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Sixteen, even sixteen and a half, is the most fertile age.
There must be printed editions of books aimed at immature girls, where in black and white the author writes: it is strictly forbidden to lend an ear to breeding bulls of menopausal years, fervently assuring the underage, completely unconscious miracle with atrophied critical thinking that they will definitely and certainly manage to pull their erect penis out of the poor little pussy during ejaculation.
Ne-ver. That is, never ever, and no one ever makes it. The so-called men who "made it" are Ancient Greek myths on par with vaginal orgasm and virginity, dictated by the overdeveloped pornography industry.
As a rule, for them the fleeting sight of flowing sperm is worth the risk of diastasis of the pubic symphysis in the little mommy.
Megumi is in a deep pregnancy — covering his days of carefree adolescence with a snow-white canvas of family life, with thoroughly absorbed crimson stains on the fabric. He is in his second trimester, twenty-five weeks and three days of pregnancy flowing like fine sand between the cracks in his fingers.
The belly, which was previously only a barely noticeable bulge to the naked eye, like a cancerous tumor, has now gained fullness. It has become a full-fledged, spherical haven for nascent life, woven from deoxyribonucleic acid — of both Megumi and Satoru.
The result of prolonged corruption and unshakable love.
Satoru says it was love at first sight, at last sight, at eternal sight — he knows what he's doing. He knows how to delicately coerce one into refusing emergency contraception and pecking on the forehead.
It inevitably happens that a young egg gets fertilized, and a high school student ends up with a hideously bloated belly, calcium deficiency, and final postpartum depression — a particularly relevant problem today, when everyone is registered at a psychoneurological dispensary because of unfashionable sneakers.
In this matter, it is crucial to monitor the mobile calendar — to track the phase of the menstrual cycle during which the mature egg is released into the fallopian tube. During this period, either abstain from carnal pleasures altogether, or tearfully beg your — ideally permanent — stud to use condoms during intercourse.
Or, as a last resort, pleasure yourself manually — manual labor is always in high demand.
In their half-shared doll-like bedroom, the boy quietly sniffles, reveling in the scent of vanilla fabric softener ingrained in the very foundation and the September wind shaking the leaves on the trees beyond the wide-open windows. His tiny feet are slightly damp under the heavy, starched blanket made of natural material. Bare, richly swollen — due to the natural weight gain during pregnancy — thighs stuck to each other, and his womb habitually pulled with a quiver in the uterine area — Megumi just can't sleep.
He can't. He doesn't want to. He won't.
Wet, utterly naked fantasies crawl into his head through his ears and escape through his nostrils, echoing with a characteristic pulsing in the crotch area.
Satoru, lying nearby, breathes annoyingly loudly and rustles the pages of a book, flipping through them one after another, senselessly reading an ordinary alphabet, merely rearranged in chaotic order — and it irritates Megumi to the point of gnashing his teeth, to the obsessive desire to strangle the one whose legacy he carries beneath his heart.
— Satoru, — he calls in a demanding tone, clearly not tolerating objections. No response comes after a moment, perhaps because Megumi's voice is terribly quiet. Or because his man is terribly insufferable.
— Satoru, are you deaf?
He viciously, with all the rage accumulated over months of reproductive discomfort, kicks him in the sinewy shin with his heel. In response, he hears an awkward yelp and a whorish "hee-hee."
Without waiting for the desired reaction, having exerted tremendous effort, he heavily rises, straightening from a horizontal position, gently holding his belly with his palm, and climbs on top of the utterly absent father of his child, onto his toned abs — a privilege of those who are not carrying.
— Satoru, I want cunnilingus and oat milk.
— So angry, — he finally tears himself away from his, perhaps, encyclopedia on seducing minors, turning his violet, unblinking eyes directly onto the pregnant thing straddling him. The white-haired bastard breaks into a sly grin, baring his teeth. — And the magic word, hmm? Didn't daddy teach you to be polite?
— I'll get a coat hanger abortion or induce a miscarriage.
— Don't say that in front of the baby! — Satoru exclaims sternly, furrowing his light brows and pouting his cheeks capriciously. Little thirty-year-old children in their most tender age are especially susceptible to rudeness. — He'll pick up bad words from you.
Satoru put the book on the nightstand, left it lying with a folded page next to the ever-present grape-flavored water-based lubricant. His hands landed on the soft ass, spreading the buttocks apart, kneading the flesh with genuine pleasure — he still pulls a humiliated and offended face, but the snout is in the fluff: he still suppresses a sly grin, revealing his ill intentions.
He pulls the body closer, now the belly was right in front of his face.
He lovingly examines the taut sphere that began right under the chest and went down to the curly-haired pubis, stretching the skin to a glossy shine. Pink, still fresh stripes — stretch marks — diverged along the sides like branches, which Megumi mechanically scratched with his fingertips upon waking on another sunny morning.
They truly have a healthy and huge child — taking after daddy. One can only wonder what else he might inherit, perhaps capital or a love for deep-throating.
— Hello, belly-dweller, — he leans forward, pressing his dry lips to the overfilled belly, kissing the growing fruit with fierce tenderness. He loves as he has never loved anyone before, this completely incomprehensible, transcendent being, not yet born, has filled his thoughts and feelings. — Don't listen to your silly mommy, she's joking.
— Are you out of your mind? — Megumi frowned.
— I'm not. — Satoru rolls his eyes. — Fine, so be it. Sit on daddy's face, since you're so impatient. I want you to come on my tongue, hmm, how about that? And then we'll go pee and get some milk.
He tenderly, almost obsessively rubs his warm, flushed cheek against the belly.
— Although, I think you like my milk better, right?
— Shut up. — Megumi does it himself, once again failing to be patient with what concerns the body beneath him, sliding his knees on the pillow, settling into his rightful place — on the handsome face with light three-day stubble. — I don't like anything, just come.
Little bitches don't wear panties — they simply aren't bought for them due to lack of necessity, so no extra fabric interferes with the contact of his wet folds, thick labia, and swollen clit with someone else's mouth, full of hungry saliva and eagerness for oral caresses.
Satoru's cock is so hard that his pajama pants are about to burst at the seams from the furious erection, but intercourse tonight will be, at most, with a tightly clenched fist, with Megumi's little white sock. Temporary celibacy, that is, abstaining from penetrative sex, is due to reluctance to knock on the baby's room with the head of his cock.
Megumi is sure — it's unsafe, and, looking deeper, Satoru also can't shake the feeling that he's a pervert for engaging in such improprieties.
Megumi will face-fuck him with his pussy, shove it all the way down.
He'll fuck him like a syphilitic whore with a price tag on raw cardboard no higher than a thousand yen. The fundamental difference between Satoru and a whore is the absence of herpes, so he can kiss the newborn without the risk of accidentally infecting him.
He dutifully gets to work: his wet, slightly rough tongue sweeps broadly over the pussy, causing a fine tremor in Megumi, a sweet languor piercing his body from the most sensitive little node to the tips of his fingers. Satoru firmly grips his thighs, not allowing him to pull away, pressing his mouth into the pussy, fertilized by none other than himself.
— Ugh, f-faster... — the boy whimpers softly, impaling himself on the nimble tongue. Pregnancy has made him incredibly horny. — Sa-toru... fuck...
He indeed speeds up — skillfully sucking the clitoral pearl with his lips, his chin pressing into the slit, creating additional, desperately needed friction, driving him to an uncontrollable orgasm. He receives everything Megumi's body can give him: drinking the vaginal transudate as if it were the sweetest nectar, the ultimate dream — milk from the fawn's little pussy, his pubic hair caught between his teeth afterward.
— Mmm, — Megumi moans, restlessly grinding against his face. His cheeks flushed crimson, shaking hands gripping the gilded headboard of the bed. He groans hoarsely and breathes rapidly, like a cornered little rabbit, moving his hips. — Please, I'm about to come, yes, I'm coming...
He arches his back, trembling feverishly all over, drenched in sticky sweat, as his clitoris is ever so slightly, yet mercilessly, taken into the mouth and bitten, spreading hot pleasure through his arteries and into his heart, and through his veins straight into his blood.
All the blood rushed to that tiny cluster of nine thousand nerve endings. He's ready to empty his bladder right now, onto Satoru, and he'd be totally into it.
In orgasmic spasms, Megumi completely loses control and clumsily bumps his swollen belly into Satoru's forehead, involuntarily jerking as something inside him moves.
He suddenly fell silent, biting his tongue — listened, tried to fully feel it.
He didn't feel like peeing anymore, it seemed.
Megumi remembers this with sickening clarity: for a long time now, the tangibly physical womb, having rounded, has been hanging over his lower back, creating a constant, blocked muscle tension that he has learned to calm at least mentally, with stupid affirmations, whispering something about peace and stroking the taut skin — he was never able to shake the feeling that the flesh would surely crack.
It was a strange, terribly tactile feeling: to stroke yourself and feel a response from within, as if stroking someone else through a thin barrier. It was at the end of the first trimester, came at night, remaining never captured on camera.
The first movement he mistook for a spasm, for a gas bubble, but it was something else — a confident, fatherly-natured distinct kick, as if a tiny fist knocked on his ribs, greeting the parents.
— Can you feel it? — he heavily rises from the stupidly grinning face, entirely covered in love juices, which Satoru greedily licked from his lips, utterly famished. — Oh... he's moving... can you feel it?
— The baby is unhappy that daddy is caressing mommy? — he chuckles, wiping himself with the back of his hand, carefully helping him move to his side of the bed, not touching the most sacred, living thing. — Or did he like it too?
— It's not funny, Satoru! He's kicking, look. — Megumi takes the man by the wrist and places his palm on himself, right where the little hand or perhaps the baby's foot is pressing. Saliva runs down his thighs, but it seems so secondary compared to these tiny kicks. — Holy shit.
He forgot how to breathe — this is what they call the "maternal instinct" on women's forums.
— What did I say about swearing, Gumi?