passionately—it was as if they'd been lovers for years.
When they broke their kiss, Emma was short of breath, and he was smiling at her with that enigmatic smile of his.
"If you don't mind, I will linger a bit longer," he said, lowering his head to plant a trail of kisses down her neck. Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers clawing at his shirt, while her gasps called out to him. "You don't mind a helping hand? Do you?" His breath, hot on her skin, stoked her fire.
"I don't mind…" Her voice came out weaker than she would have liked.
I don't mind at all!
His thumbs opened her drenched lips like the petals of a flower, revealing the glistening pinkness beneath. The trail of kisses on her neck became a teasing nibble at her collarbone. With the expertise of a skilled lover, he explored the dips and crevices of her eager flesh, finding their way to her aching bud.
Her mind went blank when his thumb flicked on her clit, and she stopped breathing, tensing up. The sprout of an orgasm rooted deep in her lower abdomen. His fingers slid into her soaked slit; his lips, pressed on hers, muffled her moans. Never in her wildest dreams, she would have thought about being fingered by a complete stranger in the most depraved state she had ever been in.
I don't even know his name.
"Ethan?" She said, her brain playing a trick on her. She wondered how she knew his name, where she had heard it.
"Uh-huh?" He didn't stop kissing her, nor relinquish to tease her needy pussy.
Ethan! His name was Ethan.
She liked it. It sounded masculine.
And then she recalled a scene, years ago, when she had found him smooching with a young woman in the hallway. The girl had moaned his name, loud and clear. "Ethan… Ethan, please, go on." She mocked the woman, arching her back to grind her sex on his digits.
"Tell me. What do you need?"
His warm breath, his fingers twiddling with her clit, all of that made her forget about the world around her. The derelict apartment, her messy life, even her baby girl's kicks, storming inside her womb—everything disappeared. Owen's face flashed in her mind, but vanished immediately. This asshole didn't merit to be thought about. "Don't stop… Just go on." Her hips bucked against his hand while her arms flung around his neck.
He surprised her when he pulled himself back and, standing up, he unbuckled his belt and slid the zipper of his trousers down.
Oh! God! He's going to…
She watched, spellbound, while he removed his pants, along with his underwear, dropping them to the floor. A sudden rush of excitement flowed in her veins when his cock sprang free. Delicious, thick, long—she had never seen a more scrumptious penis. Without even thinking about it, her shaky fingers dove forward to grasp it, like a baby would grab a dangling rattle. She peeled his foreskin and sniffed his muskiness. On his glans, smegma specks dotted his bright red corona. Not that she minded. With an impish smile, she planted a chaste kiss on the tip of his crown and licked off the cheesy flakes, savoring his rich, tangy flavor. How long had it been since she tasted a cock? Months. Too long! She didn't want to miss a drop of his precum, so she held his shaft tighter and took the whole length in her mouth, working it like a pro, eager for the first spurt of hot juice.
His moans, above, buoyed her spirits. She hadn't lost her touch. His hands combed in her matted, greasy hair, and he kept whispering, "Just go on, yes, that's it, take it all," while she slurped his dick with renewed enthusiasm.
She had missed it: sucking a man, pleasing him, taking control of his pleasure. Her eyes darted up to his while she kept bobbing her head forward and backward.
"You've got the most beautiful green eyes," he said, pulling her face forward to push his cock even deeper in her mouth. "Take it all. Yes, like that."
His balls dangled on her chin, and she palmed them, kneading them carefully. Heavy, full. Just the way she liked it. Kindled by the fellatio, her carnal urges awoke and, releasing his shaft from her mouth, she demanded, "Fuck me. Please." Her plea came out weak, but sincere.
His caress on her scalp stilled. "We'll get to it soon." His lips curled in a crooked smile, and she realized he was teasing her, enjoying every moment of the slow buildup. When he tugged on the hem of his tee, she understood he wasn't going to stop there. A furtive glance at his chiseled body made her salivate. He wasn't Owen, but for a man much older than her, he was fit.
"You've got a slutty mouth," he said, stroking her cheek with one hand. "I like your neediness. Don't stop asking for more."
His words reverberated in her mind. She nuzzled in his warm hand like a cat, releasing his cock to lick at the salty sweat of his palm. She tasted herself on his fingers: her pussy juice mixed with the stench of her urine. The contrast made her feel naughty. "You won't leave me?" She purred like the most whorish kitten. If he liked her needy, she would be. The thought of being hug, fuck, creampie, everything a man could do to a woman, that was what she wanted. That was what she had been deprived of for too long.
"I don't even know your name, baby," he said, playing with her earlobe.
"Emma, but don't call me baby," she said, darting out her tongue to catch his prick in her mouth again. It was how Owen called her, and she didn't want any reminder of him. "Anyfing elsh ish fine. Nod jusht dat."
"Emma…" he muttered, pushing his hips forward, forcing his dick between her lips. "Let me fuck that gorgeous mouth of yours." He fucked her face the way he pleased, and she loved it, the way he used her, the way he dominated her. He didn't last long though, and when his rod throbbed between her lips, a grunt preceded a huge spurt of sperm that filled her mouth.
Her eyes locked in his, she swigged the creamy jizz down her throat with loud gulps. She kept the tip of his cock in her mouth to prolong the pleasure, licking his urethra to let him know she was eager for more. With gentle, measured squeezes along his length, she extracted the last of his load, milking him of all he had. Enamored by the way he lusted on her, she felt like a woman again—not a fat pregnant cow left to rot alone. A woman worthy to be desired. While relishing on his essence, she fancied a future filled with lust, bright and shining, away from the pain and the sorrow of the last few months. With Ethan by her side, catering to her needs, anything seemed possible.
"Good girl!" He praised her when she showed him the empty hollow of her mouth. "I knew you were a naughty one." His grin turned wicked. "I remember your loud moans in the middle of the night when the other fucker was in town."
A blush spread on her face. She didn't want to think about it.
"We all know what you were doing in here with him, don't we? Pussy pounding, right? The whole floor could hear you. You weren't shy, were you?"
How can he do that?
Veering from the gentle, caring man to this coarse version of him was unsettling. The memories of her own debasement in the hands of her ex-boyfriend brought a knot to her throat, and her face turned into a grimace of sadness. She wished she could have sunk into the ground, but he chucked her chin, lifting it up, so she had to look at him.
"Where is this asshole now? Tell me!"
She didn't want to tell him, but his pressing glare made her speak. Her eyes side-glancing at a heap of dirty laundry in a corner, she mumbled, "Gone." The grip on her chin tightened, urging her to look at him. She obliged, her eyes already welling up with tears.
"Where? Where did he go?"
She shrugged, her lips quivering.
"What would you do if he came back tomorrow? Would you open those legs for him? Would you let him fuck you like a cheap whore? Hmm? Would you?"
His crude language stunned her, but it was the truth. The thought had crossed her mind so many times in the recent months that it was uncanny that Ethan could broach that subject out of the blue. She hadn't found an answer to that question. If Owen came back telling her he was sorry, saying he would stay to be a father for their child, would she forget those last hellish months and welcome him back in her life? The tears were now flowing down her cheeks, but he didn't seem to care.
"Look at me!" He grabbed her jaw and jerked her face up.
"I don't know," she blurted, blinking away the tears.
His stern expression had left, replaced by something else, something less certain, something she couldn't fathom.
Anger? Jealousy? Pity?
"You would, wouldn't you?" he whispered, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. "You would let him have you, fuck you! Then he would leave again. You can't help it, don't you?"
She stared at him in silence, unsure of what to say. He was right. She knew it, deep down, she wouldn't refuse him. She needed a man—any man, even this asshole in front of her that was toying with her emotions. Owen was her baby's father, and that bond was too hard to break. Or was it just an excuse? "I—I don't know what I would do." He released her, and she slumped forward, resting her forehead on his crotch. "I'm sorry," she pleaded, crying. "I'm such a fool."
"That, you are, girl," he said in a more soothing, kinder tone. His hand on her scalp resumed its caress, but it didn't comfort her. "But I won't let it go so easily. I don't think you need a man per se. What you need is a…" Emma lifted her face from his crotch to look at him, and his pause unnerved her. "You need a 'good man', one who can teach you how to be a 'good woman'." He stared at her with a determination she hadn't seen before. In his eyes, nothing of the scorn she'd seen earlier, just a look of caring, and something else. Something she hadn't seen in a man before. Lust, yes. Love, maybe. But not that sense of… Of what? She couldn't quite put her finger on it. It was something about responsibility, protection, and unconditional love. Was it even possible? Her heart raced with excitement, and she couldn't wait for his next words. "Where is your father? Does he live nearby?"
"He left." The words came out of her mouth faster than she could think.
Fatherly!
The word she was looking for was 'fatherly.' She had never experienced that protective, compassionate, loving attitude in anyone. Her relationship with her mother had been turbulent, and every man that mother or daughter had brought in their respective lives had proven to be selfish, abusive, or just plain useless.
"He left?" His voice, still low, cracked at the edges.
"When I was a baby."
The story repeats itself.
His look softened, and he seemed to ponder.
In Emma's mind, a whirlpool of emotions was twisting and turning in a mess of expectations and wishes. It would take her time to disentangle it all, but her instinct told her that Ethan was the key to a new beginning, one that would be good for her and her unborn child. Hung to his lips, she prayed for him to say the right words, to ease her fears away.
He frowned, then after a moment of reflection, he nodded. "You're a sweet girl. Honest and kind. I see why he was with you." He leaned and kissed her, a long, slow burning kiss that sent a surge of warmth down to her heart—and left her aching for more. "I won't tell you what to do about this asshole, not yet, but in the meantime, I'm going to be a good friend to you."
A father figure? A lover? Please, say it!
"I would be a good girl for you," she murmured. The words rolled off her tongue without a second thought.
He nodded, his whole expression turning solemn. "I won't lie. You're in a fucked-up situation." He jerked his chin to point at the filthy room. "If I was your dad, or your lover, I won't stand any of this." He sighed and shook his head, leaving her puzzled. "For now, I'm going to give you a hand and…" He glanced at his half-hard erection, "Something else that you seem to want too." His smile made her heart jump, and she couldn't help and bite her lower lip in anticipation. "Then, with time… We will see."
She bobbed her head eagerly, unable to find words to express how grateful she was. The solitude, the pain, within minutes of Ethan's presence in her apartment, she had forgotten about it. A door, bright and promising, had opened in front of her, and she didn't want to let it shut.
"Do you need help getting up? Is your back hurting?" he asked, extending a hand.
She looked down at her stained sweatpants. "Yes." A sudden tinge of shame gripped her, and she wanted to curl up into a ball—maybe against him, if he let her.
"Come on, I will help you. That's what neighbors' are for." He chuckled, and his smile dispelled the insecurity she was feeling.
She seized his hand, and he helped her up. He got on his knees and yanked off her sweatpants and her panties with one swift movement, exposing her nakedness. Propping herself on his shoulder, she stepped out of the bundled fabric on the floor and kicked them to a corner of the room where they joined a pile of dirty clothes. Looking at him, tending to her needs, the shame was gone, replaced by a sense of belonging, of being cared for. Owen had never kneeled in front of her. When she had had period cramps, he used to leave her alone, calling her a crybaby, while he watched TV.
What a dumb bitch I was!
"Let me get that hoodie off you," he said, straightening to tug at the hem of her garment. He seemed more than eager to undress her—not that she was complaining. With a caring gesture, he eased it over her bulging tummy, her head, and discarded it on the floor, leaving her topless. His erection poked on her lower abdomen, and she couldn't help but stare at it. Instead of quailing away from her, he stepped closer, rubbing himself over her roundness. "Love that," he said, his hands rounding on her swollen tits, then down her protruding belly. "So sexy."
His compliment ignited a sparkle of pride inside of her. Maybe for the first time, she didn't see that part of her body as a burden, but as an asset, to please the man she needed. "You like it?" she said, and without giving him the time to respond, she placed her palms on her baby bump, caressing it. "I'm so glad you like it."
His hands joined hers in a sensual dance on her taut, tanned skin. For the first time her stretch marks didn't look so ugly, but sexy under his adoring gaze. "I love the idea of…" The way he trailed his sentence was driving her crazy. "Of life blooming in here." He pecked her lips in the most adorable, affectionate way. Gently making his way down, he lit fires on his track, first on her neck, then her breasts, finally reaching her tummy. He smothered her bump with tender, wet kisses, tracing a path down to her navel. With his arms hugging her full waist, he lingered on her skin, reveling in her scent. "The little one is going to be a lucky one," he whispered, his hands sinking to her back, enveloping her in a bear hug. "She kicks a lot, doesn't she?" His gaze fixed on her belly.
"She does," Emma replied, taken aback by the tenderness he was showing. With every second by his side, her heart was melting for him more and more. His personality was nothing like she had expected. Maybe she'd never crossed path with someone like him.
"It's as if she knows her mommy is suffering. She wants to console you," he said, caressing the skin above her kidneys, giving her a massage. When he stood up, his erection pointed at her, eager for some attention. "I'm gonna fuck your sweet pussy. Is that okay for you?"
He had that odd, unsettling way to switch from being all soft and caring to the most randy, dominant guy she'd ever met. As a response to his obscene question, a gush of lubrication coated her slit, and she nodded meekly. She wanted nothing more than being fucked by him, by a man who desired her. She threw her arms around his shoulders. "Fuck me hard."
A wicked grin creased his lips. "What about the baby? Will she be fine? I don't want to hurt—"
"It's okay," she cut him off, "The doctor told me that intercourse is safe till the end of the pregnancy." She lied, she hadn't seen a gynecologist for months. She reached below and grabbed his hardness, and pumped it up and down, her fingers tracing the pronounced veins on the underside of his shaft. In her solitude, she had bought dildos on Amazon, but no silicone toy could substitute the warmth and firmness of a man. Even when she tried to soothe her urges with a huge one, she never achieved the same intensity of pleasure she was experiencing now while she jacked him off. "She is going to be fine."
"Won't she mind if I fill her mommy up with my cum?"
She loved the way he talked so dirty to her, even though he had a concerned look on his face. Talking with someone about her daughter made her existence real. Emma hadn't thought of a name yet, and now she had another reason to find one. They had to know how to call her baby. For the first time, she was desirous of having a daughter. Seeing her face, her puffy cheeks, her chubby arms and legs—she couldn't wait to have her in her arms. "I'm sure she won't mind if her daddy is filling her mommy's hungry cunt with his yummy cum."
She saw the change in his eyes: from tenderness to hunger, just by saying that one word: Daddy.
A dirty smile spread across his lips. "I hope this asshole will never come back. I have great plans for the both of you," he said, giving her a peck on her nose.
She blushed, but didn't reply. How was it possible that after months of loneliness, this man could make her feel so wanted? The uncertainty of the future scared her, yet in his arms, it didn't seem to matter anymore.