Preggo Baby Sitter

Husband, Wife, College Girl, Bun in the Oven,

I entered the prominent knocked-up stage of senior college girl pregnancy. The rumour mill had three months ago done the rounds of my neighbourhood, and the Vice Principal of Assumption Ladies College, seeing my baby beluga whale hump, gave me my marching orders.

She said sarcastically, "Complete your Uni entrance courses online and sit the exams, if you can, in the state education-run facility for girls like you."

Miss fat arse' O'Donnell didn't even allow me to say my bun in the oven was a miraculous virgin conception… à la JC himself.

No, I was not up the duff courtesy of Joseph; it was likely Roddy, but it could have been Paul or Hamish. Yes, I know, three different guys in one week.

However, now I was eating for two as my guts ballooned. I was four months gone, something like a cantaloupe-sized mini-female wobbling around in my womb.

I did the maths; I'd be a mother to an eighteen-year-old girl at thirty-six.

Oh, I was a smug slut; I thought, enjoying reasonably safe sex. But occasionally, I missed my pill, or a condom broke, or a dirty bugger filled my pussy; irresistible, even when I gave them my arse to avoid joining the pudding club.

The worst part wasn't my bulging shape on what had been a super-hot bod; I still looked pretty good even four months gone.

Instead, the young guys didn't want to have sex with me anymore, picky bastards, and I lost my regular local babysitting jobs to boot.

I don't know what the problem was with the latter. Did wives think their spouses would grope and screw a minke whale?

Oh, the former; it seemed that young guys, from eighteen plus, preferred to splash their seed in petite, tight-waisted, unfilled wombs.

I was randy, though; I was getting myself off more than regularly. Hormone overload in my crotch, it seemed.

I was thinking of sex nearly twenty-four, seven. I was getting myself off everywhere and nearly as often as I had to visit the toilet, which was more frequent now.

Everything down there between my legs seemed more sensitive; I could think of sex and nearly have an orgasm. And as for my boobies, well, they were tenderised to the point of overbearing.

Only kid glove touch was allowed by me. I was embarrassed by the odd bit of milky fluid seeping and leaking. I wasn't ready to think of myself as a cow. I was a young heifer; but I was putting on the weight.

I was mopping at home watching an inane chick flick; mum was at work; dad was long-haul contracted for the week, and my elder sister flipped the bird at me as she left for a hot date on a warm Friday night.

"You'll be a virgin birth by the time you deliver, Mary. You're a poor cow," and the front door banged behind my sister.

Yeah, I thought she was right, the bitch: my neglected pussy would re-virginise.

Oh, screw being preggers.

And: I hope the bastard Pauline was with breaks his condom.

My home phone ringing at seven-thirty took me by surprise.

It was Mr Wellingham from across the road. The prick Mark wasn't even apologetic for dumping me as their regular sitter in favour of Marcy, the slutty bitch.

I could tell his tone was obsequious, though; he was close to desperate grovelling as he related how he had an anniversary dinner with his wife, and their sitter [unnamed Marcy] had cancelled only five minutes ago.

I knew the tramp's reason; she had the cocks I usually had before my beached whale look.

Hope the tart gets seeded, too.

Still, anything was better than watching the same movie for the umpteenth time.

I was across the road in ten minutes as the Wellinghams hurried out the door; they said they would return late.

Mrs Sonia W looked very attractive in a tight black number. Her figure was back in shape after popping a bub nine months ago. There was hope for my figure eventually, too, bouncing back into shape with lots of sex.

I had the fleeting thought, very jealous too, of Sonia getting fucked shamelessly on the lounge room floor as she and Mark set about producing baby number two.

God, Mark looked spunky and virile in his dinner suit. I was at the stage where anything in pants or any male would have satisfied me.

Yes, even a guy in his — mid-thirties.

Little Jackson Wellingham was sound asleep, so I relaxed on the couch. I got bored after about fifteen minutes. They didn't have pay TV.

Jaded and sex-starved as a preggo lass on a Friday night isn't attractive.

I just started the finger fondling under my dress, pressing into my thin panties; it doesn't take much to arouse a randy ignored coochie.

God, my fingers were insistent. Intense pressure got a terrific response — my no longer pristine shaved slit melted in a pappy mushy fleshy delight. I was leaking moisture from my boy-ignored crack and my aroused nipples. My panties were so wet they had to come off. My bra, too.

I was fully naked on the W's sofa rather too quickly. But boy, did I feel good all over. I was so horny. I was being prurient with my luscious puffy pudenda as it was reflected in my cute face in the lounge room's bar mirror.

Well, I had my legs up and spread. I could see my still shapely lips and growth needing a shave.

I'd get around to it, but anyway, hell, I knew what I was spreading and feeling. It seemed that pregnancy had heightened my sense of my sexual self, and I wanted to see myself as I got myself off.

I was teasing the rim of my wishbone lips and my exposed hard-growing clitty.

My oh my, my clit was a happy little object.

I shut my eyes- I was off to - big cock fantasy land- as I jilled my clitty hard and fast.

My aphrodisiac cherry, my private stimulus haven, my frickin invigorating bean of identity, immediately started to deliver its potent tonic of bliss in a leaking trickle of fem-cum and a spreading pinkish body flush.

There is so much pleasure packed in such a small spot: amazing, beautiful and incredible.

Well, the truth was it was a series of "mmm's," "arraghs," my god's," and "oh yes," coming from my happy foul mouth.

I was immersed in the girly pleasure zone and bugger being pregnant.

I was orgasm focused. Moany wanton delight circulated through my body – a sexual zenith party for one: my body delivering rapturous inner natural intoxication in abundance.

Wow did I climax loud; fuck did I feel good inside and out.

It was a performance worthy of applause, but I wasn't the one clapping: so, who the fuck was?

" Oh My God," I exclaimed as I opened my eyes to see Mrs Wellingham —clapping.

"Oh, there's no way, sweetie, I could have interrupted that; it was stunning; my you are wet, and I'm feeling so wet too: look," she said as she lifted her little black evening dress and, yes there was a wet patch at the crack of her tight lacey red knickers.

It turned me on again immediately.

"Touch me," she added as she straddled over me and had her panties buried in my face.

I could smell her musky sex, and it was pungent. It had me over-aroused. Her panties were momentarily in my face, but the flimsy layer of nicely cut fabric would never delay my getting to the natural attraction; her succulent pussy.

Her girly crevice leaked personal sweet juice, and I was lapping straight into it. I was delving into her sodden, silky hole with quick, rapid licks, only broken by gentle probes into her inner sanctum of fem-happiness.

Then brushing my tongue tip in languorous, lingering longing; over her clit cowl.

"Mmm; Wow; Oh yeah; God, I miss my clitty getting it," she said as she mushed her pussy into my face, letting me flounce my tongue around.

She was so close that I was gasping for breath.

She gave me a moment to suck air and to view my salivary handiwork; all my tacky glops and globs of spit, her gooey sticky cum and flecked mucous secretions.

Together, a stunning visually glossy sheen like an unexpected silvery, silky, shimmery snail trail on a crisp, dewy morning.

My first girly cunt-struck moment was broken by Sonia telling me as I gasped deeply:

"That sod Mark has the after-birth jitters about touching me. I thought I could rouse him up; freshly shaved slit; screwing him in the restaurant restroom; but he stayed limp — the arsehole. I was frustrated and huffed and got a taxi straight home."

Too much unnecessary info Mrs W, I thought, and besides, her glossy cunt was way more interesting.

"Oh, fuck, you're good; Mmm; girls know where to work a woman. Oh yeah there; mmm: oh fuck; you are a clever little tart," she added.

That was Mrs W's last comment before she degenerated into indecipherable moans as my fingers worked her tight butt hole and my tongue supped on her so smooth coochie — the delicate nibble and purposeful tease which so excites crinkled fem-lips.

She came hard. I mean hard; her body was insistent on releasing a lot of pent-up sexual frustration.

Her "orrgh's" hit the high notes.

Sonia was one beaming woman.

I was basking in my double effort. I had done myself proud, delivered big time with my first-ever female, and I hadn't even planned it.

So, I was reeling in unexpected pleasure as Mrs W buried her face between my legs below my baby bump and hit my still sensitive clitty and took my body as it were: 'out of the ballpark.'

"Ooh, Orrgh, Ahh, Oohh," I went as my already maxed-out love bead got its second wind.

Something I didn't know it had.

I was surprised at how responsive my clit was again, so quickly responding to touch again, greedier than my mind.

Sonia's tongue was creating a string of pleasure spasms instantly through me as my clit begged for her flicking action.

OMG, it was intense, acutely blissfully so.

I shut my eyes in savouring rapture. Fuck; my body was giving it all to me.

When:

"Oh, you bastard. Oh yeah. Fuck me harder, you sod," suddenly came from Mrs W, raising her head over my watermelon tummy and looking beyond me with glazed pupils.

My shocked, open eyes took in Mr W ramming into his wife from between her buttocks. He was undoubtedly fully primed and thrusting like a guy who needed sex and was getting it.

I was trapped under a woman's face, pushing into my curved bulbous stomach as her hubby fucked the bejesus out of her.

Sonia beat me to a second orgasm; she was ecstatic, and her body flushed completely.

Mr W's cock was still rampant for release, though.

He was looking at his wife's mouth, but the good lady got the twinkle in her eye and was up and eased me over, down on all fours, on the carpet.

She spat in my arse and worked one, then two fingers around while Mark gave me his cock to suck.

God, had I missed cock.

Mr W's cock and my mouth were having a great time together; life was sensational.

Mrs W said: "Oh buggerise the tart now; Mark; now."

"Fuck! Oh my! Orrgh, Ahhh, Oohh," and other dirty stuff rolled out of my mouth too quickly as Mark's pecker packed itself into my arse crack.

I was a developing whale, maybe, but boy, my arse was tight and happy tight.

He was in skin-tight like a key working its way into a disused lock.

Well, my arse hadn't had it for a fair while, and man, oh man, was he cramming his stiff meat into me. My arse was wedged full; absolute fucking girly backdoor delight.

Mrs W, whom I would never look at the same way again; she was a slutty wife for sure — was working my clitty. Her fingers were around it, pressing deep but not directly touching my engorged button.

She was creating a competing epicentre for my pleasure which was mainly in my arsehole thanks to her hubby's thrusting bulging pecker.

Then the distribution of my orgasm peaked in two spots: my clitty and my bum.

"Oh fuck! Ahhh! Ahhh," or something like that cascaded out of my eager mouth as I exploded internally; my unique experience added to the mystique of every female climax ever.

If you've had the Big One, you know where I peaked.

I was a bodily goner; no longer minke me. I was in me and out of me, rolling through self, enjoying every pulsating wave of pitched contracting pleasure from my pink jelly bean and my sweet little buggerised starfish.

Mark made the big deposit in my puckered, constricted back furrow; it felt oozy warm, and I was happy as it settled around my ring and dribbled out.

I flopped on the floor, stuffed and rooted — a true beached whale.

The regular babysitting returned across the street over the following months, surprising my parents and sister.

I couldn't wait for every Friday night.

The Wellinghams never went out when I came over, and I never 'babysat', and believe me, your arse can enjoy sex virtually all the way to the delivery room.