I grabbed a zucchini. It was thick and long. I held it up to her. “This?” I said.
She shook her head no. “Something bigger than that.”
“Bigger than this?” I said. I wasn’t at all sure I could handle the zucchini up my own hole, yet she wanted something bigger. “What? Are you into fisting or something?”
“No,” she insisted, losing patience with me, sounding as if she was nearing a climax. “Something wider – to stretch me open, you know?
Fill me up.”
I felt a bit frantic, as if I had to find this pleasure tool to stretch Paulina open before Bertrand managed to make her come in his mouth. I picked up a yellow squash. It was wide at the bottom but had a slender neck, like a handle. Maybe that would work, I thought. I showed it to her. Her eyes gleamed again. “Yes,” she said. “Try that.”
“Do you want Bertrand to put it in you?”
“No,” she said. “I want you to do it.”
I was thrilled. It was my turn to nudge Bertrand aside. He’d been nearly oblivious to us, though. At some point while he’d been feasting on Paulina’s pussy, he’d taken his cock out of his trousers and had begun jerking himself off under the white chef’s apron that he was still wearing. “Move,” I told him gleefully. “This is my spot now.” I showed him the yellow squash.
“Oh yes,” he said quietly, the reason for the squash dawning on him. He moved aside. In fact, he went and got his glass of wine and then came back and pulled up a kitchen chair.
At last, I was getting a good look between Paulina’s legs. Her pussy was indeed as gorgeous as the rest of her. I understood, now, Bertrand’s uncharacteristic oral need. The outer lips were only lightly covered with black hair; the inner lips were glistening wet, and deep red now and fully engorged. It was a pussy that was without doubt ready for fucking. Bertrand had done his job well.
But her hole looked really small. I looked at the yellow squash; surely she wouldn’t want the neck going in her first? “Are you sure you want this?” I said.
She was propped up on her elbows, watching us. Her feet planted on our countertop, spread wide apart, bracing her.
“Yes,
I’m sure.”
“OK.”
Bertrand took a sip of his Font-Mars and savoured it in his mouth. For some reason, I was very aware that he wasn’t swallowing.
I pushed the wide, bulblike end against the opening of Paulina’s vagina. She was very wet, so lubrication was not the issue. The squash simply seemed too big compared to the size of her hole.
“Push,” she said. “Come on.”
I pushed, steadily. And she pushed against me.
“Ah
,” she cried out. “Keep pushing. Don’t stop.”
I kept pushing; I didn’t stop. She bore down on it and, sure enough, her hole started to open. She began to pant lightly. I looked at Bertrand and said, “This thing is huge.”
He still hadn’t swallowed his wine. He only nodded his head in agreement. From the look on his face, he seemed to be in heaven.
“Ah
,” Paulina cried again. But she was taking it. Her hole had opened but it was a snug fit. Then all at once it had been sucked right up her. Even the neck of the squash had gone up.
“Now what?” I cried. “I lost it.”
Bertrand swallowed finally and looked startled.
Paulina was a step ahead of us, though. She grunted determinedly, bearing down. “Grab it,” she said haltingly. “Get it before it pops out.”
Bertrand and I watched as the hole pushed open. Her pussy looked incredible. Straining, spreading, then the neck of the squash began to emerge. “Grab it,” she said again. “Don’t let it pop out. I want to get fucked with it.”
I managed to grab the squash by its neck but it was slippery now. I had to dig my nails into it to keep it from sliding back up her. I fucked her with it slow at first, amazed that her pussy was so resilient. Easing it down her canal until the widest part of the squash was wedging her hole completely open, I then held it there, stuck in her. Its bright yellow colour looked even brighter squeezed on all sides, as it was, by the deeply engorged lips. When I did that, she cried out; she sputtered a bunch of “Oh gods” and “Oh, yes. Fuck.” And Bertrand groaned appealingly into his glass of wine.
Then I pushed the squash deep into her, as deep as I could get it while still holding on to it. I fucked her with it fast and hard, until her cries sounded more like she might hyperventilate. But I only stopped the fucking motion to ease the widest part down the canal again to thoroughly open her hole. Paulina groaned low: “Oh. Yes – God.” And she held it there, its widest part stretching her open; her knees raised and completely spread. Nothing obstructed our view. Bertrand said softly, “I can’t believe this. This is incredible, isn’t it? Christ, dinner will
never
be ready at this rate . . .” While Paulina panted and grunted and sounded like she was giving birth.
And then I realized what this was all about for Paulina: she’d wanted to experience giving birth but they’d forced her to have a Caesarean delivery. I had an idea. I eased the squash out of her completely. “Hey!” Bertrand said, and Paulina looked at me in shock, her hole gaping open, empty.
“Wait,” I said. “Don’t panic. I have an idea. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
I came back with a baby eggplant. “Want to try this?” I said, holding it out to her.
Bertrand looked at Paulina and me wide-eyed, clearly hoping that she was going to consent. She did, without even batting an eye.
The stem end would have to go up first this time. There wouldn’t be any fucking; she was simply going to give birth to the thing. She braced herself. The stem end easily opened her right up, but the bottom of the eggplant was significantly wider than the squash had been. She took a few breaths – she was really concentrating. Bertrand had done away with sipping his wine and was now swallowing it in mouthfuls. “It’s not going to go,” he said. “That thing’s too big.”
Paulina breathed sharply and said, “No – I’ll do it. I will.
Ah!”
She pushed hard. But then she squirted us, accidentally. A quick stream of piss flew out of her. “Sorry!” she said urgently. Her voice sounded high-pitched now and overwrought. “I’m sorry! ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bertrand assured her. “In fact, do it again if you have to.”
His insatiable lust amused me, but still, I was on a mission. This was about giving birth to an eggplant; it wasn’t about his fondness for water sports. “Make yourself useful,” I told him. “Go pour yourself some more wine.”
“But I don’t want to miss anything,” he protested.
“We’re right here. We aren’t going anywhere. This is going to take a minute.”
But it didn’t take a minute. Suddenly, she’d opened up and the rest of the eggplant went in, and then the hole closed immediately around it once it was securely up the canal.
“Holy Christ,” Bertrand said.
“Wow,” Paulina said, breathing heavily. “Wow.” Then she added, “I’d like a little wine.”
Bertrand did the honours and brought us our glasses of wine. He topped us off with more Font-Mars and then we clinked our glasses in a toast. “To the baby eggplant,” I said. “Cheers, Paulina.”
She took a few sips of wine and then set her glass aside. She stripped off her stockings then scooted her bottom to the very edge of our kitchen island. She planted her heels wide apart and propped herself up in a half-sitting position. She bore down hard, until her anus was pushing open. She pushed and then pushed harder still. She grunted and groaned. She held her breath at times; then let her breath go and panted hard. She spit on her fingertips and began rubbing her clit. But it wasn’t coming. She let her clit alone and pushed some more.
I privately worried that the thing was stuck in there and would never come out; then what would we do? Take her to Beth Israel? It was the closest hospital . . .
“Oh shit,” she finally squealed. “Yes.”
And we saw it, big and purple and round, crowning in her hole.
“Oh God,” she groaned deeply, her whole body relaxing. But then it disappeared again. It
still
wasn’t coming – it had slipped back up the canal. For a moment, Paulina did nothing. She was pacing herself, it seemed; she caught her breath. Then she bore down again and there it was, pushing her vagina open, really coming out now. She cried out and the pitch of her cry made my heart race. And then, for a few moments, she didn’t move and the eggplant sat there, right in her hole, opening her impossibly wide. I realized then that I was holding my breath, my mouth was filled with wine; I couldn’t swallow. I looked quickly at Bertrand and understood him a little better then. His eyes were glued to the sight of Paulina’s stretched vagina; he wasn’t swallowing either but his right hand was back underneath his apron.
Paulina gave a final grunt, a final push and, to our relief and delight, the eggplant popped out and headed straight for the kitchen floor.
The bottle of Font-Mars was long gone; we’d moved on to a Cavalchina Bardolino. Bertrand had settled on grilled brined salmon fillets for dinner with a fresh dill and fennel relish, roasted stuffed onions, green beans and chive and parsley mashed potatoes. Our
amuse-bouches
had turned out to be delightful: mesclun and ricotta
salata
on grilled garlic toasts. The wine suited it all to perfection. We ate leisurely, sitting in the overstuffed chairs by the fire, our plates spread out on the large coffee table before us.
Rather than putting her clothes back on, Paulina passed the remainder of the evening in one of Bertrand’s white, button-down shirts. Of course it was much too big for her and she looked adorable in it. The shirt held the added advantage of falling to the floor in a heartbeat, as well. It wasn’t long after our meal that we were feeling amorous for one another again. We were more subdued after two bottles of wine and a good meal (light as it was) than we’d been earlier in the kitchen, but we still had a grand time.
Understandably, Paulina was too worn out for traditional intercourse, so she and I concentrated mostly on using our mouths on each other. Until Bertrand wanted to have her the back way and she was game. It aroused me no end – watching the two of them together. They enjoyed their passions so thoroughly; they made such noise. Paulina was a good sport all the way around. She spent most Sunday evenings at our apartment after that, usually spending the night. We didn’t always start out in the kitchen on her nights with us but when we didn’t, it was solely because we were dining in bed . . .
In the many weeks that followed, we experimented with all sorts of vegetables, helping Paulina give birth to quite an unusual selection. We had such great times with her, in fact – that and she’d lost the lease on her pricey uptown apartment – that in March, we asked her to move in and were delighted when she did.
One rainy night when we were feeling contemplative – the dinner had been heavy: a beef ragout with a Saint-Emilion – Paulina lamented once again that she had never given birth the real way. “I never got to breastfeed my baby,” she said. “I really wanted to experience that, too.”
As usual, Bertrand and I glanced at each other, reading each other’s thoughts. Paulina’s breasts were so full and exquisite, her nipples so responsive, that nursing would likely have sent her into orgasmic bliss in record time.
“In my country,” she assured us, “women can give milk without being pregnant. It is not necessary to be with child in order to give milk.”
We were sceptical, Bertrand and I. The following day, over the telephone, we consulted with some fetishists we knew on East 9th Street and they, in turn, assured us that it was true. The trick, they said, was to fool the pituitary gland into thinking Paulina had an infant to nurse.
Really? This was certainly news to us. But intriguing news; exciting news!
“It would require constant suckling, of course, maybe even for a couple of months. Do you think you’re up for the task?”
Constant suckling at Paulina’s breasts, her ecstasy so contagious that it would nearly make us come, as well? We hung up the phone. Our mission was clear: we would suck on Paulina’s nipples, night and day, until the milk came out. It was a mission that suited us thoroughly. And as luck would have it, in late spring, when Paulina’s milk finally came, I found myself with child. Bertrand and Paulina couldn’t have been more pleased. With Veuve Cliquot, they joyously toasted the baby’s conception. Though no less joyous, I abstained, however, from the champagne and thought instead of the moment of birth, contemplating ecstasy.
Darlene’s Dilemma
Andrea Dale
Darlene had surreptitiously squirmed her way through breakfast, trying to no avail to find a comfortable position on the chair. She was stubborn enough not to want to admit there
was
no comfortable way of sitting in public when there was a butt plug buried in your ass.
Of course, the wriggling around made it worse, made her more aware of the silicone toy inside her. It wasn’t terribly big – she wasn’t into harming delicate tissue – but it was
there
, and it brought a flush to her face any time Jaden or Sienna lubed it up and told her to bend over.
They allowed her to wear panties to breakfast, because they had a respect for the hotel’s antique chairs and didn’t want her staining the cushion.
Sienna was wearing a plug, too, but somehow she managed to look completely unconcerned and entirely comfortable. She didn’t find it as deliciously humiliating as Darlene did.
Sienna was playing on the bottom today, kinky switch that she was. Darlene was pretty much always a sub – it was just her nature – although occasionally she could be persuaded to punish Sienna if Jaden thought Sienna needed two people topping her. Darlene did enjoy that, because it meant she could do all the things to Sienna that Sienna did to her. Turn about was fair play, after all.
It was a perfect arrangement for all of them: Jaden Powell, rock star extraordinaire; Sienna, his creative wife; and Darlene herself, their willing girlfriend.
Jaden had reached middle age with a grace that everyone envied. It pissed off a few people, too. Exercise and eat right, and still watch things sag. Live a life of decadence, of drugs and booze and wild nights, and continue to look like a god. He no doubt had a portrait in a safe-deposit box somewhere.