She knew it wasn’t exactly right, but then, was it that wrong?

The sky was dark outside; the seaside rain threatened. He wouldn’t want to go out, and anyway, he needed to revise. How stressed he seemed lately, so tense, and more vulnerable than she had known him to be since he was a little boy. Her sweet, loving little boy. She heard him in the kitchen, and she went in as he started to settle at the table with his textbooks and laptop. They were in their South Coast holiday home, a bolt hole from the stresses of inner London. She kissed him on the head, ruffling his dark mop of soft unruly hair, so like his father’s.

“Are you going to go out today, darling?” she inquired.

“No, Mum, I need to revise,” he replied.

“OK, but these exams aren’t everything, your father and I will be proud of you if you try your best,” she responded.

Standing above him, she wrapped an arm around his shoulder and squeezed him into her breasts, expecting him to shrug her off, but he didn’t. Instead, he relaxed into her, and she allowed herself to envelop him, smelling him: her boy, once, her baby. She hurt so much lately, knowing he was growing up and away from her. But he was so vulnerable now, the tension of exams making him in obvious need of her comfort.

He had become almost clingy lately and she secretly relished that he needed her again, in a way she hadn’t felt since he was a small child. But there had been other changes in him easily ascribed to adolescence: he was quick to temper, and his physical strength had increased rapidly, seemingly catching both of them off-guard on occasion. Their playful tussles had taken on an edge when he would over-power her, pushing past her and reaching up for the biscuit tin, knowing that he was now stronger than her, and developing every day.

In darker moments, he would show the worst traits of his father, whose wealth had inured him from reigning in the worst parts of his temperament: if he wanted something he took it, if he broke something he replaced it, if someone annoyed him, he’d fire them. Because of the unusual circumstances of how this family was formed, and with her son showing increased characteristics of his father, she found herself more determined to shape him differently.

The boy’s father was away for work; a not infrequent occurrence, leaving the two of them alone. He had taken their daughter on a business trip to China. Precociously bright, her Mandarin would benefit from the immersive experience offered by being in the country. She loved her daughter, of course, but she had been born too soon after her son.

This beautiful, sensitive boy’s life was owed to a very unusual arrangement. She had given up her life as an escort to be impregnated by a client: they had signed a multi-million-pound deal, a fortune that would ensure release from any financial concerns. 

His wealth derived from hedge funds, and he had everything he could want, except the ability to forge a relationship that lasted. At the age of forty-eight, and without an heir, he had considered surrogacy along the usual avenues available to the wealthy but baulked. And he had never managed the traditional route through normie dating. He couldn’t stand the company of eligible women in his social circle and developed a reputation as a playboy. Eventually, the warnings were all the other way. When he seriously tried to date, he was rebuffed and so he sought solace and release with escorts, forming an almost exclusive relationship with one.

He was desperate to be a father, he could buy anything he wanted, he saw the world in acquisition and ownership: why couldn’t he purchase the services of a woman for the purposes of becoming a father? And so, after she was initially dismissive of the idea, then merely apprehensive, she finally engaged. He funded her legal advice to discuss and agreed to a deal that satisfied them both.

The highly negotiated and detailed deal was that she would conceive and give birth, staying for a year and relinquishing parenting rights, but with an option of being involved as much as she wanted. In essence, a surrogacy arrangement, itself not without moral grey areas but given the fantastic money, she figured she could carry a baby for him and could be detached about it. How wrong she was.

She was, though, to be paid a generous monthly stipend until the child was one, staying to nurture and breastfeed during this critical development of a baby’s life. In return she would receive sole ownership of a London flat, expertly renovated, and a final cash settlement, setting her up for life. She could fund the psychology degree she had always had on the back burner once her life as a high-earning London escort ended. She had always been curious about pregnancy and giving birth, even though she harboured no desire to commit to a life of mothering. Why not?

Sure, she was concerned about the inevitable physical deprivations of birth, but her focus on her looks only enabled her sex work, which made money. This was a shortcut to financial independence she could never achieve independently.

Pregnancy changed everything, as soon she felt the first flutter of life within her, she knew she was experiencing a bond she could never break, and contented, maternal fulfilment as her manifest destiny. Her body and soul completely blossomed, and she wore it with pride and deep, sensuous joy. As her pregnancy took form and she was alone in their large Grosvenor Square home she was regularly overcome by her own rampant sexual desire and masturbation was a regular, healthy part of her daily routine. 

Somewhat given to vanity and always comfortable with nudity, she was almost as obsessed with her changing body as he was. She positioned all the mirrors throughout the house so that she could see herself reflected from many angles. She made herself drip with her own honeyed wetness sitting at her dressing table, moving the mirror so she could marvel at her newly rounded form. Showering was an especially sensual pleasure as she lavished attention on her belly, almost always finishing by coming. 

This led idly to an idea, and she embarked on a daring photo project, one that could easily have angered him but fortuitously delighted him.

Her escort marketing entailed a website with all the usual slutty male-gaze poses anyone with a modicum of imagination could envisage. Each month she chose a pose from her defunct website but recreated it exactly, except of course to journal her developing pregnancy. She went to extremes to book the exact location and the same photographer for all of her escort shoots.

She revelled in this: arched back on the bough of a fallen oak but now showing off her beautiful belly; spread out beneath a gothic fireplace wearing a red velvet camisole but with a slit to show off her bump. She presented them to him elaborately boxed, wrapped in velvet ribbon. Once he had marvelled at the artwork he would drape the ribbon around her, grazing it across her entire body, languishing and kissing her all over before gently fucking her as the embodied gift she was, as well as the visual facsimile. 

She felt so increasingly confident and proud of what her body could do, wearing her belly with pride. Shopping on the King’s Road, enjoying strangers’ looks and revelling in the banal small talk with other mothers, knowing that women wearing their jejune pregnancy with nothing like her natural beauty were envious, that their husbands had to look away for fear of literally dribbling. This made him swell even more with possessive pride, and that most basic of all male endeavours: having something other men wanted but couldn’t have.

His interest and delight in her changing body amused her, and she started to feel more affection for him, in fact, it had been some relief as she didn’t conceive on the first scheduled heady weekend of constant conception sex. When her period arrived, she felt rising panic, genuinely scared at the loss of a future fortune. What a relief it was to find herself fruitfully fucked on the second frenzied pregnancy attempt.

Those days of raw and base conception sex were some of the most intense of both their lives, preparing for pregnancy she had naturally stopped contraception and while physically ready and at the peak of fertility, the psychological aspect of being fucked roughly into pregnancy subjugation overwhelmed her. He was a deep fetishist and while the goal was to conceive, he was very interested in the process and felt that it was his life’s goal to impregnate her, decisively plant his seed, unload again and again until her womb relented and accepted his broiling sperm to fruition.

He fucked his rivers of cum into her waiting womb wherever, whenever and however: no mistake, he would conquer her in those crucial ovulation days. His intensity at achieving his one genetic goal in this life gave him the impetus of the half-crazed, and she felt in a few almost frightening moments that he had actually become possessed by some frenzied sperm-release demon as he pounded her, tentacle-like, gripping her wrists and holding her firmly in place. It was as if he was fucking through her to the very earth itself, delivering his hot, ferocious load with precision and intensity, over and again. 

Vulnerable and sore due to his larger-than-average endowment, he showed deep affection and respect though for what her body was enduring and held her gently, when that was what she wanted. After her own orgasm on one occasion, she spontaneously cried, and he kissed her through her salty tears, murmuring reassurances that she needed to hear while waiting for his tumescence to manifest and begin her breeding again. 

Then, their journey properly began, here she was pregnant, full. She delivered the news by whispering in his ear after six tests: a nervy few days as she wanted the extra validation of a doctor’s visit. Once sure. she stage-managed every aspect of telling him the news and the look of uncomplicated joy on his face surprised even her by how happy she felt for him. His pride in knowing that he had placed the last jigsaw piece in the puzzle of being a man was boundless.

They had had a very kinky connection; he was dominant, and their bookings had increasingly pushed the boundaries of his kink back when it was a client relationship. She had a Soho in-call flat and for most of their final bookings before his family plans started to take shape, she was required to answer the door on all fours. This aspect of their connection found happy expressions during her pregnancy, sometimes in surprising ways.

He made her measure herself and record her growth, requiring her to present a logbook where she noted her growing physical measurements. He thought of it as an investment, and as with any of his deals, he needed to make sure his investment was growing. He watched this weekly task, as she sensuously draped a tape measure languorously around her expanding belly, noting the inches increase. And as the fullness of her breasts developed and rounded beautifully, heavy with milk for his child, he would become erect at the sight of his conquest.

His attention to her body bordered on the clinical, so fascinated and obsessive over her pregnancy, her growth the evident manifestation of his potency, virility and ownership. This woman, bearing this pregnant belly, the way she waddled, full of him, this is what he had done. Because he fetishized pregnancy he was also in awe, and was gentle and worshipful for her entire term, adorning her not just with gifts but his very focused attention.

His Aladdin lamp obsession with belly rubs could sometimes be annoying, but years of escort work had honed her performance skills, and she knew her future assured wealth depended on pleasing him, so she rarely let an opportunity pass to reassure him. She took secret delight in performing the little cliched rituals of pregnancy, placing her hand on the small of her back, pushing her belly out and slightly frowning when she knew he was watching her from across a room. 

When she had really grown big, leveraging herself gingerly into his low designer chairs, and making sure that he observed the awkwardness inherent in the simple act of getting up again were all part of the small daily displays of her condition that sent him wild, and turned her on.

Parts of his kink found expression not just in her body, but in how she dressed and presented herself. Over the months of her growth, he honed his desire into explicitly requesting certain pregnancy ‘looks’. He happily authorized whatever she wanted to spend on maternity clothes, and the assistants at the up-market Bond Street stores enjoyed a welcome increase in commission for the entirety of her pregnancy, almost emptying the lingerie racks every month as she outgrew the previous month’s haul.

He still needed regular sex, and aware that this was a once-in-a-lifetime situation she dressed for him most nights, with the specific caveat that if she genuinely felt unwell, or there was a moment’s concern for the baby, she could retreat to the guest wing with no questions asked. There were only a few nights of her entire term that she did not perform for him, and even fewer where she did not herself look forward to allowing her inner exhibitionist to inhabit the most magical of Venn diagrams for this rich man and horny father-to-be: literal whore and pregnant Madonna, for him, by him. 

So, she still, on demand, wore the typical sub attire of being leashed, pouring herself into PVC and when she did this, he would lead her slowly around the large basement floor. She was forbidden from speaking and her tits, protruding like inflated balloons from the harness would proudly extend in their fullness, yanked high and round, for his mouth to find. This always ended with her fellating him like the enthusiastic sex worker she could still perform, God, she was amazing at it.

The erotic thrill he derived from this confusing tableau was electrifying: BDSM and her pregnancy rather than cancel each other out, fed his inner need for control and drove him to ecstatic orgasms. His broodmare, tied, under his ownership, great milking breasts forcefully arranged to serve him first and foremost, needing him to take her and make her his, what else was she good for?

On other nights he preferred a more virginal, wholesome pregnancy presentation. For this scene, something closer to the 1980s style of what was considered appropriate for expectant, respectable wealthy home-county mothers were needed. Billowingly shapeless, usually floral or polka dot, some with deep sailor collars. She was docile, almost ashamed of her large belly, performing embarrassment, blushing and needing to be cajoled, trying to minimize the clear evidence of what had happened to her. Slightly reluctantly giving in to his base desire to enter her, even in this condition. It was what she had been bred to do, tolerate her husband’s wanton ministrations as she bore his heir; this too drove him wild. 

Then there was the sexy yoga momma: Lycra accentuated her belly, the belly she was proud to carry high and evidently. He had a peculiar desire to see her wearing tops too small to cover her entirely, leaving a little exposed strip that revealed the beautiful, rounded curve of her lower belly. He would fold his erection out and graze her belly with the tip of his engorged pole, gently, just nudging her with his baby-maker.

They all ended the same way: him ejaculating unending loads all over her belly, moaning with inchoate delight. She would rub it all over her, sealing herself. A final entry and finish for him, offloading inside her with his orgasm arriving invariably to her whispering in his ear to “be careful of the baby” and she was getting “bigger and bigger every day” that soon she would be “too pregnant for this position” but it was ok that he came inside her because he “could hardly make her any more pregnant.”

She grew not just to like the arrangement, but to crave it. Cuddling on the sofa at night watching a film with his hands warmly and firmly resting on her belly, she would drift off to sleep, not expecting this wave of contentment. She particularly loved feeling his wide, cold wedding band (a prop they both enjoyed, they didn’t marry) against the warmth of her belly.

One of his favourite activities was to tell her to run a bath, once she was settled and he joined her, he lathered her belly up, gently prodding her sides with his probing fingers to feel her pregnancy and the now-moving baby. Yes, this was the best investment he had ever made, entrusting this woman with his seed, growing his baby for him. His inevitable bath-time erection signalled that it was time for bed, so she would towel off and wait on her elbows and knees when she was too gravid for any other position: his cock so deep inside her, his hands kneading her breasts.

She realized she was not just enjoying this booking, she was frequently so deeply turned on her sex levels were insatiable as her pregnancy progressed, as her belly grew yet larger.

One of the most intense orgasms she experienced was when she was hugely pregnant, lying prone on her back on their 4-poster bed as he was going down on her, her belly too high now to even see him. But his skilled tongue delivered small, intense waves of tiny reward orgasms for yielding to him, for expressing this condition. It was true that she was fulfilling his every wish, but increasingly hers: to be used, useful, to be needed, and worshipped. 

And then, on the joyful day her milk came in, she delighted in hamming up discomfort, needing Daddy to help Mummy relieve the tension. The gorgeous little milky spontaneous patches that would appear at the ripeness of her breasts: beyond her control, uncontainable. She breastfed him, (he was a deep ANR fetishist, as well) and eventually genuinely felt elation as his ministrations gave her such sweet release. As her milk spurted in tiny little sprinklers, she showered him as she straddled him, ruffling his hair.

She told him that he had been a good boy, that mummy was there, and that she had so much milk for him. As she placed his head at her breast, free from its maternity bra and let him drink deeply of her first milk, she had to calm her rising orgasm.

The feeling of being milked and drunk from so enthusiastically by his mouth provided an erotic connection straight from her nipples to her cunt that didn’t subside, not even when it was her baby she was nursing: yes, it wasn’t specifically sexual, but it was sensual. She felt secretly smug that she connected these two activities, why should she not experience physical pleasure from the most natural thing she could do, even if up until now that had been to take an engorged cock halfway down her throat and not choke.

These blurred lines in her mind about her body, what it was for and how it could be used usually stayed at bay and were unproblematic. But she had to admit that as the months went by and she progressed from gently showing, to obviously pregnant and now hugely so that she lost a little piece of her own identity as well, and saw herself as being in constant service: from his dick and now envisioning his baby and its needs: she was a woman who needed to be needed, her body was for giving, and to be taken.

And how much more taken could she be than to show to the world what this man did to her, as she held his hand and leaned into him for warmth and protection, that she carried his child, that anyone who cared to glance could see that she had opened her beautiful long legs to him, laid back and let him fuck her into absolute submission, gripping his dick and clenching him inwards as deeply as possible into her voraciously needful cunt and willing his sperm to seed her. Next time you see a pregnant woman, don’t hesitate to think how she got that way, she wants you to.

In the fulness of time, minutes after an orgasm that was as fulfilling as anything she would ever experience, she felt the early pangs of labour and the eternal and innate knowledge that women share, that it was ‘her time’, and in due course she gave birth to his much-wanted son at the highly exclusive Portland Hospital (he would leave nothing to chance) in the usual way that babies arrive in this world. But seeing his beautiful eyes as he latched on to her breast and feeling his father’s arms around her, kissing her head: it was worth it.

This wasn’t a new family, it was a reunion, something primal that they had called on and created. To have felt this needed, this vital and necessary, and bringing this new life forth from the depths of her body was ecstasy to her.

Where she was exhausted but content, the father was proud and joyous. Alexander was healthy and very, very hungry, nursing immediately and bringing his parents deep joy. He represented everything his father wanted and surprised his mother by making her feel the warmest of hormonal headiness and the most natural womanly expression: she had grown this life, felt his early stirrings in her womb, nurtured and carried him and now, suckling at her full breasts she knew contentment and that her calling was to give and provide, through her body.

This primal bonding of a nursing mother to her child would cleave her to his father, and while his tastes remained the same, he would always be a dominant sadist, he developed a care for her that extended beyond the woman he paid to carry and birth his child and suck his cock.

He was committed to being on hand and absolutely did his share of the night-time feeds, taking her mental and physical well-being seriously and was only too happy to bottle feed his small son so she could rest. This required pumping, the act of which only caused him more sexual gratification and more than once he fucked her from behind while she was rhythmically expressing her milk. He saw it as a replenishment activity: he delivered his sperm that caused her pregnancy and the ability to produce milk: a mutually satisfying cycle of life. These were the happiest months of his life, and hers, too. 

Lost in this haze of hormones it was perhaps not surprising that she fell pregnant when Alex was a mere 3 months. Unlike the frenzied impregnation over several days of never-ceasing cum that planted his furious-to-be-released seed enabling her first pregnancy, she consciously remembered conceiving their daughter. Still dazed from feeding a newborn on demand and completely exhausted, and certain that almost constant breastfeeding would be nature’s contraception, they both were caught unaware. 

That special night he was gentle but insistent in his bull-like lustful need to cum in that moment. As she gently nursed her baby son at her bounteously full breasts in bed she felt him, her former client, stir and gently enter her from behind, incredibly slowly working himself into the softest but most insistent of familiar rhythm as he nuzzled her ear, as careful and tender as possible, so as not to disturb their baby, contentedly and innocently nuzzling away.

She couldn’t deny him because she had gently rebuffed him earlier, concentrating on settling the baby and had had to satisfy him with a quick feed himself on her other breast.  She positioned herself so she could gently accept him, feeling for all the world like a doe-eyed romantic and passive heifer helpless in the way of his virile dominance.

When he came and she felt the unmistakable hot explosion deep inside she couldn’t have guessed that she would actually conceive again, it took a further couple of months to realize her new condition as she felt her belly gently begin to expand again with new life - pregnant, breastfeeding and more needy than she could have imagined, she begged him to let her stay.

Freshly fucked and seeded once more, she lost another piece of her old identity to be replaced by even more intense thoughts of being used and useful, a milk producer, a cum carrier: this was her true calling. And so, her once again in the family way and breastfeeding, him giddy that he had become a father and had completely ensnared the previously top-price escort and trapped her, however inadvertently, into an exclusive buy-out.

They lived a luxurious life, wanting for nothing, but he had grown up poor and loveless and never took his money or this situation for granted. They seemed just as happy, if not more so than their social circle. His friends thought that he had simply met someone quickly and knocked her up and that they had decided to make a fist of it, her friends knew he had been a client but basically bought the pretty woman narrative she spun, and as fellow sex workers they obviously understood the financial gain.

He had to drop some of his city friends due to a gang bang he had organized one night when he hadn’t been booking her for very long. He could hardly introduce the leggy Swedish whore they had fucked every which way as his new socialite wife, but it was a small price to pay. He liked to think that they had the modern equivalent of an arranged marriage, they each had what the other wanted, and anything else, like the development of affection, was a bonus. 

Now though, his delight was palpable. A perfect son, a beautiful woman, again rounding with the life he had caused. But she had given birth, she had nursed these small mouths and she fell just as in love with her daughter. Learning how to tandem breastfeed when the second little one arrived took some skill, and even though she had all the help in the form of au pairs and housekeepers she could want, she relished being needed, full, being physically required and easily became the one thing all men want, a devoted mother, a doe-eyed milking cow, a brood mare and an escort on demand. 

She never lost her guilt at not being able to devote all her time to her son for that crucial first year of his life, though, the unexpected pregnancy had naturally diverted her. On some level, she felt he had never recovered psychically from this, and he was still on that same and unfulfilled level, searching for her. He got on with his sister well enough but where she was precocious and confident, he was shy and inward-looking. She naturally followed her father, and he was so much more like her: needing encouragement, and craving approval.

Birthing a daughter, a sensual home birth, doula-attended birthing pool experience this time, sealed things for them both. She was now the fully bred brood mare that he had fantasized about since his first sexual awakening, and that deep down she knew herself no better than to be.

And now, today, on this cold and blustery morning as she reflected on her life, lost in reverie as the kettle started to whistle, she suddenly, shockingly, realized that she was caressing her son’s head in something close to a breastfeeding position, murmuring to him how loved he was, what a special boy he was, and that he shouldn’t worry. His eyes were closed, and he was nuzzled very firmly between her breasts, his youthful body pressed entirely against her.

This was wrong, wasn’t it? She knew that logically, and that she should pull away. But with his big eyelashes, and his cheeks flushed, he felt relaxed. Wasn’t that what she should be providing for him? Comfort, love, and warmth? Allowing him to feel safe and secure?

As she held him, she instinctively remembered being pregnant with him, all the love and attention that was showered on her because she carried him, gave him birth and nurtured him and now he was becoming a young man, and she feared losing him so much. It wasn’t wrong was it, as he murmured and turned his head more towards her left breast, she was overwhelmed by the need to feel that small and hot mouth perhaps just once more at her nipple. It wasn’t wrong to sooth him, to show him how safe and how very loved he was, was it?