Iris, the Expecting Mother

*Book four. Iris is 26. All other characters are above the age of 18.*

*This is built on previous chapters and is best read in order, but if you enjoy preggo play then this will do just fine.*

The bodice would not close.

Iris stood at the bathroom mirror with the laces in her fists and laughed at herself. The costume had lived at the back of a closet for five years, through two apartments, and she had known it wouldn't fit, and she had put it on anyway. The satin gaped a full hand's width down the front. At twenty-one she had been a double D, big for her frame, and the costume had been cut to show it. At twenty-six and seven months along she had gone past F and stopped reading the labels. They were enormous now, heavy and soft and faintly blue-veined, filled to the brim, and they sat on top of the bodice more than inside it. Her nipples, once a pale shell pink, had gone wide and dark, a deep rose red. One of them was already wet, a pale bead of milk gathering at the tip.

She remembered what they used to be. Big and round and high, a cheerleader's tits, full and firm, each one exactly as much as a grown man's hand could hold, with small pink nipples that pointed up. The satin had lifted them like two ripe melons on a shelf. Now they were something else entirely: soft, overflowing pillows that spread and settled when she breathed, warm and dense and so tender that the brush of her own forearm made her shiver. When she cupped one it poured over her fingers.

The rest of her had changed to match. Her belly rose high and tight and round as a drum, the skin stretched smooth and glowing, a faint dark line running from her popped navel down to the bare mound below. A few silver marks feathered her hips, and she had decided she liked them. Those hips had spread, ripe and wide, built now for holding on to. Her ass had filled out with them, rounder and heavier, with a new soft sway when she walked. Her thighs touched. Even her hair had thickened, and her skin had the flushed, well-fed look of a woman with twice the blood in her veins.

The little net skirt stuck straight out over the curve of her belly and covered nothing at all behind. Under it she had the old thong on, a triangle of black mesh on two strings, sheer as a shadow, and the back of it had vanished somewhere between her cheeks.

She had got the stockings on, just. Sheer black hold-ups, the lace tops stretched tight around thighs that had grown, biting in a little, so the soft flesh swelled over the bands. The heels were out of the question at seven months. Her feet had gone up half a size and ached by noon. She wore flats to the car and resented them.

She looked obscene. She looked like exactly what she was.

*And what is that?* she asked the mirror. A woman who loved the man asleep down the hall. A woman who was going to be a good mother. And a woman who, a couple of times a year, needed three men to hold her down and remind her that her body belonged to her. She had stopped trying to make those three add up. They didn't have to add up. They were all true.

Fourteen weeks. That was how long the doctor had said *nothing inside, to be safe*, and Mark had taken it like scripture. Even after Tuesday, when the doctor smiled and told them everything was perfect and they could go back to normal, he had made love to her on their sides as if she were blown glass. He asked twice if she was okay. He stopped when she gasped. Afterward she lay awake with her hand between her legs. The next day she locked herself in the bathroom with Frank Jr., the little silver pocket vibrator that had lived in the zipped pocket of her purse for five years, the one secret she had never told a soul. She ran him at top speed until the battery whined. He did nothing but make her angry.

The leaflet the nurse had given her had a list on the back of things to avoid. Hot tubs. Sushi. Roller coasters. Iris had read the last one twice in the parking lot and laughed out loud, alone, with her hand on her belly.

She didn't need a motor the size of a lipstick. She needed weight. She needed men inside her, and hands that didn't ask.

She put the hat on, buttoned a long coat over all of it, and drove to campus.

She never called. That was the arrangement, if you could call it one: every six months, sometimes a year, no warning. This time it had been fourteen months. The basement still smelled of floor wax and burnt coffee. Her heart was going like a girl's. She didn't knock.

Nobody moved. Ray was broader through the shoulders than she remembered. Stu had grown a beard. Frank had gray at his temples now and a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and he took them off slowly.

Iris undid the coat and let it fall.

Nobody spoke. Through the wall, a dryer turned.

---

Frank had thought about her more than he would ever say out loud. Not every day. He wasn't a fool. But every Halloween, and some nights at the bench with the bar over his chest, he saw a blonde in a witch's hat sitting on his desk and lying to him in a little breathy voice. He had figured she was done with them. Fourteen months. Girls like that grew up, got married, and remembered the basement as something that happened to somebody else.

And here she stood, with another man's child riding high under her ribs and her tits spilling out of that ridiculous costume, looking him dead in the eye. Not a girl anymore. Not anywhere close.

*I've watched her go from a college girl to a mother,* he thought. *All those years. And she still walks through my door.*

He felt two things at once, and neither one cancelled the other. He wanted to put a blanket around her and sit her down. And he wanted to bend her over his desk so badly his hands hurt.

---

"Holy shit," Stu said.

Ray got up and locked the door without being told.

Frank looked at her belly for a long moment, and then at her face. "Your doctor know you're here?"

"My doctor says I'm cleared for normal activity." Her voice came out rougher than she meant. "I've had fourteen weeks of nothing and one week of being handled like an egg. I don't want careful."

Frank set his glasses on the desk.

"No pressure on her belly," he said to the other two. Then his eyes came back to hers, and they were not kind at all. "Everything else, she gets what she came for."

On the corner of his desk, where it had sat for two years, was the old baseball glove. She was standing in exactly the right place. Deep in the pocket, a point of clear blue winked at her.

*Still there.* Something in her chest turned over.

She looked back at Frank, and said the thing she had driven forty minutes rehearsing.

"I want the game. The old one." Her face was hot. "I want all three of you to rape me. I want to hear it. I want to be called every name you've got, and told what I am, and not asked one single time if I'm all right..."

"No," said Frank.

She stopped with her mouth open.

"No game. Not tonight." He said it without heat. "Nobody in this room is going to play at forcing a woman seven months gone. You get my hand. You get your hair pulled. You get fucked properly, hard, by three men who know how. And every one of us is going to be looking right at you the whole time. The rest keeps."

"Frank. It's just *words*."

"Not to me. Not with that in the room." He nodded at her belly. "I can't say those things to you tonight and mean them, sweetheart. And you'd know I didn't."

"I've been so *good*," she said, and heard the whine in it.

"I know you have. And I know exactly how bad you want to be. We all do." Something moved at the corner of his mouth. "You come back after. When it's just you in there. And you'll get the whole filthy thing, every word of it, till you can't remember your own name. You've got mine on that."

That was the thing about them. They knew her. Five years of her at her very worst, on her knees, begging to be called things that would have made a sailor blush, and they had never once thought less of her for it. Tonight they knew better than she did where the line was, and they were going to hold it for her whether she liked it or not.

She did not like it. She was furious. And under the fury, where she would not have admitted it, something unclenched: three men she could not talk into anything.

It made her want them so badly her teeth ached.

Ray was already behind her. His hand slid up the nape of her neck, gathered her hair, and closed. He pulled. Her head went back onto his shoulder, her throat bared, her spine bowed against his chest, and the sound that left her was pure relief. His mouth came down hot on the side of her neck, and she could smell him, sweat and metal and that warm dark musk she had been dreaming about for a year.

He took her left wrist and drew her arm up and back over her head, and hooked it around his neck, and she left it there.

His free hand came around her and closed on her left breast. It tried to.

"Used to fit," he said against her throat. "Right to the fingertips. I remember."

It didn't come close now. Soft warm flesh swelled out on every side of his palm, above, below, between his fingers. He squeezed, slowly, and milk welled at the nipple and ran over his knuckles.

Stu took the other one. He needed both hands, and still couldn't hold all of it.

"Look at this. Jesus Christ." He hefted it, let it settle, watched it spread warm and heavy over his palms. "I remember these on that desk. Round and firm, stood up proud when you were on your back. And now look." His thumbs sank into the softness, and it gave like bread dough. "Like pillows. A man could drown."

Stu meant it. He had been a tit man since he was old enough to know the word, and he had honestly believed hers couldn't be improved. He had been wrong. These were heavier than anything he'd ever held, hot to the touch, the skin so fine he could see the veins, and they moved like water. He wanted his face in them. He wanted his cock in them. He wanted to do both at once and couldn't work out how.

*She's aging like the perfect wine,* he thought, *and I want to be fucking her for many, many years to come.*

He bent and closed his mouth over the dark, swollen tip, and sucked, hard.

She felt the let-down like a hook behind her breastbone, a deep drawing tingle that went all the way to her cunt. She moaned out loud. Stu's beard rasped her skin and he swallowed, and swallowed. The other breast let go in sympathy and ran through Ray's fingers, and he lifted them to his mouth and licked them clean.

"Sweet," Ray said in her ear. "She tastes sweet."

And Frank came last, without hurry, the way he did everything.

He didn't go for her tits or her mouth. He put his hand on her belly.

Just that. Broad and warm and callused, spread wide across the top of the curve, as if he were introducing himself. Then down the side of it, slowly, and around underneath, taking a little of the weight in his palm. Nobody had done that. Nobody had thought to. She had been carrying it by herself for seven months, and for one breath somebody else had it.

His hand kept going.

The net skirt stood out over her belly like a little black awning. Under it there was nothing but the thong: a triangle of black mesh no bigger than his palm, sheer as a shadow, on two strings that had not been cut for a woman with these hips. They bit into her. The mesh was drawn tight over her mound and it was wet through. He could see everything through it, the plump split of her, darker than he remembered.

He cupped her in it. He didn't push it aside. He laid two blunt fingers along her, over the mesh, and rubbed.

The fine wet grain of the fabric dragged across her clit. Slow. Round. Never under. Her hips jerked, and went nowhere: Ray had her by the hair and Stu had her by the tit and she was held between them like something strung on a line.

"Fourteen months," Frank said quietly, watching his own fingers. "Not a word. And you've soaked through these before I've so much as touched you."

"Take them off..."

"When I'm ready. They're pretty. You wore them for me. I'm going to look at them."

He looked at them. He rubbed her through them, unhurried, until the mesh was a slick second skin and her thighs were shaking in their lace tops and she was making a thin, steady, pleading noise at the ceiling. Behind her, Ray found the last knot of the bodice and pulled. The laces hissed through their eyelets. The satin, which had been hanging on by its fingernails for an hour, gave up and slid down to her hips.

She was right there. Right on the lip of it.

Frank took his hand away.

"Not standing up," he said. "Mats."

## The Mat

The blue gym mats had come out of the storeroom years ago and never gone back. They were stacked four deep in the corner beyond the weight rack, as high as a low bench, with one more laid out flat on the floor in front.

Frank sat down on the edge of the stack, with his knees wide. He opened his belt. He took himself out, thick and dark and already hard, standing up between his thighs.

"Over," he said.

She understood, and laughed, unsteadily. "Frank. I don't fold that way anymore."

"You don't have to."

They put her there, Ray and Stu, a hand under each arm. Knees on the mat on the floor. Her chest across Frank's left thigh. Her hips across his right. And her belly hanging down in the space between his knees, round and heavy and touching nothing at all.

She hung there for a second and took it in. He had sat down already knowing how wide.

Her tits hung too. They swung down on the near side of his thigh, and his cock was standing right there, and they settled around it: two great soft weights with a hot, hard shaft between them. Every breath she took dragged them along him.

He flipped the useless skirt up over the small of her back, and for a moment there was only cool air and three men looking.

She knew what they saw. The ass they remembered had been a cheerleader's: round and high and tight, a lovely thing, but trim. This one was a woman's, broad and full and heart-shaped, dimpled at the base of her spine, flaring out from a waist that was gone to hips a man could hang on to with both hands. A thin black string ran down the middle of it and disappeared.

Frank took a cheek in each big hand and squeezed, slowly, and watched the new soft flesh swell up between his fingers. Then he bent over her and bit one, and the other, and ran his tongue down the whole length of the string, from the dimples to where it disappeared, and breathed out against her like a man come home.

Frank hooked one finger under the string.

He drew the thong down. Slowly. Over the curve of her ass, down the backs of her thighs, the wet mesh peeling away from her and clinging, a bright thread stretching and breaking. He left it there, stretched tight between her knees.

Pregnancy had changed her further down too. Everything was fuller and darker. The pussy they remembered had been a neat, pale pink. Now it was the same rose red as her nipples, the lips plump and slick and parted on their own, her clit standing thick and stiff between them. And above, between the round, spread cheeks, the tight little pucker Frank had been the first to take.

"She's grown up," he said, low.

He put one hand under her and one hand over.

The one underneath went to her tits, and he was not gentle with them. He gathered one in his fist, as much as his fist would take, and squeezed, and kneaded, and pulled, long and slow, and milk came out of her in thin hot jets, over his knuckles, over his cock, pattering on the mat. He did the other. He rolled the long wet nipple between finger and thumb until she cried out. Her milk was running down his shaft, and when she rocked, her breasts slid along him, slick, with a sound like a kiss.

The one on top went everywhere else. Over her ass, slowly, the whole broad palm, as if he were getting to know it again, and the flesh moved under his hand. Down the crease. Between her thighs from behind. Two fingertips found her clit, bare this time, and circled, exactly as slowly as before.

She was back on the edge in seconds. He kept her there. He seemed to know to the hair where it was.

Then the wet hand came out from under her and up to her mouth.

"Clean that."

His fingers were dripping white. She took them in. Warm, thin, sweet, and under it the salt of his skin. Her own milk. Mark wouldn't taste it. Mark said it was for the baby, as if the rest of her had stopped being hers. She sucked Frank's fingers one at a time, down to the knuckle, and licked the web between them, and looked up at Ray and Stu while she did it.

They had stripped. They were standing over her with their cocks in their fists, and neither of them had blinked in some time.

"Good," said Frank. "Now. Fourteen months."

His palm cracked across her ass.

She yelped. The flesh jumped and the sting bloomed into heat, and before it faded he did it again, the other cheek, harder.

"No call." *Crack.* "No nothing." *Crack.* "Then you walk in here looking like that."

"Again," Iris gasped.

He gave her six more. Every one rocked her forward across his knees and dragged her tits the length of his cock, and her belly swayed in its gap, safe, with a whole man built around it. Each blow landed and spread. Under the burn, something in her chest that had been clenched for months let go. *There. That. Somebody who isn't afraid of me.* By the last her ass was glowing and she was pushing back for it, shameless. Two thick fingers slid into her from behind, easily, all the way, and curled.

"Soaked," Frank said.

"Frank," said Stu, hoarse. "For the love of God."

---

He lifted her off his lap and knelt her up on the mat, knees wide. He got down behind her.

He took her wrists. He drew both her arms straight back, like a pair of reins, until her shoulders opened and her back bowed and her whole upper body was held up off her knees by nothing but his grip. Her tits thrust out in front of her. Her belly rode high and proud between her thighs. She couldn't have fallen forward if she'd tried. He had her.

The fat head of his cock slid through her, bumped her aching clit, and notched in.

Then he pulled back on her arms and drove in to the root.

Full. Finally, finally full. She was tighter than she used to be, swollen inside, every nerve closer to the surface, and the stretch of him was so good that tears sprang to her eyes. He was too big for her. He always had been. That was the point of him. He didn't wait. He fucked her in long, hard, deliberate strokes, hauling her back onto him by her arms, and her tits swung out in front of her, heavy as fruit, slapping together, scattering milk.

She could feel every inch of him. Pregnancy had turned up the volume on all of it. The thick flared rim of his cockhead raking back along her swollen walls. The heavy vein underneath. The long hot slide back in, parting her, filling her, until his hips met her ass with a crack and a jolt ran clean through her to her teeth. She was making noises with her cunt. Wet, sucking, shameless noises, louder than her moans, and her own slick was running down the insides of both thighs in two warm lines.

That new ass of hers moved like nothing he had ever seen on her. Every time he drove in, a deep slow wave rolled out across both cheeks from where he struck, up over his own red handprints to the dimples at her spine, and back. He watched it, and watched his cock going into her, the rose-red lips stretched in a tight ring around him and clinging on the way out.

Ray and Stu got down on their knees in front of her, one on each side, and each took a nipple in his mouth.

Two of them. Two hot mouths drawing on her at once, in two different rhythms, Stu deep and greedy with his beard rasping, Ray slower, with an edge of teeth. The let-down came through both breasts together and she felt it pulled out of her in long sweet threads, straight down to where Frank was pounding her. A man at each breast and a man behind. Held up by her wrists.

It was too much. It was exactly enough.

"Harder," she panted. "I'm pregnant, not broken. *Harder.*"

Frank snarled and gave it to her. His hips smacked into her sore, spanked ass. He hit the end of her, that deep bruised sweet place, again, again, and she came.

It hit harder than it ever had before she was pregnant, her whole belly drawing up tight as a drum, her cunt clamping down on him in long hard waves. She screamed. And the word came with it, the way it always had, the word she had not said to a living soul in fourteen months.

"*Daddy!* Oh, Daddy, oh, God..."

His grip on her wrists turned to iron. For a second he stopped moving altogether.

"Fourteen months," he said, behind her, and he did not sound like himself. "Fourteen goddamn months I've waited to hear that."

Then he fucked her straight through it and out the other side, and she heard herself start to beg.

"Say it. Please. Just once. Tell me what I am. Tell me you're raping me..."

"No." He bottomed out and stayed there, and his voice came down low and warm, right where she didn't want it. "I'm fucking you. You asked me to, and I'm glad to. And you're the best thing that ever walked down those stairs."

She sobbed with pure frustration, and her cunt clenched on him like a fist. Being refused was doing something to her that she had not expected.

Ray lifted his head from her breast. His cheeks were full. He took her jaw in his hand, turned her face to his, and kissed her, and let it go.

Her own milk ran into her mouth off his tongue. Warm, and sweet, and a great deal of it. She swallowed, startled, and some of it spilled down her chin, and he licked that up and gave it back to her too.

"That's twice he's told you," Ray said, against her lips. "Next time that mouth opens, it's for this."

He stood up.

He was long, and curved, and wet at the tip. He took a handful of her hair, tipped her face up, and fed it to her. Clean salt. Heat. A sharp bright tang like metal. He slid along her tongue, and at the back of her mouth he paused, and then he pushed, and she let him.

Her throat opened around him. It stretched to take the head and then closed tight behind it, and he kept sliding, inch after inch, until the whole length of him was buried in her neck and her lips were sealed around the root. She could feel him in there, a hot solid weight behind her windpipe, pulsing. She swallowed, helplessly, and her throat rippled all the way down him, and Ray made a sound like he'd been stabbed.

When he drew back, long ropes of spit stretched from her lips to his cock and swung and broke across her tits. Stu licked one off without lifting his head.

She moaned around him. She couldn't help it. Every stroke of Frank's forced another one up out of her chest, muffled and wet and helpless. *Mmmh. Mmmph.*

"Hear that?" Stu's voice was ragged, from under her. "Mouth full and she's still singing."

She was held at three points and standing on none of them. Frank had her arms. Ray had her hair. Stu had drawn her free breast down to him with both hands and was milking it into his own mouth in rough, greedy pulls, and the other one swung, slow and pendulous, with each of Frank's thrusts, the long rose-red nipple dripping onto the mat. Her belly hung in the middle of all of it, untouched. Behind her she could feel her own ass shake.

Ray could not get over the heat of her mouth. That was what he would remember afterward. That, and the view: her face tipped up with her blue eyes streaming, his cock disappearing into it, and past her the long bow of her back and Frank's hips driving into that round, rippling ass. He'd told himself all year he didn't miss her. He was a liar.

*She could have any man she wants. Any man alive. And she keeps coming back to us.* He tightened his fist in her hair. *So I'd better not disappoint her.*

She came again like that, on her knees, held up by her wrists, with her throat full. Ray felt it hum through him, swore, pushed deep, and emptied himself down her neck, pulse after hot pulse, his fist shaking in her hair.

Frank let her arms go at last, and lowered her onto her hands, and pulled out of her. He was still hard as iron. He had not come.

She looked back at him over her shoulder, wrecked, with milk on her chin.

"Not yet," he said.

## The Bench

"Bench," Stu said, coming up from under her with milk in his beard. His voice shook. "I've been thinking about it since she took the coat off. Put her on the bench."

It stood in the corner by the boiler: an old incline bench Frank had rescued when the gym replaced its equipment, with a rack of mismatched plates beside it. They lifted down here on slow nights. Iris had watched them at it once, years ago, from the couch, wearing nothing but Ray's shirt.

They carried her. Actually carried her, Ray's arm under her knees and Frank's behind her shoulders, as if seven months of baby weighed nothing. Stu set the backrest at a slope and threw a moving blanket over the cracked vinyl. They laid her down with her head high and her hips at the very edge of the seat.

Propped like that, she could see all of herself. Her belly rose in front of her like a hill. Her tits, loosed from gravity one way and caught by it another, slid heavily toward her arms and pooled there, soft and wide, nipples leaking down the sides.

Frank stepped between her thighs. He had not come yet. His cock stood up against his stomach, dark and wet from her, and he hooked her knees over his forearms and opened her wide.

Ray, emptied, sat down on the weight rack with a bottle of water and watched, like a man with a good seat at a ballgame.

Stu came around to the head of the bench and stood over her face.

From underneath he was all thigh and shadow. The heavy shaft, thick and dark. Below it his balls, big and loose and furred, hanging an inch above her mouth, damp with an hour's sweat. The smell of him filled her head. Salt and heat and something deep and animal that made her mouth flood.

It was not a clean smell. That was what undid her. It was strong and ripe, a little sour, a whole working day of a heavy man in the place he sweated most, and she lay under it and breathed it in like a woman who had been holding her breath since spring.

Her whole life smelled of nothing now. Unscented detergent. Hand sanitizer by every door. Prenatal vitamins and fragrance-free lotion and a nursery that had been wiped down twice, with a husband who showered before bed and again in the morning. Everything around her had been made safe and blank, and she had been made safe and blank along with it. She hadn't known how much she missed the smell of a man until one was hanging an inch from her face.

*God,* she thought, and her cunt clenched on nothing. *There you are.*

"You smell disgusting, Stu," she said. It came out thick and slow, like something said in bed.

"Been on the mower since six."

"I can tell." She turned her face up into him and breathed in, deep, with her eyes shut, and let it out in a moan. "Disgusting. Don't you dare move."

She tipped her head back off the top of the bench and opened her mouth, and Stu fed it to her from above.

Upside down, he went in a different way. The thick head slid along the roof of her mouth, heavy and blunt, and the taste of him was as strong as the smell: salt, and sweat, and that ripe dark musk right on her tongue. She moaned and sucked, with her nose pressed into the loose warm weight of his balls. He gave her half a dozen slow strokes, no deeper than she could take lying down.

Then he pulled out. It came free of her lips with a wet pop, shining, trailing a thread of her spit.

He took it in his fist, and slapped her across the cheek with it.

It landed with a fat, wet smack. Not hard. Heavy. A thick hot length of meat, laid across her face. She gasped, and he did it again, the other cheek, and left a stripe of her own spit there. Then flat across her open mouth. Then he just rested it on her, the whole weight of it lying along her nose and her forehead, pulsing, while she panted against the underside.

"Look at that," he said, wondering. "Prettiest face I ever saw. And look what's on it."

She put out her tongue and licked what she could reach. He slapped it against her tongue, twice, *tap, tap*, and she laughed, and he slapped her cheek again for laughing, and her whole body went hot.

Only then did he lean forward over her, and lay his cock down, wet, in the valley between her breasts.

"Push them together."

She gathered them in from the sides, both arms, armfuls of herself, and folded them over him. They swallowed him whole. Milk ran down into the cleft and made it slick, and when he rocked his hips his cock slid through warm wet softness with a sound like a kiss.

"Oh, *fuck*," Stu said, like a man in church.

His balls settled on her lips. She opened her mouth.

Salt first. Then the sweat, sharp and clean on her tongue, and under it the dark musky taste of his skin. She licked up the seam of him, slow and flat-tongued, and felt his thighs tremble on either side of her head. She drew one into her mouth, gently, heavy and hot, and rolled it on her tongue. Then the other. She was moaning again. She could feel the hum of it go up through him.

*If Mark could see me*, she thought, and the thought was not guilt. It was closer to wonder. *I didn't know I was allowed to want this much.*

Frank drove into her.

Hard. No warm-up, no mercy, all the way to the root, and the bench creaked and the plates on the rack chimed together. He fucked her the way he had spanked her, with his whole weight behind it and nothing held back, her ass hanging off the edge of the seat and his hips slapping against it. He was the thickest of them, and at this angle she felt it: the hot stretched burn at her entrance, the slow drag over the front wall of her, the deep bruised sweetness when he reached the end. Her slick ran down the crack of her ass and pooled on the blanket. Every stroke sent a tremor up through her belly and set her tits rolling around Stu's cock.

And his hand came down on her belly.

Not pressing. Resting. Broad and warm and callused, spread wide across the top of the curve. Then moving, slowly, in a long circle. Over the tight drum of her. Down her side. His thumb traced the dark line below her navel as tenderly as if it might smudge. All the while his cock hammered her cunt without a pause.

Her leg was hooked over his arm, and her stockinged foot bobbed in the air beside his face, toes curling in the sheer black nylon. They ached by noon these days. Ray got up off the weight rack for that. He took her ankle out of the air, pressed his mouth to her arch, and ran his tongue up the sole, slowly, through the stocking. Then he took her toes in his mouth and sucked them, in time with Frank's hips.

"*Oh*," she said, from under Stu, a long melting sound. "Oh, that's so good. Don't stop that."

Ray bit through the nylon and got his tongue between her bare toes, and Frank felt her cunt squeeze him, slow and grateful.

The two things together took her apart. Mark touched her belly like that. Mark had never in his life fucked her like this. She had not known it was possible to have both at once, from the same man, in the same breath.

---

Frank watched his own hand move on her and did not entirely recognize it.

Somebody else's woman. Somebody else's child, alive under his palm. Neither fact had ever mattered less to him. She was stretched out in front of him with her thighs over his arms and her tits wrapped around Stu and her mouth full, and every time he bottomed out in her that great round belly quivered, and what he felt was closer to reverence than anything he had felt in a church. It did not slow his hips at all. He was thirty-seven years old and he was going to remember this on his deathbed.

*Whoever you are in there,* he thought, *your mama is something else. And you are going to have three sons of bitches in a basement who'd walk through a wall for you.*

---

Stu had stopped thinking in words. There was only the slide. Soft, hot, milk-slick, so deep that all he could see when he thrust was the swollen head of his own cock breaking the surface between her breasts and going under again. Her tongue was on his balls. Her tits moved around him like something poured. He put his hands over hers and squeezed, and milk jetted from both nipples at once and ran over all four of their hands.

"I'm not gonna last. Jesus. I'm not gonna last."

Frank's thumb slid down from her belly and found her clit.

She came with a mouthful of Stu's balls and no way to scream, the whole thing going off inside her like a struck bell, her legs jerking over Frank's arms. Stu felt her moan go through him and it finished him. He thrust once more, deep into the softness, and came between her tits in thick hot ropes that shot up over her breastbone and pooled in the hollow of her throat. Milk and cum together, running down both sides of her neck.

Frank pulled out, still hard as iron, his jaw tight. He was saving it. She knew what for.

## The Couch

"Couch," Frank said. "And turn her around."

He sat down first, in the middle of the cracked vinyl, with his knees apart. She heard a drawer. A cap. He slicked himself, slowly, looking at her.

They lowered her onto his lap with her back to him.

A cool slick thumb circled the tight pucker of her ass. Round and round. Pressing in to the knuckle. Her whole body shivered. Then the broad head of his cock was there instead, and it paused.

"Yes," she breathed. "Please."

They let her down onto it. Pressure, burn, the ring fluttering and then giving, and she sank, inch by slow inch, held under the arms, until she was sitting in Frank's lap with all of him in her ass and her back against his chest. His arm came around her, under her breasts, above the belly. Her thighs lay open over his.

Facing out, she was all on show. Her belly rode out in front of her like the prow of something. Her tits lay heavy on either side of it. Below, her cunt stood open and empty and running, an inch above the place where Frank was buried in her. And not an ounce of anybody's weight was on her anywhere.

Stu threw a cushion on the floor and knelt on it, between their feet.

"My turn," he said. "I've been waiting all night for my turn."

He took his cock in his fist and dragged the head of it through her, up and down, slow, through all that wet, until she was lifting her hips at him. It was thick and blunt and flushed dark, shining with her. He fitted it to her and pushed.

She was already full. Frank was already in her ass to the root, and there was no room. Stu made room. The fat head of him forced her open against the hard shape of Frank already in her, and she felt her cunt stretch around it, wider than it had ever had to, a hot burning stretch that went on and on, and then the ridge of him popped through and she cried out. He fed her the rest an inch at a time. She felt every inch of him push past Frank, cock grinding on cock, through her, until his balls were pressed against Frank's and there was nothing of her left that wasn't packed. Her belly shook with her breathing. She had never been so full in her life. Not at twenty-one. Not ever.

Everything in her was swollen and close and sensitive now, and it made the feeling almost unbearable. She could tell them apart with her eyes shut. Stu, thick and blunt in her cunt. Frank, longer, a hot rigid weight in her ass, her ring stretched to a tight aching O around the root of him. And between them, only one thin slippery wall of herself.

"I can feel him," Stu said. He sounded stunned. "Frank. I can feel your cock."

"I know it. Hold still a minute. You had something you wanted to do."

Stu had her lipstick in his hand.

She had no idea when he'd been through her coat. It was the red, the true bright red she still wore. He uncapped it and looked at the great pale curve in front of him, tight as a drum, like a man looking at a fresh wall.

"Hold still," he said. It was the same thing he had said to her five years ago, on a desk.

She couldn't see what he wrote. It was on the far side of her own belly, and upside down. She could only feel it: the waxy tip dragging across skin stretched so tight that every stroke tickled, every letter separate, while two men sat motionless inside her. He wrote with his tongue between his teeth. Frank read it out over her shoulder, low, with his mouth against her ear.

"*Knocked up and still begging.*" The lipstick moved lower. "*Three cocks, no waiting.* He's drawn you an arrow, sweetheart. Two arrows. Going up. *Milk on tap.*"

"Oh my God," she moaned. Her face was scalding. She clenched on both of them, helplessly, and Stu's hand shook and the last letter went crooked.

Lower still, in the soft place under the curve, just above where he was in her to the hilt, he signed it: **STU WAS HERE.**

"Write the other thing," she begged. "Write what I asked for. Please. Nobody has to say it."

Stu looked up at Frank.

"Write something true," Frank said.

Stu thought about it. He wrote four words, small, beside her navel. Frank read them, and for a moment he didn't read them out.

"*Best we ever had,*" he said.

She burst into tears, and came, on nothing but that.

Ray climbed onto the cushions on her other side. He gathered her hair in his fist one more time and turned her head.

She opened for him. She tasted herself on him, and him, and salt. His free hand went to her tits and stayed there: lifting, squeezing, rolling a long wet nipple in his fingers just to watch it run. Milk spilled down over the curve of her belly and into Stu's fresh red letters, and blurred them pink.

Then they moved, and they used her, the way she had been praying to be used. Stu driving up into her cunt on his knees, his hands on her spread thighs. Frank rolling his hips under her, deep in her ass, his arm locked across her chest. She felt them slide against each other inside her. Cock on cock, through her. The ridge of Frank's head dragging the whole length of Stu's shaft. Stu shoving in and pressing Frank against her spine. Two men grinding together in the dark of her body, and she in the middle, feeling every vein of both. Ray fucked her mouth with her hair wrapped twice around his knuckles, sliding all the way into her throat and holding there, so that her neck worked around him and her moans buzzed against his balls. Milk on her belly, lipstick, sweat down her spine, the smell of sex thick enough to taste. She was held from every side and none of them was gentle and none of them, not once, let his weight come down on her.

*This*, she thought, in the last moment she could think. *This is the thing I can't explain to anyone. It isn't that I want to be hurt. It's that I want to be wanted this much, by people strong enough to show it.*

She tore her mouth free for one breath.

"In me. All of you. I can't get any more pregnant."

Stu laughed, a short wrecked sound, and came first, driving into her to the hilt, with his forehead resting, very lightly, on his own handwriting. Ray pulled her back onto him and spilled over her tongue, and what she couldn't swallow ran down her chin and dripped onto her swollen, milk-wet tits.

Frank was last. He pushed up deep into her ass, twice, three times, and held there, with his face in her hair and a growl coming up through his chest, and she felt him go, hot, a long way inside her.

She turned her face into his arm, with her mouth her own again, and said nothing at all. His arm tightened across her until she could feel his heart.

The last orgasm rolled through her so slowly she thought it would never stop. Her belly went tight. Her toes curled. She made a sound she didn't recognize, low and long and thoroughly satisfied, and sagged back against Frank's chest.

For a while there was only breathing.

A shop towel appeared. A bottle of water, cap already off. Frank eased out of her with a care he hadn't shown for the last hour, and somebody's big hand rubbed slow circles on the small of her back.

It was different afterward. It always was with them. Stu wiped her face with the clean corner of the towel. Ray found her shoe. And Frank, who had just spanked her raw, crouched in front of the couch and looked at her belly with an expression she had never once seen on him while his cock was hard.

"You eating right?"

"Yes, Frank."

"That husband of yours treating you decent?"

"Too decent. That's the problem."

He grunted. "You need anything. Either of you. Money, a ride, somebody to lean on him. That's the one call you make. You hear me?"

"I hear you." Her throat was unexpectedly tight. Three men in a basement, and they would be better godfathers than anyone she could ask in daylight.

## The Bath

She tried to stand and her legs wouldn't have it.

"You're not driving anywhere like that," Frank said. "Ray. Go run the tub."

The tub was down the service corridor, in what had been the athletic department's training room before they built the new one. Nobody had ever come to take it away: a stainless steel hydrotherapy tank the size of a small car, with a ledge running around the inside for linemen to sit on. Maintenance kept it working because maintenance used it. By the time Frank carried her in, wrapped in her own coat, the room was full of steam and the water was running.

He tested it with the inside of his wrist before he let her near it.

"Warm. Not hot. Hot's no good for you right now."

*He looked that up*, Iris realized. *At some point in the last fourteen months, not knowing if I'd ever come back, that man looked that up.* She had to turn her face into his shoulder for a second.

They lowered her in between them.

The water took her weight. All of it, all at once: the belly she had been carrying on her spine for months, the ache in her hips, the heavy drag of her breasts. Gone. She floated. The groan that came out of her was louder than anything they had got from her all night, and all three of them laughed.

"That's the one," Ray said. "That's the best sound she's made."

Her tits rose and bobbed at the surface, weightless for the first time since spring. Her belly broke the water like an island. Milk clouded faintly around her nipples and drifted. Stu's red letters rode above the water on the curve of her belly.

Then their hands were on her, and it was not sex. Not yet.

Ray took her feet. He sat on the ledge with her heels in his lap and pushed his thumbs into her swollen arches, one long stroke after another, and she nearly wept. He worked each toe between finger and thumb. He rolled her ankles. And when the ache was gone and her feet were loose and warm and pink from the water, he lifted one out, dripping, and kissed it. The arch. The ball. Then, looking at her down the length of her body, he slid her big toe into his mouth.

She sighed from the bottom of her lungs. He sucked her toes one by one, his stubble wet against her sole, and each pull drew a thread of warmth up the inside of her leg. Stu settled behind her and let her head rest back against his chest. His fingers worked into her scalp, gently, exactly where Ray had pulled her hair, then down the cords of her neck and across her shoulders. Frank knelt in the water at her side. He slid his knuckles into the small of her back and the deep sore muscles over her hips and leaned. His other palm smoothed, cool and slow, over the hot skin of her spanked ass.

Nobody spoke. Water lapped at the steel.

*Nobody tells you this part*, she thought, drifting. *That the thing you'd miss most isn't the fucking. It's being taken apart and then put back together by the same hands.*

She might have slept. She came back to herself slowly, warm to the bone, loose in every joint. And wanting. It rose in her like the water, unhurried. Nothing like the starved, clawing need she had walked in with. Something lazier and deeper.

---

Stu had not planned on a second round. He had honestly thought he was finished for the night, maybe the week. But she was lying back on his chest with her eyes closed and those enormous soft tits floating in front of him, rocking with the water, the wet dark nipples breaking the surface and going under, and he was so hard it ached. He kept his hands on her shoulders like a gentleman. He tried to think about work orders.

Then her hand drifted back under the water, found him, and closed.

"Again?" he said. It came out hoarse.

---

"I've got a year to make up for," Iris murmured, without opening her eyes.

Frank looked at her for a long moment. Then he reached for the shelf and came back with a small bottle. "Silicone," he said, to her raised eyebrow. "Stays put in water." Of course he had thought of it.

They arranged her without lifting her at all. The water did the work. Frank sat down on the ledge and drew her back onto his lap, facing away, reclining against his chest with the tub bearing her weight. He slicked himself, slicked her, and took his time. His cock nudged the tight ring of her ass, already softened and remembering him, and eased in so slowly that there was no burn this time at all. Only fullness, spreading. He wrapped one arm under her breasts and held her there, floating, impaled.

Ray waded in between her drifting thighs. He slid his hands under her hips and lifted, and she weighed nothing. He guided himself to her and pushed into her cunt, slow and thick, his eyes on her face the whole way.

Stu swung up to sit on the rim of the tub beside her head, feet in the water. She turned her cheek, and he was right there. She took him in her mouth with a long contented hum.

Three again. But nothing like before.

The water would not let them hurry. Every thrust became a slow rocking surge, a wave that lifted her and set her down. Ray pressed in and the water pushed her back onto Frank. Frank rolled his hips and the swell carried her forward onto Ray. She floated between them, filled at both ends and in the middle, with nothing pressing on her anywhere.

In the water she could feel them even more clearly than on the couch. There was no slap, no jolt, nothing to distract her. Only the long slow slide of two cocks inside her, passing each other, gliding together and apart inside her, as easy as breathing. She clenched around them, just to feel their shapes. Both men groaned at once. Stu lay heavy and warm on her tongue, and when she took him down her throat she did it slowly, an inch at a time, letting it close around each vein. Her belly rose and fell at the surface. Her tits swayed in the current of it, and Frank's hand cupped one from beneath and squeezed in time, sending little white threads of milk curling into the water.

It went on a long time. Waves slopped over the rim and ran across the tile. Ray's thumb found her clit under the water and drew slow circles, slippery and patient. Stu stroked her wet hair back from her face while she sucked him, soft and deep, no fist this time, no pulling. Frank's mouth was on the side of her neck.

She had asked to be manhandled, and they had done it, and she had loved every second. This was the other half. Three big men moving in her as carefully as the tide, and still filling her so completely she could not have said where she ended.

The orgasm did not strike. It rose. It started somewhere under Frank's hand and spread outward, warm and enormous, until her whole body was clenching in long slow pulses around both of them and she was moaning, low and endless, around Stu.

They went with her. Ray first, with a shudder she felt all the way up, his forehead dropping to rest on her belly. Then Stu, quietly, over her tongue, his thumb on her cheekbone. Frank last. He tightened his arm under her breasts, pushed deep, and held, and she felt him pulse inside her.

"Daddy," she breathed. Hardly a sound. The water took it.

He said something into her hair that might have been her name.

Nobody moved for a long while. The water rocked itself still.

They dried her with gym towels, all three of them at once, which made her laugh. Stu laced what could be laced. Ray knelt and worked her shoes onto her feet, which no longer hurt. Frank buttoned the long coat over the ruin of the costume, all the way to the top, and settled it over her belly with both hands.

She felt clean. She felt wrung out and rebuilt. Her ass was still warm, and every time she sat down for the next three days she was going to feel it and smile.

"See you in a year," Frank said.

"Sooner." She reached for her hat. "And when I do..."

"When you do," said Frank, "you get every filthy word. I've been keeping a list."