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Read from here : 👉 #Cheating #Cuckold #Pregnancy2 days ago2.2k words | | 4.00 | 👁️
Matthew endures humiliation as Elena and Calder announce their pregnancy plans, forcing him into a childlike role while they flaunt their intimacy and dominance
Saturday sun slanted through the plantation shutters of the little playroom Matthew had painted pale mint when he and Elena still believed they would fill it with their own children. Elena sat on the low chintz sofa, legs folded beneath a thigh-length cotton nightgown printed with tiny yellow ducks. Above the neckline her skin glowed, sun-kissed from mornings on the condo balcony that overlooked Calder’s pool. Calder himself lounged beside her, heavy arm draped along the sofa back so his knuckles brushed the swell of her breast through cotton. He wore only navy gym shorts, the drawstring dangling loose, his bare chest hair-roughened, muscled, darkly tanned. Across the carpet, Matthew knelt on the rug he had bought for Lego castles and doll tea parties that never belonged to him. A dinosaur-print onesie peeped beneath the hem of the oversized T-shirt they had told him to wear, the word BABY embroidered in pastel chain-stitch across the front. His knees ached already, though he had only been kneeling five minutes; Calder insisted on the posture because, he said, real kids didn’t lounge like grown-ups.
“Mommy and Daddy need to tell you something,” Elena began, voice pitched sweet and playful though Matthew heard the tremor underneath, the same tremor that had surfaced four nights ago when she confessed she might let Calder stop pulling out. She let her fingers rest on Calder’s forearm and followed the corded veins to his wrist, then guided his broad palm down over the flat plain of her belly. Matthew watched the possessive spread of those fingers, suntanned against the white cotton, and every pulse in his body thudded against an invisible vise. Calder stroked once, twice, as though her skin were already rounded, already carrying what they planned to put there.
“Your mommy’s gonna give you a brand-new baby brother or sister,” Calder said, grin wide, canine teeth flashing. He pronounced the words with deliberate slowness, the same way he ordered Matthew to lick his shoes clean two weeks earlier. “Isn’t that exciting, sport?”
Matthew swallowed sour spit. In their scene calendar he was eight years old, powerless, small; but the adult man inside the onesie felt nausea roll upward like a tide of heated tar. “I—I don’t want a baby,” he whispered, hearing his voice crack exactly the way they liked. “Mom, that’s…you’re supposed to have babies with…with Dad.” He dared flick his gaze to Calder’s face. “Not with—not with him.”
Calder’s laugh rumbled out, warm and self-satisfied. Elena’s eyes softened in theatrical pity. “Oh sweetie, you don’t get a vote. Big boys don’t make babies—daddies do.” She cupped Calder’s hand more firmly against her middle, pressing the heel of his palm below her navel so the nightgown tautened against the small dip of her womb. “Besides, Mommy loves how Daddy puts it in me. It’s going to feel so good making your sibling.”
Matthew’s cheeks burned scarlet. He rubbed the rug fibers with trembling thumbs, staring at the tiny yellow duck that matched Elena’s gown and thinking, insanely, that if he stared hard enough he might disappear between the warp and weft. Calder leaned forward, musk of sandalwood deodorant and chlorine drifting ahead of him. “Tell Mommy you’re happy,” he ordered softly.
Matthew’s jaw clenched. The word came out strangled. “…happy.”
“That’s my good boy,” Elena cooed, brushing curls from her face. “Now, Daddy and I are taking a special trip—just the two of us. We’ll be gone two whole weeks, starting Thursday. We’ll lie in bed all morning and all night, and we won’t think about anything except putting sperm exactly where it belongs.” Calder emphasized the last phrase with a kiss brushed against Elena’s temple, then let his hand travel slowly upward to cup her breast through cotton, kneading once so the nipple beaded visibly beneath. Matthew’s stomach lurched harder, but his cock betrayed him, thickening inside the fleecy shorts they called his diaper.
“Will I…come with?” Matthew managed, already knowing the answer.
“Babies can’t come on honeymoon trips,” Calder said blandly. “You’ll stay with Auntie Jenna. We’ll send postcards if Mommy isn’t too sore to write.”
Tuesday blurred through Matthew like a fever dream; he packed Elena’s silk nightgowns while Calder fingerprinted the insides of her thighs in the en-suite bathroom, urgent hushed laughter drifting through the door left ajar on purpose. Matthew heard the wet click of lubricated flesh, heard Elena whimper, “Wait, I want to save it,” and Calder’s answering chuckle, “Plenty where that came from, Mrs. Sutton.” Matthew folded her panties into neat pastel squares, throat raw with swallowed protests. Wednesday night the couple sat at the kitchen island scrolling fertility apps, Elena cross-legged on Calder’s lap, clit snug against the swelling ridge in his sweatpants. They discussed basal temperature and cervical mucus as casually as other couples chose restaurants, Elena sipping raspberry leaf tea, Calder feeding her bits of banana dipped in almond butter while Matthew scrubbed grout lines with a toothbrush because Calder had pointed out discoloration.
Thursday dawned. Matthew loaded two Vuitton cases into the back of Calder’s black Escalade. Elena appeared in a sleeveless linen sundress, hem fluttering around mid-thigh; beneath it, only a lace garter belt and stockings, no panties—Calder’s request. She kissed Matthew on the cheek, lips cool, gloss tasting of vanilla and something medicinal. “Be good, baby,” she murmured. “Mommy will bring you home a surprise.” Behind her, sunlight flashed off the windshield like tinfoil, and Matthew tasted iron in his mouth where he had bitten the inside of his lip.
The following fortnight folded into a hush that felt like cotton wadding pressed against his eardrums. Jenna, a thin blond dominant they knew from the club, collected him for after-work yogurt and Netflix but otherwise left him alone. Matthew returned each evening to the silent condo, switched on Elena’s old Spotify playlist, and cooked single-portion quinoa while staring at the barren kitchen wall. Some nights he opened her panty drawer just to breathe the lingering vanilla detergent, then slammed it, ashamed. On his phone he tracked the resort town’s weather—eighty-eight degrees, partly cloudy, perfect for balcony sex at dusk. He pictured Calder pinning Elena against the railing, her sundress rucked up around her waist, her knees hooked over thick forearms while tourists floated beneath on pool noodles, oblivious. His imagination supplied each detail because he had lived them second-hand through phone videos taken by bulls who enjoyed documenting conquest: the slap of belly against buttock, Elena’s sharp inhale when Calder bottomed out, the serpentine roll of her spine as she gushed. Matthew jerked off each night with clinical rhythm, telling himself he was merely releasing tension, but each orgasm left him hollow, leaking into a wad of toilet paper he flushed as if evidence of some crime.
The postcard arrived on day nine, beach sunrise on the front. On the back Elena had written in purple ink: Sun’s barely up and Daddy’s already inside me. Sending sticky kisses. No signature, just a lipstick imprint shaped like a heart. Matthew read the card five times, then slid it into the drawer where he kept their tax forms, absurdly terrified Jenna might discover it.
Two weeks plus a day later the elevator dinged at nine-thirty p.m. Matthew, half-asleep on the living-room couch clutching Elena’s lavender robe, jolted awake. Keys hit ceramic bowl; suitcases thudded. Elena appeared first, hair wavier than he remembered, skin bronzed, laugh-lines deeper around her mouth. She wore Calder’s oversized hoodie and nothing below, nipples pebbling the front, thighs smudged with faint bruises shaped like fingerprints. Calder loomed behind her, jaw darkened by vacation stubble, duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His free hand slipped immediately beneath the hoodie to rest on her naked belly exactly as two weeks prior, but now something flowed between their bodies, a new gravity, proprietary and serene.
Matthew rose awkwardly, robe slipping off. Elena stepped forward, arms opening, scent of coconut sunscreen and dried salt and sex. Not letting him embrace her fully, she grasped his shoulders, pivoted him, pressed his back against the sofa arm. “Kiss,” she whispered, eyes shining. “Right here.” She lifted the hoodie hem, exposing the curve of her abdomen, skin faintly red from enthusiastic attention. Matthew felt the world tilt; he lowered himself to his knees, forehead grazing the warm flesh he had once kissed after tender date nights long before Calder. His lips brushed the silky plane just below her navel, tasting faint coconut, hotel soap, and the sour ghost of semen. It lasted perhaps three seconds, yet stretched into a humiliation that tasted metallic and electric. Calder watched, palm stroking Elena’s hair, possessive.
“Good boy,” Elena crooned, letting the hoodie drop. “Mommy’s missed her little helper.”
Calder unzipped his duffel, extracted a blown-glass swan souvenir, set it on the coffee table with deliberate care. “Saved you a gift, kiddo,” he said, smirking, “but the real present is probably brewing inside your mom.” The implication hung like smoke. Elena flushed, smile widening, unconsciously covering Calder’s hand on her belly with her own.
They went to bed without inviting him, door shut; muffled laughter gave way within minutes to rhythmic creaking. Matthew lay on the guest-room mattress listening, picturing Calder mounting from behind, hand splayed across Elena’s womb, whispering that this thrust could be the one. The idea wrenched his gut yet fed some ravenous interior theater he despised.
Saturday morning, pancake batter and white sunlight, Elena breezed in wearing his wrinkled Oxford shirt, thighs dabbed with hickeys she didn’t try to hide. She poured milk, then said, “Let’s walk.” They left Calder asleep, descended to the river path where morning fog still curled above the water. She carried two coffees; Matthew’s forgotten remained cooling in the kitchen. Halfway along, she stopped at a cedar bench and patted the place beside her. “I promised details,” she said softly, voice devoid of the baby-talk roleplay. Adult Elena, commanding. Matthew’s pulse thumped as he obeyed, sitting stiff, hands between knees.
The story flowed from her like a traveler recounting wonders. First night, she began: they checked in at noon, skipped luggage delivery, fucked standing up against the villa door, her panties flung to the balcony floor. Calder came fast, shoved back inside while still pulsing, waited until hardness returned, then carried her to the bed where they didn’t leave for five hours except to raid the minibar. By evening she overflowed; he scooped leakage onto her breasts, licked it off while entering her again. They timed second bouts precisely to her ovulation app’s flashing fertile window, hips tilted on pillows she later laundered in the bathtub so staff wouldn’t see sheets stiffened by multiple ejaculations. She described Calder’s voice each time he pushed deep: “Take it—let it take,” a chant. He forbade her to wipe afterward during night sessions; she slept with thighs rubber-banded, dreaming of sperm racing fallopian halls.
Elena’s pupils widened while reciting, half-aroused by her own narrative; Matthew smelled cinnamon and musk drifting from under the shirt, realized Calder had leaked into her minutes before they left. She finished with sun-rise sex that same morning, calves over her “daddy’s” shoulders, headboard smacking plaster loud enough for neighboring guests to thump back complaint. “He stayed in,” she whispered, facing Matthew. “Thirty minutes after, we ordered room service. I kept my butt on two pillows like a good incubator.”
Matthew tasted bile, yet his cock strained against zipper. She noticed, smile curving. “You deserve to hurt,” she added quietly. “It’s part of loving me.”
Seven days later the Tuesday sky hung pewter, pregnant with unshed rain. Elena emerged from the hallway bathroom holding a plastic stick the width of a pen. Pink plus sign. She didn’t speak—just extended it between thumb and forefinger as Calder came trudging in towel-draped, hair wet. Matthew stood at the kitchen island slicing cucumber for a lunch he imagined he might one day eat without nausea. Elena’s eyes caught his. “Congratulations,” she said softly, tone equal parts gentleness and steel, “you’re going to be a big brother.”
Calder tilted back his head and laughed once, triumphant, clapping Matthew’s shoulder hard enough to sting. “Great work, kid,” he joked, though no part of the labor belonged to Matthew. Then he lowered his lips to Elena’s belly and kissed the future, claiming both woman and child. Matthew felt the floorboards vibrate with the low hum of the refrigerator, the same vibration that buzzed endlessly inside his bones, and he wondered, dully, how one measured the exact moment a life split open and became something else.
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