The Fair house, Shadyside, Pittsburgh – November 2025.

Michael Fair was a successful oncologist at UPMC. His wife, Lynda, a former physician's assistant at his practice, had chosen to stay home. Ten years of marriage, eight years of hoping, and the second floor still stayed silent. They had painted the nursery soft yellow in 2022, hung a mobile of tiny planets because Michael was secretly a space nerd, then closed the door and never opened it again. The mobile still turned slowly in drafts they could never find. Every negative test felt like a fresh autopsy on Michael’s masculinity.

His sperm count was in the single-digit millions, motility so low the lab tech had actually said, “I’m sorry,” out loud. Morphology was a disaster. Lynda’s body was textbook perfect. The cruelty of that fact lived in their bed like a third person.

Some nights Michael sat on the bathroom floor after she’d fallen asleep, staring at his reflection and whispering, “Defective. Not a real man. Never was,” Lynda always heard. She always came, wrapped herself around him from behind, and held him until the shaking stopped.

Evie Sender’s office – November 12, 2025.

Evie closed the folder, took off her glasses, and looked at them both for a long time.

“You two are disgustingly in love,” she said finally. “It’s obnoxious. And you’re both dying inside because his swimmers are on permanent vacation.”

Michael laughed once—wet and broken. Lynda gripped his hand so hard her knuckles went white.

“I’m prescribing something radical,” Evie continued. “Controlled cuckolding with a proven, repeatedly evaluated, highly fertile bull. Ninety-two percent pregnancy rate in my couples within six cycles. Ninety-eight percent marriage survival rate. Because the men who choose this aren’t the insecure ones—they’re the ones secure enough to love their wives more than their own egos.”

She slid the black folder across the desk.

Michael’s voice came out small. “You’re serious.”

“Mikey, I’ve known you since we were twelve. You once cried when we dissected a frog because you felt bad for it. You are the least fragile man I know. This isn’t about your dick size. This is about giving Lynda the family you both deserve.”

Lynda was crying silently. Michael’s hand trembled in hers. They took the folder home.

That night – the living room, fire low.

Michael stood at the window, ponytail loose, shoulders curled in like he was twelve again and waiting for the world to laugh at him.

“I’ve never felt like a real man,” he said to the dark glass. “Not once. And the minute you feel what it’s like to be properly fucked—really fucked, the way you were meant to be—you’ll know exactly how much I’ve failed you all these years. You’ll leave. You’ll have to. I won’t even blame you.”

Lynda crossed the room and pressed herself to his back.

“Turn around.”

He did, eyes red.

“I’ve had big cocks, Michael. I’ve had men who could pin me to a wall and make me forget my own name. Every single one of them made me feel like garbage the next day. Not one ever noticed when I was about to cry. Not one learned that I only like chai in winter or that I still cry at the bird scene in The Notebook even though I swear I hate that stupid movie.”

She took his face in both hands.

“I married you because you are the finest man I’ve ever known. Man. My man. If all I wanted was a big dick, I would have married one and been miserable. I wanted you. I choose you every single day. No baby is worth losing you. We burn that folder right now if you say the word.”

Michael’s breath hitched.

“But you want a baby so bad it’s killing you.”

“I want you more. Always you first.”

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers.

“I’m terrified.”

“Me too. But I’m only doing this if you’re holding my hand the whole time.”

They sat on the rug and opened the folder together. Five men. Five exceptionally large, very Black, very fertile men.

They interviewed all five in Evie’s private conference room over the next ten days—one per evening, Evie present as chaperone and referee.

Marcus—gentle banker, soft voice, kind eyes, respectful to the point of shyness. Shook Michael’s hand like he was afraid of breaking it. Told Lynda she was beautiful in a way that felt sincere but safe. Michael liked him. Lynda felt nothing electric.

James—high-school principal, warm laugh, hugged them both goodbye.

“Brother, what you’re doing is the manliest thing I’ve ever heard,” he told Michael.

Sweet. Safe. Zero spark.

Tyrone—firefighter, huge, boisterous, made them laugh until their sides hurt. Let Michael measure him with a tailor’s tape because Michael jokingly asked. Ten inches exactly. Lynda giggled the whole time, but when he left she said, “He’s lovely, but I’d feel like I was cheating on you with a golden retriever.”

Malik—jazz musician, poetic, spoke like he was seducing the air itself. Kissed Lynda’s hand, called Michael “king.” Beautiful man. Lynda felt appreciated, not claimed.

And then DeShawn.

He walked in wearing a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, forearms like bridge cables. His dark, steady—almost gentle—eyes went straight to Michael first.

“Fair,” he said, voice like aged bourbon, and shook Michael’s hand with exactly the right pressure—firm but not crushing. Then he looked him dead in the eye. “Thank you for trusting me with your wife. That takes bigger balls than anything I’ve got in my pants.”

Lynda’s breath caught.

DeShawn turned to her, took her hand, kissed her knuckles once, slowly.

“You are even more beautiful than your pictures, Mrs. Fair.”

No swagger. No performance. Just quiet, absolute confidence.

They talked for ninety minutes. He answered every question without flinching, showed recent test results, asked about their safe words, hard limits, love languages, favorite positions, whether Michael wanted to be verbally acknowledged or ignored during the act. Clinical and reverent in the same breath.

When he stood to leave, he looked at Michael again.

“I don’t take anything you don’t freely give, Mikey. And I give it back better than I found it.”

He nodded once and left.

Lynda and Michael sat in stunned silence for a full minute after the door closed.

Lynda spoke first, voice husky. “It’s him.”

Michael swallowed. “Yeah. Fuck. It’s him.”

November 21, 2025 – Lawrenceville, quiet Italian restaurant, corner booth.

DeShawn arrived precisely on time, charcoal suit tailored to perfection, moving like a panther who knew exactly how much space he owned. Handshake for Michael—strong, warm—then a deliberate, condescending pat on the ass that made Michael’s face explode with heat.

DeShawn turned to Lynda, kissed her knuckles like she was royalty, stepped in, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her properly—slow, deep, a promise and a claim in one. When he pulled back, Lynda was swaying, lips parted, dazed.

Michael squeaked.

DeShawn raised both hands.

“I apologize if that was too much. Dominance is my default setting, but I read rooms for a living. If I ever cross your line, say the word and it never happens again. I adjust. Your comfort is the only non-negotiable.”

Lynda touched her swollen lips.

“It was… a lot. But we’re okay.”

DeShawn smiled softly.

“Thank you. Lynda, come sit with me.”

She did.

Throughout dinner his hands were never crude, but they were constant—fingertips along her forearm, thumb at her pulse, big palm working the knots in her neck until she practically purred.

Halfway through the main course, he told them his story.

“Homewood kid. Dad in prison, Mom worked three jobs. I got big early so nobody would fuck with my sisters. Pitt linebacker, blew out my knee, lost the league. Went into private security—politicians, rappers, royalty. Learned that real power isn’t loud. It’s knowing exactly how much pressure to apply and when.”

He looked at Michael without flinching.

“A dominant bull works because when a woman’s spent years blaming herself for being ‘broken,’ she needs to be taken so completely she can’t think. She needs to feel wanted on the oldest level there is. And the husband—” his eyes held Michael’s “—needs to watch his wife absolutely undone and realize he’s the man who gave her that gift. That’s the turn-on. That’s the healing.”

Michael was leaking in his pants so hard he was terrified to stand.

DeShawn’s voice dropped lower.

“I don’t humiliate unless it’s requested. I own. I worship. I breed. And when I leave, I want you two closer than you were when I walked in. Every single time.”

He raised his glass.

“To family.”

They clinked. Michael’s hand shook so badly, wine splashed the tablecloth.

Later, in the parking lot, chilly air, both of them trembling.

Michael was vibrating.

“He’s coming to our house next Friday and wants us to leave the porch light on so he knows it’s a go. He’s going to be inside you. In our bed. He’s going to come in you over and over until you’re pregnant, and I’m going to watch and I’m—"

Lynda cupped his face, kissed him soft and slow, tasting DeShawn still on her tongue.

“Hey. Breathe, Mikey.”

He whimpered at the nickname in her mouth.

“I’m scared too,” she whispered. “But baby, I really, really love when he called you Mikey. And I love that it’s going to be you holding my ankles apart while he puts our baby in me. Because no matter how many times he fucks me, you’re the one I’m coming home to. You’re the one I sleep next to. You’re my man, Michael Fair. My gentle, brilliant, perfect man.”

Michael laughed through tears.

“I’m so fucking nervous I might actually throw up.”

“Good,” she said, smiling against his lips. “Means it’s real.”

She kissed his nose.

“Come on, Mikey. Let’s go home and practice how you’re going to kiss me after he fills me up.”

He made a broken sound, nodded, and let her lead him to the car.

The fear was still there—enormous, claws out, breathing fire.

But their love was bigger.

And next Friday, the porch light would be on.