Nine Month Contract, page 9
“No,” she mutters and takes another quick sip. “I’m not a very big drinker, but I’m nervous as shit, and lots of people get pregnant drunk, so...science. How are you doing?”
Her candid response is more comforting than she realizes. I haven’t known Trista for long, but I like that she calls a spade a spade. I move to stand next to her at the island, noticing how much smaller she is out of her boots.
I point at the second bottle. “Is that other one for me?”
She silently slides it over, and I twist the cap off and join her in the wine-bottle-chugging experience. I shudder at the horrible taste because I’m not a wine drinker...but I will be tonight. I want her to feel supported through this, and if that means choking down a disgusting bottle of cheap wine, I’ll do it.
“Pizza?” I point at the box on the other side of her.
She nods and helps herself, mindlessly chomping down on a bite.
“I checked on Millie and Reginald before I came in here, and they both looked very content in their pens,” she says around a mouthful. “That was really sweet of you to buy those troughs for Reggie. Sorry if I was a bitch about the pen thing.” She takes another swig.
“You weren’t a bitch.” I take another swig, eyeing her baggy T-shirt that’s covered in Millie hoofprints and a substance I can only assume is from the pig.
It’s odd to have Trista in my house. All of our meetings thus far have been pretty professional. And this whole concept of me hiring a surrogate felt like something that was never actually going to happen. It feels more real now that we’re here, face-to-face, without a lawyer talking for us. More personal. Like we’re letting our guards down.
Probably because you’re about to put your cum inside her, my inner voice adds with a dirty sneer. I take a big drink.
I reach across her for a slice of pizza, murmuring around a mouthful of pepperoni, “I, um...didn’t get one of those insemination kits you mentioned. Did you?”
“I meant to get one from my vet friend, Avery, but I forgot.” She reaches into her brown bag to pull out a white drugstore bag. Inside it is a box that contains a bottle of liquid children’s Tylenol and a plastic-wrapped syringe. “If it’s good enough for the lesbians...”
My brows lift. “What do I...dispense into?” Swig.
“Fuck,” she murmurs around a mouthful. Swig, swig, swig.
An idea comes to mind, so I reach down and touch her hip to move her back a little bit to access the drawer in front of her.
“Are those disposable salad dressing cups?” she asks, her brows pinched together in genuine curiosity.
“Yeah, I use them for ranch in my lunches.” Chug, chug, chug. “Could they work?”
She shrugs, finally lowering the bottle. “Will they be big enough?”
I swallow nervously. “I guess I don’t know.” I move to take another drink and then realize my bottle is empty. Shit.
I walk over to the fridge and grab two bottles of beer. I don’t know if I envisioned doing this drunk, but the more I drink, the less awkward this feels, so I’m good with this if she is. At least for this first time.
“Listen, Wyatt, if this doesn’t work...” Trista’s eyes are wide and wary as she turns to face me and moves to take another drink.
“It’ll be fine,” I soothe, not enjoying the stress lines forming between her brows. I pat her shoulder encouragingly and then pull my hand away because my touching her is definitely the booze talking. “We’ll figure it out.”
Her eyes blink rapidly. “It’s like...even though I know that I ovulate, I don’t know that I can actually get pregnant. Some people try for years to get pregnant, and it never happens.”
“I know. Life isn’t a guarantee. That’s why we have some backup plans in place.”
“Sorry, I guess I’m just now suddenly feeling a lot of pressure.”
“You’re feeling pressure?” My eyes widen as I glance at the wine bottle that I emptied in like fifteen minutes. “I’m the one who has to...” I make a lewd hand gesture that’s not intended to be perverted...just...literal. “Perform.”
Her eyes glance down to my groin, and my cock twitches with just that tiny bit of attention. “Do you sometimes have trouble finishing?”
“Fuck no,” I bark out, then instantly feel weird about being so defensive. “Sorry...but no. I’ve never had that problem. I’ve just also never...well...tried to make a baby before.”
“Right, but you’ve gone in a cup before at the clinic, haven’t you?” She licks her lips as she stares thoughtfully up at me.
“Once...but it wasn’t in a ranch cup.” I glance down at the pink children’s Tylenol and the plastic sauce container laid out on the counter and feel extremely stupid for not being better prepared for this.
“Can you imagine if you mistook this for your lunch ranch?” Trista spews out a drunken laugh, and I realize we might be getting a little carried away with the booze.
I take the wine bottle from her hand, and she gazes at it with a forlorn look. “Probably for the best.”
She glances up at me nervously, her head hitting just below my chin in her socked feet. I like how tall she is. I wonder if this baby will be tall too? Or will it have her beauty marks that decorate various areas of her face? They’re not freckles—freckles are lighter and collect all in one area. Trista’s moles are unique. They’re really striking when you look at her up close like this.
“So there’s one more thing I haven’t told you yet,” she says, and her cheeks deepen to a crimson color, showing a moment of embarrassment that I have yet to see on Trista Matthews.
“You have an alpaca in the trunk of your car, don’t you?” I deadpan, trying to lighten the mood.
She bursts out laughing and falls into my chest. Her long fingers grip the flannel on my arms, and I can’t help but lean down and breathe in the smell of her shampoo. It smells like roses. I fight the urge to take her hair clip out so I can watch it fall down her back. Like it was the day we met. Down and wild.
Shit...definitely too much booze.
When she’s done with her fit of giggles, she leans on the counter and looks gravely up at me. “So on the blogs, I read that if the surrogate orgasms with the semen in her bajingo, there’s a higher chance of success for pregnancy.”
My eyes flash with that new bit of information. “Are you suggesting we have...”
“Sex? Good God, no,” she exclaims, the thought of it clearly horrifying her. “They just masturbate after they inject it.”
“Oh,” I reply and inwardly cringe at the sense of disappointment I feel. Fuck, I’m an idiot for getting my hopes up, but I haven’t properly fucked a woman since I got on this surrogacy track, and my cock doesn’t enjoy my hand nearly as much as the heat of a woman. I steel myself to be calm and collected when I add, “Well, you should probably do that, then. The fewer times we have to do this, the better, right?”
She nods slowly. “That’s what I thought.”
“I’m going to...you know...into that ranch cup, and you’re going to take it back to the barn and...”
She winces. “They said the sooner you get it in you, the better. I think walking it all the way back to the barn first is probably not a good idea. Too much chance of contaminating it. And it kind of said I should sleep with it in me if I can. At least for the first night.”
“You can have my bed,” I blurt out, then wince. “Sorry, is that creepy?”
She shakes her head. “No, not creepy. I don’t even have my bed made up yet...so...that works for me.”
“It’s logical.” Totally logical to have the woman you’re impregnating through insemination sleep in your bed after orgasming.
“Yeah.” She licks her lips nervously. “Where will you sleep?”
I shrug dismissively. “There are two bedrooms upstairs, but my couch is also really comfortable.”
She nods and chews her lips. “Are you...ready?”
My heartbeat thunders in my chest as my gaze zeros in on her mouth, noticing the beauty mark on the edge of her upper lip. I missed that one before. “I’m ready.”
She glances down, and I feel my cock thickening in my jeans. Fuck, this is weird. I don’t know if it’s the booze talking or some caveman fantasy coming to life, but I just know that if she gave me the green light, I’d throw her up on this counter and fuck her till she was pregnant. And I’d like it. I’d like it a lot.
Her voice comes out hoarser than before as her lashes flutter up to look at me. “Do you, like...need to watch porn or something?”
And now I’m hard.
The idea of watching porn isn’t what did it. The thought of her watching porn is what did it. Imagining Trista in my house, watching an erotic video. Her body squirming on my sofa as things get heated. Picturing her rubbing her thighs together to stop herself from pressing her fingers to her clit but eventually succumbing to the hormones coursing through her body.
Fuuuck.
“I don’t think I’ll need to watch anything tonight,” I croak, my voice gravelly.
“You’re just...good?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” My voice is soft when I add, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How are you going to...?”
“How?” she asks, her eyes wide, pupils dilated.
I clear my throat. “Do you need to watch porn to finish?”
Her cheeks deepen again, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and drag my finger along her face just to feel the heat under her skin. Her throat contracts with a heavy swallow. “I threw my vibrator in my purse. Works like a charm.”
I nod slowly. “That’s good.”
Her gaze moves as she grabs something off the counter. She holds up the plastic ranch cup between us and says, “You first.”
Chapter 15
Ranch Cups Full of Semen: 1
Wyatt
Blood rushes between my ears as I pump my cock in the bathroom attached to my bedroom. Thank fuck for tight jeans because if my jeans were loose, Trista would have seen just how rock fucking hard I was in front of her moments ago.
I close my eyes and picture the last girl I fucked. Was it Lacey? Or Tracey? Hell, maybe it was Macey? She had big tits and a big ass...just my style. I met her at a dive bar outside of Denver, and it took all of ten minutes for her to drag me into the women’s bathroom.
I don’t make a habit of fucking in public, but the idea of not having to go back to her place and awkwardly excuse myself afterward was an offer too tempting to pass up.
My cock chafes in my calloused hand, so I release my grip to spit on my palm, slicking my saliva along my shaft. Macey isn’t doing it for me. Performance anxiety has truly never been an issue. Then again, I’ve never jizzed in a fucking ranch cup while a woman stood outside the door with a Tylenol syringe in hand, waiting to inject it into her body.
“Why is it so fucking hot in here?” I growl and release my dick to yank my flannel over my head. I glance at myself in the mirror and don’t know if it’s the wine or the pressure of what tonight could mean, but I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. An animal even. The veins in my neck protrude and run down into my hairy chest. My pecs and abs are popped like I haven’t eaten in days...every part of my body participating in this act like it’s a team fucking sport.
My face looks red and blotchy, the hollows of my eyes dark, like I’m an addict going into detox. Like I’m seconds away from yanking out a needle and injecting myself with heroin just for the sweet nectar that will bring me oblivion.
I want to end this torture. Grunting, I can already feel the tingles of ecstasy creeping up my spine just thinking about my release.
I inhale sharply as the image of Trista assaults me. Instantly, my hand reaches back down, and I grip my dick harder. Punishingly hard. So hard, it fucking hurts, and I hiss through the adrenaline surge that ratchets to an unbearable level.
I pinch the head of my cock and watch with satisfaction as a dab of precum seeps out the tip. Rolling my thumb over it, I use the bit of liquid as lubrication, the tiny smear making my shaft sticky with friction as my forearm flexes with every pump.
The image of Trista is back again. Her legs spread wide on my white sheets, that baggy T-shirt still on her but riding up just enough so I can get a look at her lush curves. The bottom swell of her breast tortures me like the stickiness around my cock.
I like her body. I’ve barely seen it, and I can already tell I want to fucking touch every supple inch of it. I want to spread my seed all over her.
“Fuck,” I croak softly as my mind shows me her fingers teasing the slits of her cunt. Her chestnut hair is loose around her shoulders, one strand covering that beauty mark on her upper lip as she throws her head back. I can almost hear the moans she would be making as her hips arch up while her fingers work over her needy clit. Her digits would be shiny with arousal, making my mouth water.
God, I bet she tastes good. Dirty and naughty and all the fucking things that make sex so fucking worth it. But the image of her playing with herself isn’t enough. I can’t come. I’m still not ready. As hot as it is to picture her...something still stops me from coming.
Christ, I shouldn’t even be thinking of her at all. She’s essentially an employee. A surrogate. A “belly buddy babysitter” human incubator with 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.”
Chapter 16
Syringe Full of Semen: 1
Trista
“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.
