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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: {Bronwen} RP: "Ripe" (preg, rom)
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There's a bit of a heatwave in England tonight, so I thought I'd
repost this hot summer story...
There's no warning attached to this story. Apart from scenes of
delightful consensual sex which might not be entirely suitable for the
very young, the author firmly believes her story to be generally a
good thing. And possibly educational too! So there... <grin>
Copyright BronwenSM September 1997. "Ripe" must not be reposted,
altered or sold without her written consent.
--- "Ripe" ---
by BronwenSM
@---}---}-----
Lord, I'm thirsty.. so thirsty.... and it feels as if I've only just
got comfortable. James is sparko, one heavy forearm slung over my hip.
I, as always these days, lie cradled like a peach in packaging, a
pillow between my thighs, another under my belly, three supporting my
head and shoulders, a melted pack of peas between the soles of my
feet. Every night my feet boil and frozen food appears to be the only
answer. Two weeks to go. The hottest summer of hot summers, no
bedclothes, no covering, just the earth mother in full bloom. I am
nothing but curves and clefts, full to bursting with our child, full
of blood pumping through every cell, hormones fizzing like sherbet.
I really don't want to move but not only am I thirsty on this
sweltering June night, I can feel the acid rising up my gullet. If I
don't drink something soon I'm in for another vicious attack of
heartburn. All my unisex organs - gut, lungs, bladder - have been
elbowed out of the way. Womb has taken over. "Who needs to breathe?"
she demands. "Who needs to digest? Remember, I am mistress here."
This afternoon my midwife joked that lack of sleep during the final
weeks is at least good practice for the baby's arrival. I didn't even
smile.
Wearily I haul myself out of bed and waddle cautiously down the stairs
into the kitchen. Pouring myself an ice-cold glass of water I step
away from the fridge and stand looking out into the warm night.
Looking down, I grimace - half-fond, half-exasperated. When you're six
months pregnant you think you're huge. Oh, innocent assumption.....
It's when you hit eight months you finally appreciate what huge
*really* means. The sheer bulk of those last, countdown weeks of
pregnancy is almost beyond belief.
@---}---}-----
When we bought this house there was a wilderness at the end of the
garden, but planning permission had been granted. The street watched
the community housing go up with goodwill, little realising how many
of the windows would overlook our ancient cottages.
Three years later - what with us both working, both ex-rock 'n'
rollers and both (to be frank) appallingly disorganised - we, out of
all our neighbours, still haven't got round to putting up blinds in
the downstairs back. I stand naked under the kitchen light in front of
a dozen darkened windows. No one across the way is up - or if they are
I don't know and care less.
"If some bugger's got the energy to stay up 'til four in the morning
to gawp at me looking like a melon then good luck to him," I'd said.
"It's mind over matter, darling. I don't mind - and they don't
matter."
D'you ever notice how a house can feel safe? I once lived in a new
house where I felt uneasy whenever I was alone even though it could
have no history, except perhaps in the dark earth beneath it.
This house has a warm reassuring feel. People must've died here -
stands to reason - it's so old. And been born here, although I hope
this baby won't be. I feel the need for the modern horrors of our
local steel and white... But our old brick cottage truly shelters us.
A hundred years ago this house of ours was bakery for the infant
school. Did long-gone children, dashing in eager for peppermints and
buns, leave ghostly traces of their carefree feet? What flavours this
place, I cannot tell. But I stand in our kitchen hot and naked on this
summer night, sipping my ice-water, happy.
My belly juts out like one of those strangely fashioned, slightly
sloping seats fast-food joints install so customers don't linger.
Memories of my recent glance into the fridge prompt the
thought that were I to break an egg on the apex of my belly it would
take long minutes to find its way off that smooth crest. Sensuous,
though... to do it would be sensuous. It might even sizzle. The idea
makes me flex my long fingers.
Gazing out of the window I suddenly focus on my reflection in the
glass, changed over these last months. I am no longer my familiar self
but an archetype. My pumpkin belly juts out with absurd gravity.
Resting on it, my full breasts have a new purposefulness.
I was flat for years after some of my classmates proudly filled
training bras. Then at 16 my breasts began to swell. "That's why
they're so perfect," a boyfriend once teased me. "They're
three or four years younger than everyone else's!"
So, after I forgave their lateness, I loved my tits. There was only
one thing I needed to crown my satisfaction.
Brown nipples.
Mine were always an insipid pink. Prominent, but pink. Now, to my
immense pleasure, they are a rich amber, the puckering more
pronounced, and with a thicker core. My nipples have taken on a new
life of their own, and I can only admire them as if they were some
other woman's pride. It's better than that though. I'd feel
constrained only to glance in that situation. These lovelies are all
my own so I am free to pinch and pull them, gloating over them with
undisguised complacency.
I cup my loaded tits, hefting their greater mass, and letting the
fattened nipples poke between my fingers. The flesh is satiny,
cushioned. God, they feel good. Lost in narcissism I enjoy my
warm tingling skin and the blind mystery of this new life coming.
Just like nearly every other woman I know, I've spent my adult life
fretting about flabby bits, but there is a sense of freedom about me
now.
This belly is not fat. It is hard, smooth and glossy. It has a job to
do. And so I carry it proudly, fruit of great sex with a good man, a
ring on my finger and a roof over our heads. This baby is much wanted.
This marriage is much treasured. For the first time since puberty, I
love every inch of my own body.
Unselfconsciously I stand on the cool tiles relishing my sensations.
Massaging, cherishing my breasts, sleeking belly and flanks, raising
my arms to rub my neck, easing my back with a sway of the hips.
Warm air drifts through the top of the window, a tiny eddy in the
close heat. God, it's hot. Resting my hand on the sill I lean back a
little and slowly trickle the remnants of my drink down from my
collarbone.
It tickles me to see how the water runs between my breasts, plateaus
for an instant, then slips aside down my flanks. How much longer would
that raw egg have taken?
"Couldn't sleep, eh?"
James is shambling down the last few stairs. I glimpse the vague
outline of his dear reflection in the window behind me, but I don't
look round. I know him so well. I can tell he's been watching me for
some time. I have heard this note in his voice many times before. I
don't need to look to know how hard he is.
Deliberately I reach up to ruffle my back hair, pretending to thrust
my heavy breasts up and out just by accident. He will come up behind
me and, pressing his warm hairy body firmly against my back, cup one
in each hand. Surely as night follows day I know this.
And so he does, bending to nuzzle behind my ear, juggling and
snuggling my satiny teats in his loving hands. A shiver down my spine
makes me giggle and catch my breath. Now there's a trick for cooling
the skin.... His touch brings up goosebumps on my arms.
I watch us reflected in the window. When you love someone you know
every turn and articulation of their limbs, every habitual movement. I
can recognise his walk fields away. But we've never got around to
observing ourselves together. We're still far too engrossed in the
vanilla to look for toppings.
It's a novelty to watch him caress me, to mark how trustingly I lean
into him. I wonder how much of our deepest feelings we betray
unknowingly to outsiders. Surely my love is clear from the way I give
myself up totally to his arms, his by the protectiveness of even his
lust? Business-suited colleagues would be hard pressed to recognise
the contained professional they know in this pliant woman with her
eyes half-closed.
Langorously he caresses me. I don't turn round. I'd like to kiss his
mouth but experience has taught us the awkwardness of kissing a woman
my shape. Like sweethearts over a gate we cannot cling together but
must lean forward over our man-made obstacle... Better this way. Ten
hundred million animals are unlikely to be wrong.
He is kissing down my back and caressing my buttocks with tiny,
feathery strokes. My hard round belly reminds me of a mare's and, for
a second I remember how horses mate, the stallion nipping and gentling
her back and shoulders before he mounts her. A combination of his
touch, my mind's eye, and I can feel the sweet juice wet on my thighs.
I say nothing. Let him find out for himself.
James is nearly on his knees now, hands on my hips, mouth telling
shocking secrets to the velvet of my buttocks. My whole body shivers.
His hands slip round my hips and between my thighs.
"Christ, you're soaking. It's dripping from you."
"Hormones, my love.. That, and I'm so terribly, terribly hot..." I
tease him. It's the weather, I imply. Oh yes, it's only the weather...
Or perhaps I'm a different sort of hot?
"Going to have to do something about that." His voice holds promises -
playful threats.
His hands move to turn me, which I do slightly clumsily. I can lean on
the sill, my knees are already turning outwards...
James is on his knees before me, licking the very front of my slit.
The first cool touches of his tongue on my hot swollen flesh make me
gasp. Under the overhang of my belly, I cannot see him. It's very
sexy, feels heavenly, but slightly absurd. More absurd by the second,
as my knees loosen, my breath quickens, my legs threaten to give up,
and my belly throws me off balance...
"Let's go upstairs."
"Yes, all right, but you're so wet. It's gorgeous..." His mouth is
muffled....
"Oh yes. Oh no.. Oh please!" This last said in appeal. I am too
aroused to pull away, too unstable to continue. Wonderful, yes,
wonderful. This is going to be memorable, but I simply can't carry on
as I am...
"OK, OK." He clambers to his feet and takes my hand.
"Up you go, baggage," he says, "I'll be right behind you.."
And I chuckle, for he is as good as his word. His thickly fluffed
chest hair tickles and the hot, smooth end of his cock prods me as we
shuffle up the stairs in unison. He play-slaps my bottom and I squeal
in mock outrage.
Inside our room, I sprawl my bulk out across the cotton sheets and
spread my thighs. He climbs on the bed, far more mobile than I,
leaning to kiss my mouth for a second, and then continuing his
movement until he kneels over me, his hard, fragrant cock presented to
my mouth, his furry belly and balls rounded and tempting....
Taking his bobbing cock eagerly in my small hands I wrap my wet mouth
around the head, sliding one hand firmly up and down his thick shaft,
moving the other to caress his balls. God, my love has beautiful
balls, so round, so snug in their bag, so thickly furred. Whenever
I suck or wank him I never cease to admire the sculptured quality of
his flanged head, the jaunty arch of the broad stem. All those years
and still his charm is fresh.
His own face is buried in my pussy, inhaling deeply, his broad tongue
to lapping the juice pouring from me. Everything in me that is female,
every pulsing cell, is working at full stretch tonight. My full
breasts await our baby's mouth; my womb, while making a thick warm
nest for his unborn limbs tonight, is preparing itself to push him
with fundamental force into the world. My sex is as ripe and red and
fleshy as a bitten plum, oozing juice. I am succulent.
There is something drugged about me: so intense are the sensations, so
profound my lust. My body is reaching some rich female crescendo. Two
weeks off giving birth, my essence is near its most concentrated. As
he licks me I take his cock deeper into my mouth than ever before, I
feast and worship it. Much later there are toothmarks. Later he
forgives me, grinning. He feels no pain now, not while I adore him. My
breathing, through my nose, is fast and deep.
He has pointed his tongue now, and rearranges my swollen, slippery
folds with it. There is an element of playfulness. He knows me too
well. He knows I will not want him to carry on long. It is only too
plain how badly I need fucking.
"Yes. Oh, go on, yes! Please. Yes, you old bugger," I growl softly,
urgently. I will not be denied. Not that there seems much chance.
He just laughs, and straightens up so I can move into my favoured
position.
I am up on my hands and knees surprisingly smoothly and quickly,
moving all of a piece to haul the pillows into my shape. I am
supported, belly and chest. I can breathe, I can brace my thighs to
get the full impact of our movements. I am ready. I am more than
ready. I am wild.
He kneels behind me, and whacks my arse with his hard cock. He likes
to do that. He likes to smack my face with it sometimes, too. Playing
master, as I play mistress. He likes to look at my dark, dripping sex.
Childless women have pale pink pussies. Pregnancy darkens the folds,
and thickens their pout. Everything is enhanced: grip, juices, colour,
excitement.
He is also enjoying keeping me waiting, just a little bit. I squirm
like a puppy. My arse says "Fuck me, please! Fuck me, nice man!"
And eventually he does. He enters me without hesitation, but only
until his cock head is sheathed. As my pussy wraps itself
unhesitatingly round that hot familiar shape I feel a tiny jolt of
orgasm hit me just from knowing I am going to get what I crave. He
grunts, the contented grunt of a man arriving home. For a moment we
just soak in the sheer comfort.
The next thrust seems much later, everything is stretched out, time
has flown. But it must be very soon that he arches his back and buries
his full length in the greasy grasping heat of my flesh. Both of us
release breath we weren't aware of holding. And then we are moving
together, for minute on minute, each unhurried thrust met and varied,
dancing a dance that gets better every year. My thighs brace and the
root of his cock and balls gives wave after wave of pure ripe
pleasure. He grips one of my thick greedy nipples in each hand.
I am not on the earth, not even on the bed. I am in sex and of it. He
rides me like a hot thunderstorm, my body is a rainforest with bright
thrills of parrots flying across its darkness. His cock feels like a
god. A roll of orgasms has started and it will not stop in this
lifetime.
My pelvis is full of glowing mercury, balls of loose delight rolling
in my cunt and thighs. Somewhere shoals of tiny fish dart down my
legs. I am crying out like a shaman now, though I don't hear it. Only
when he tells me later will I know I woke the neighbours.
Slowing a little and steadying, he grips my hips hard like a man
steering a dog-sleigh. Not a bad analogy for either of us, for I am
calling out on the long trail home and he is travelling that way too.
His orgasm is building, and this increases my frenzy. I am flaunting
myself now, begging him to shaft my hot pussy, telling him he is so
hard, baby, so fuckin' hard. Faster, now, and deeper.
Those last minutes are not human. They are elemental. We are beyond
ourselves and yet we are body. His sweat rains on my back. His cock
slams ruthlessly into my nectarine cunt, the brutal force expressing
all his passion, all our union. I am his, without end.
The final shattering plunges bring a wrenching starburst of release
deep in my guts. Everything - limbs, juices, soul - is coming loose.
"Jesus!" I scream, loud enough to bring even myself to consciousness.
So I am aware as he drives himself in those last frantic few seconds
and then buries everything of himself he possibly can deep into my
body and stops still, trembling. He cries out, he gasps...
For the longest recorded moment I feel his cock pumping, again, again,
again, again, again, again as he empties his spunk deep inside me. I
am drinking him, and then, second by second, I feel my sinews start to
uncoil themselves, I feel myself loosening. He leans forward, gasping.
My back is drenched with his sweat. Our cum is running down my thighs.
The bed beneath me is soaking. And it must be imagination, that faint
ripple of applause from across the garden....
@---}---}-----
He withdraws without ceremony. His cock is still hard, slimy and
dripping. He knows I'd rather have a drink than a chivalrous
leave-taking. "Juice?" he enquires.
"Angel," I purr. And the kind soul fetches me a towel as well. Hair,
pussy, thighs - everything is wringing wet.
Having lain still all this time, finally the baby shifts his limbs
langorously in my belly. I imagine him stretching as if he, too, feels
a sense of space and relaxation. Well if it takes this much to wake
him now maybe he'll sleep well after birth as well. I can dream, can't
I?
@---}---}-----
Later we giggle. "At least our baby knows we like each other," I
smile.
"D'you realise it's dawn? You should have a health warning, you wicked
trollop," he says. "Toothmarks, by Christ. I thought you were too
tired, too pregnant and so on.... So what exactly happened to that
heartburn?"
I look at him, mischievous in the half-dark, and grin. "Go to sleep,
you sex-crazed monster." And we do.
@---}---}-----
If you enjoyed this, please let me know (bronwen@anon.nymserver.com)
Remember Celeste's blow-job principle! <grin>
Some of my other stories are up at http://www.cyber-mall.com/Bronwen,
courtesy of Joe Parsons. Thanks, Joe!
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