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“Yes, you can, babygirl. You can take it.” The sounds she makes as I eat her pussy make my cock ache with the need to sink inside her wet heat. I’m so hard for her that I have to pump my hips against the mattress, my cum threatening to spill on the sheets if I don’t get inside her soon. “Soak my beard with your cum,” I growl as I thrust my two fingers back into her pulsating cunt as deep as they’ll go and nibble her clit at the same time.
Dolly gushes with her orgasm, and her juices soak my face and beard, just like I told her to. Her voice goes hoarse as she screams, “Daddy!”
I go wild, trying to lick up as much of her cum as I can before I rear up over her and shove my entire, fat cock inside her with one savage thrust. The way she writhes and screams is so erotic that I nut on my second thrust.
“Oh shit, you see what you do to me, babygirl? You’ve turned me into a two-pump chump. You’re so fucking sexy I couldn’t hold back my cum as soon as I got inside you.”
She laughs and I collapse on top of her, having gone boneless, but immediately roll over. I drag her on top of me when I remember I need to keep my weight off her abdomen. I frown when I think that maybe I shouldn’t be so rough on her now that she’s pregnant. My cock is longer and thicker than average, and yeah, she fits around me like a glove and likes it on the rougher side, but I should probably be gentler with her so I don’t accidentally hurt her or the baby.
I maneuver us up until my head hits the pillow. I work the comforter over us, wrapping my arms around her back to keep her pinned to my chest. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I promise I’ll be gentler from now on…” I trail off when I tip her head back and see she’s passed out.
It doesn’t take long for me to follow her into the dream world, deeply content knowing that my baby is growing in her womb and her cunt is stuffed to the brim with my cock and cum.
Exactly how I want her for the rest of our lives.
Chapter 28
Dolly
My morning sickness is finally ebbing toward the end of my first trimester. Working at the diner has been rough these past two months since every whiff of cooked bacon and sausage has sent me running to the bathroom. Eventually, I learned how to quietly breathe through my nose without being obvious about it, and my tips have doubled now that I don’t have to dash as soon as I throw down my tables’ orders.
Wyatt asks me if I want to quit after every single shift. He’s a caveman at heart, but he doesn’t do it because he believes women belong barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen or anything like that, though I know he’d love it if that’s what I wanted.
Which, you know…might not be so bad…
No, he does it out of concern for my bone-deep exhaustion after being on my feet all day. But I refuse to quit and be wholly dependent on him out of principle, even if I do trust that he is ten million times the better man than Dad ever was or ever could be. Also, I’m pretty sure Mama would rip him apart if he ever started treating me badly.
Last week when we had dinner at Mama’s house, I cried—freaking lost it—when he ate the last slice of her homemade key lime pie. It didn’t matter that I had already eaten two slices. I wanted to take the last slice home to eat in bed later.
Wyatt looked ready to shit himself when Mama glared at him while she swallowed me in a hug. She promised to make me a pie to keep all to myself and told me I should come to her if he even thought about taking so much as one bite.
Still, though, I have kept my job, and now that I’m no longer plagued with nausea, work has been much more tolerable. I’ve already had to replace my old uniform once with a larger size since I could no longer keep the top of it buttoned over my breasts. I swear they grow bigger every damn day, and Wyatt can’t get enough of them.
I also had my first OBGYN appointment. Wyatt and I both burst into happy tears when we heard the sweet, sweet music that is our baby’s heartbeat. We have the sonogram pictures of our little (big) nugget hanging on the fridge at home, and I catch him brushing them softly with his fingers every time he passes by. It’s almost a compulsion at this point.
One time, I even stood in front of them, leaning against the fridge so he couldn’t see them while chatting with him after work just to see what he would do. He picked me up like a child under my armpits and set me on my feet a step away, then traced them with his fingertips, picked me up again, and set me back in front of the fridge. I could have died laughing, though, in reality, I think it’s the sweetest thing ever.
Not a day goes by when he doesn’t worship me with his tongue, kissing and palming my—still small but growing—baby bump. He’ll lay between my legs and read from the pregnancy book my doctor recommended as I stroke his hair.
The only thing that has put a damper on my happiness—other than my new penchant for crying at the drop of a hat—is thinking about Mom. I’ve gone down the rabbit hole reading up on domestic violence and why people stay with their abusers.
When I was younger, I just couldn’t understand why she refused to leave Dad. I increasingly resented her with each refusal, especially when he started hurting me, too.
But after all of my research, it all clicked into place. Dad kept Mom isolated for years, and after losing her parents when I was young, she had no family support system nor any friends to lean on. She hadn’t worked since having me, and she had no money of her own to her name. I’m sure she was just as scared Dad would come after her as I have been if she had found a way to leave, especially with me in tow.
I’ve cried myself to sleep in Wyatt’s arms more nights than I can count, my heart breaking for her over and over and how cold I was to her. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for leaving her without saying goodbye. Without me, she has no one left, and some days, it’s hard to live with myself when I think about that.
I’m still trying to figure out what to do now. I’ve debated calling the cops, but since Dad works with all of them, I doubt they’ll believe me. And if they do believe me and confront Dad, he would probably get pissed and spin some kind of story, and then Mom would end up bearing the brunt of his anger.
I wish I could just call her or write to her, but I’m terrified that if I do, Dad will find out and trace me back here, just as we’ve finally started to relax a little bit.
Since he hasn’t come after me in all this time, we’ve hoped that he’s given up the charade of missing me, especially after the news stopped running reports about me being a missing person long ago. We still check the exterior cameras every night, and we’re both vigilant about setting the house alarm, but I no longer run and hide when there’s a knock at the door. It gives us both so much relief, though Wyatt has told me that a part of him hates that he hasn’t been able to confront and beat the shit out of Dad himself.
I’ve been lost in thought as I put away the onesies Wyatt and I picked out at the store earlier, hanging them on the cutest, tiniest clothes hangers in the nursery’s closet. I rub my belly for the hundredth time today as I turn to survey how far the nursery has come since we got the positive pregnancy test.
We picked out a calming shade of green that’s close to the color of the chair. He painted the lovely hue on two of the nursery walls and the other two a bright white. Gauzy white curtains hang over the window, diapers and wipes are stacked on the shelves under the changing table, and the most adorable baby mobile with stuffed lambs and stars hangs over the crib.
I went overboard buying little board books to read to the baby, and they’re all neatly lined up on the new bookshelf, along with a framed photograph of me and Wyatt from when he took me to the only fine-dining restaurant we have in town.
