Page 29 of Nine Month Contract
Christ, I shouldn’t even be thinking of her at all. She’s essentially an employee. A surrogate. A “belly buddy babysitter” human incubatorwith just one purpose of carrying my offspring. My thoughts are inappropriate as fuck.
“Blow it in me, Wyatt,”her hoarse voice echoes in my head, and I feel the veins in my shaft bulge beneath my palm.“I want your cum inside me.”
“No,” I bark and slam a fist into the wood-paneled wall next to my mirror.You will not fucking picture blowing your cum inside your surrogate. You creepy fuck.
But a dark voice tells me it’s not creepy. It’s natural. It’s primal. It’s the way it should be.
“Oh God,” I moan, unable to control my mind a second longer. My head sags back, and my fist gyrates fast over and over as I close my eyes and picture my long, thick cock sinking into her tight, dripping-wet pussy. She’s coming already. One thrust of my cock has her vibrating all over me as she screams my name, begging for my cum, begging for me to put a baby inside her, begging for me to make her mine.
My balls ache with wanting to give her what she asks for, so with a roar, I blow every shred of my being into her—my manhood, my sanity, my hopes and dreams. My semen. Nothing matters when I’m balls deep in her. It’s all hers.
I pull out and watch my cum drip down her center, but she pulls me back in, desperate not to lose a single drop of my seed, milking me hard and fast with the quivering channels of her cunt, her walls clenching me to hold every bit inside.
Reality crashes in on me, and with trembling legs, I snap myself out of my stupor and stumble over to the sink to grab the plastic cup. With a growl, I spurt my release inside it, coating my knuckles white as warm semen spills over the edges of the container.
And my dark fucking mind takes over one more time as I stare at the excess climax on my hand and whisper out loud, “All for her.”
SyringeFullofSemen:1
“Oh my God,” I exclaim as I look down and see that I’ve finished the entire large pizza that Wyatt bought for us. When the hell did that happen?
I grab the box and look around nervously for a place to stash the evidence of my stress eating. I am not eating for two yet, and I’ll be damned if I let Wyatt see this.
I hustle out the back door located off the kitchen to see if there’s a trash bin out there. A large deck overlooks acres of forestry, but no trash in sight. Just several giant solar panels and a compost bin. If I had anything left to compost, I’d do it.
Unfortunately, it’s all in my belly.
Frustrated, I abandon the pizza box on the table outside and make my way back to the cabin for some water. I seriously need to sober up. This is a job…a unique job…but a job, nonetheless. Be a professional, Trista.
I look around Wyatt’s home, inspecting the space a bit more than when I got here, and he was all brooding and full of sperm and making it hard for me to focus. I could barely think, let alone admire his taste in decor. But now that I’ve had a little distance from him, I can really admire what he’s done with the space.
The headline for this home would be: RUSTIC MOUNTAIN MEETS MODERN MINIMALISM.
The main floor is an open floor plan except for the giant river-rock chimney with a double-sided fireplace that sits right in the middle of all three rooms and carries all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. I drag my fingers along the stone, wondering if he foraged for these rocks himself. He looks like a forager.
A flight of stairs off the kitchen leads up to a second level, but I know the primary bedroom is on this main floor because that’s where Wyatt took off to nearly ten minutes ago…to jack off.
To rattle the snake.
To wrestle the rooster.
To massage the one-eyed ostrich.
Or my personal favorite…make the bald man cry.
I’m thinking Mountain Man wouldn’t love any of those terms. He’s far too…manly.
I giggle to myself and meander into the living area to admire the massive angular windows that expand up to the vaulted ceilings and flank the main-floor living and dining area. The view looks directly down the mountain, where you can glimpse Jamestown through the pine trees. Off to the left is a nice shot of the big red barn, and I realize just how easily he can watch me from this point of view.
Then again, if he can watch me…I can watch him.
I shake off the tremor that runs up my spine at that thought and make my way over to the walnut dining table that looks custom-made. I picture Wyatt feeding a baby in a high chair, and I must admit, it’s a cute sight to behold. Not that I’ll ever likely see it for myself. We discussed having contact after the delivery, and while he was open to keeping me updated on the child’s life, I requested no contact. From all my research in the forums, it’s just easier to detach fully from the sperm donor or, in my case, the surrogate. This job isn’t going to change my thoughts on babies. It’s just a temporary position that will hopefully set me up to move on and do bigger and better things.
Provided I can actually get pregnant.
I wander back into the kitchen and spot Everly’s senior photopinned on the refrigerator. She’s sitting on the edge of a pool, her feet in the water, blond hair off to one side, smiling like she doesn’t have a care in the world. Probably because she doesn’t. Although she seems awfully invested in her uncle’s well-being if she was willing to hit the streets and find me. That’s sweet, I suppose. Not psycho.
The photo beside hers is of a little brunet boy who can’t be more than eight. This must be his brother Max’s other kid, but I’d swear I was looking at a mini Wyatt. Same dark lashes and blue eyes, same sullen, moody expression. It’s uncanny. I wonder if some version of this is what we’ll possibly be making tonight? Kind of a crazy idea to think about.
