Cougar Rarity 5: Putting the "M" into "MILF"

It was how short the message was that scared him the most. Just a simple “We need to talk” left on his phone, followed by six or seven calls, an email, and dozens of texts, all within two hours, all of them saying the same thing: “Right now.” With his keen tactical mind, he deduced that Rarity was trying to tell him something.

 

She opened the door as he was sliding his key into the lock, and he was thrown back by a sudden hug. It was nearly nightfall, but she still hadn’t changed out of the clothes she’d woken up in, which was strange, because even though she was taking the day off, she still usually changed clothes at least twice a day: a long-sleeved shirt and panties, and nothing else. They stood in the doorway, warm April air lapping at her feet. “I’ve had an interesting day”, she mumbled into his shoulder. “Would you like to hear about it?”

 

He nodded, and started walking back into the house, her feet on top of his, her mirroring his movements. “You know how I stopped taking the pill a while ago, right? I figured I didn’t have any chance to get knocked up.” They fell together onto the couch, and she extracted herself from the tangle of limbs to reach back towards an end table and grab something. “Well, this”, she began, her inflection making it clear that whatever “this” was, it was not a positive. “This little fucker nearly gave me a heart attack.” She held it in front of his nose, and his heart leapt into his throat. It was a little sliver of white with a blue tip, no bigger than a toothbrush, but kings had died, entire nations fallen, at its proclamation: a single red plus sign, set into a screen. “Still, at least no rabbits had to lay down their lives. Oh, don’t worry, darling”, she chided, just noticing that all the color had drained out of his face. “I checked the box. The damn thing expired two months ago. So I went out and got another, and wouldn’t you know it? False positive.”

 

As if to prove her point, she produced yet another test, this one with a blue minus sign. He felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders.

 

“So, all those messages you left me?”

 

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “Those? Oh, darling, you know how I get when something doesn’t happen according to plan. Really, you’ve been dealing with me for more than a year.”

 

She took back the tests and put them back on the table. “Still, though, they got me thinking. Well, I say they got me thinking... There was a child at the store, couldn’t have been older than twelve. He called me a ‘milf’. Bless him. He’d probably just seen American Pie for the first time.”

 

She turned towards him, and he felt inexorably drawn into her eyes, unable to look away, as if compelled. It occurred to him, for the first time in a very long time, just how pretty her eyes were to look at. “I’ve been meaning to talk about this with you for ages, simply ages, but I’d never worked up the courage to do it. But I guess this sort of puts the spotlight on it, no? Look, I’m old enough to be your mother. My biological clock isn’t ticking, it’s stopped. I don’t even know if I can have kids any more—taking that test was mostly just habit, anyway. But if I can... Oh, God, listen to me. If I can, I’d, well, I’d want them to be yours. I-I just... I always wanted to be a mother, from when I was a little girl—doesn’t every little girl?—but I just never got around to it, too busy helping Daddy run his business and helping Mother take care of Sweetie to get that involved with boys. I mean, I’d say you’re the first real boyfriend I’ve ever had. B-but I, oh God, I don’t know. I love you, and I don’t know how to make this sound right. I want a child. Your child, ideally—oh, damn, I mean period. Your child. Period. Yes.”

 

She was a nervous wreck by the time she finished her speech. Her eyes darted everywhere around the room except into his; she couldn’t stop twirling the same strand of hair over and over again. She recoiled from his touch as he grabbed her shoulders, too nervous to even face him. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look at him. It was rare that she allowed either of them to be reminded of the woman beneath her cool, collected, steel-eyed exterior.

 

Her eyes pleaded into his. His eyes smiled back.

 

He slid a hand up along her leg, to her thigh, to where her panties cut off and pinched into the flesh so slightly. “I think you’ll be a great mom.”

 

She smiled, and he could see the glistening beginnings of tears in her eyes, she was so happy. “Thanks, sweetie”, she snuffled, trying and failing to keep her composure. “I love you, you know that?” She sprang towards him, locking her arms around his neck in a death-grip hug, planting kiss after kiss onto his lips, his cheek, his neck, anywhere she could find a place to put her mouth. They stayed the night like that, cuddling on the couch, watching some mindless documentary about Bigfoot, and dreaming up names for their child.

 

*

 

The next few weeks were dedicated to research and preparation. She forbade him from wearing underwear, taking hot showers, or drinking soda, and she had meetings with doctors to determine her most fertile days, and called in favors and pulled strings to get him off of work those days. “It’s a good thing I’ve been taking the pill for so long”, she told him once. “The doc told me it can help preserve fertility.” She began a special diet and exercise regimen, and he began having a lot more sex: every night, when he got home, she would greet him at the door and melt into him. It was exhausting, but he bravely suffered in silence.

 

Finally the time came, her peak fertility days. She had him taken off work for those five days, bought them two plane tickets to and reservations for a five-star hotel in Belgium (“Because there’s nothing to do in Belgium except each other”, she explained to him), and packed three suitcases: one for her, one for him, and one for the two of them. He thought it was all a bit much, but then again, he wasn’t complaining.

 

When they got there, it was dark outside. They dined quickly in the hotel restaurant and went upstairs. She unplugged the phone, took the batteries out of the television remote, and put up the ‘do not disturb’ placard.

 

He watched her work, the stress of all her worry, all her preparation beginning to eat at her. He stood and walked to her, pinning her against the door, kissing her lustily. He sniffed her. She smelled good. She always did, but this time was better than usual. It wasn’t the first time he had been the sexual aggressor, but for the first time, she shrank before him, completely giving in to his will. “You’re too worried about this”, he scolded her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You can’t have a kid if you’re distracted by trying to have a kid.” She bared her neck to him, and he kissed it, licking and biting. “We’ve got one week to do nothing but enjoy ourselves. Let’s try to do that, hmm?”

 

He herded her to the bed and threw her down. A weary smile spread over her face as he climbed over her. He brushed an errant strand of hair back behind her ear and returned her smile. She threw her head back as his hand found her honeypot, all the worry starting to melt away beneath his touch. “Spread your legs”, he whispered. He could feel a shiver run through her body as he walked the fingers of his other hand down her belly, the sensitive flesh shuddering at the light touches. He sunk below her, her neatly-trimmed bush and puffy lips begging to be given attention. He dove in, sloppy-yet-guided tongue strokes running over her inner walls, occasionally tickling her swollen button. His hands roved over her body, groping her tits roughly or pinching her hips, hovering in front of her mouth, letting her suck on his fingers or sliding in and out of her pussy, working in tandem with his mouth. She sighed, shifting on the bed and grabbing handfuls, the sheets with one hand and his hair with the other. Her long legs folded about his head, driving him further into her crotch, and he was overwhelmed with the bitter scent.

 

His shoulders shrugged her legs off, and he pulled himself up. She started to pout, unhappy at the sudden lack of stimulation, but the protests died in her throat as he drove into her. Her fingernails dug into his back, and he dimly heard the headboard click against the wall with his first powerful thrust. The first time they’d made love like this, he held himself up with his elbows, too concerned with hurting her to let himself go. But now, though, he knew she could take anything he had to give. He let his weight go, crushing her beneath his heaving body and focusing solely on thrusting into her again and again. They were not rutting animals, nor were they hormone-drenched teenagers, nor were they two strangers addled by desperate passion: for the first time in a long time—too long—they were simply a man and a woman, lovers in the act of love. He kissed her, and he lost track of time. Or perhaps she lost track of time. Neither of them could be sure which thought, which sensation, which emotion belonged to whom. Her nipples dug into his chest and his stubble scratched against her skin and her hair filled both of their mouths, but they didn’t care. As long as they had each other, they couldn’t care. She moaned, and he grunted, both of them babbling pillow-talk, but neither of them sure which one was saying it. “Oh, God, yes, right there—“ “Don’t you dare stop that—“ “Fuck, I love you—“ “Mm, do that again—“ “Move to the left, aaauh—“ “C’mon, c’mon, I want more—“ They were lost in a swirling sea of passionate fury, stranded on the island of their little bed.

 

Their frequent lovemaking had blessed them with exceptional stamina, but when they did finally come, they came together. As the word started to pop back into focus, they were aware of a knocking at the door. They looked at each other, incredulous, panting and sweaty. He stood, fishing a towel out of the bathroom and wrapping it around his body before opening the door a sliver. “Can I, uh, can I help you?”

 

It was a harassed-looking woman who spoke with a heavy Belgian accent who answered. Her nametag read Yvette. “I apologize, sir, but the other guests, they have complained. They say you are too loud. I must ask you to try to control yourselves.” She blushed, staring at the floor, and he stood there, stunned.

 

“Uh... Sorry, I guess. We’ll keep it down.”

 

“She must be very pretty”, she added as the door closed, backing down the hallway.

 

“You’re damn right”, he whispered to no-one in particular, locking the door. “You heard that, I assume?”

 

“Hm? Which part? That we’re being yelled at, or that I must be very pretty?”

 

“I always knew you were trouble”, he smirked, leaning against the wall and watching her as her heartbeat, her breathing returned to normal.

 

“Oh, good call. And if you ever want any more of this trouble, you’d better get back over here.” She wormed her way under the covers and crooked a finger at him, beckoning him back to bed.

 

He smiled and dropped the towel. He tugged the covers up and slid under them, throwing an arm over her and hitting the light.

 

“Don’t worry, big boy”, she said to him over her shoulder. “We can get into more trouble tomorrow. Right now, I’m exhausted.” He felt the weight of his efforts suddenly on his eyelids, and he began to drift off to sleep. “Oh, and by the way, thanks, darling”, she added.

 

“Mm. What for?” he mumbled.

 

“For helping me remember how to have fun from time to time, of course.” Sleep washed over them.

 

The pattern repeated itself for the week, lovemaking interrupted by meals and occasional bouts of tourism. By the time they were on the plane back home, he was hardly able to move, his head pounded like it was being set upon by a sledgehammer, and he was so sore that the scarcest movement of his legs make him wince. She was hardly in any better condition, a bedraggled and bleary-eyed mess. But they were both satisfied. They fell asleep on the plane, her head on his shoulder, and it was nearly midnight by the time they got back. Her father was waiting to pick them up—as rich as he was from his glory days as a football player, he still hated to waste money, preferring to drive himself everywhere he went. He made a joke or two about their little trip, thanked him for finally knocking his daughter up, begged for a son, but it was a blur to them, too tired and aching to pay attention. They opened the door, threw their bags on the ground, trudged up the stairs, pulled off their clothes, fell asleep on the bed, and had themselves a nice little twelve-hour nap.

 

When dawn came, she nudged him awake. “Wake up. I’m about to find out the result.” They sat on the bed there together, breath caught in their throats, as the seconds ticked by, minutes seeming as hours. He glanced over to her. She covered her face with one hand, unable to watch but unable to look away, staring at the toothbrush of doom through the slits between her fingers. He heard her muttering, “oh God oh God oh God”. No, he realized. That was him muttering.

 

“Oh, Jesus, I can’t look. What is it?” She pressed the test into his hand and stood up, pacing back and forth around the room, folding and unfolding her arms. He could see all the color had drained out of her face, and that her skin was covered with a slick sheen of cold sweat. She looked terrible, nerved frayed to the point of breaking, hair a bed-head mop, still bleary-eyed from sleep, wearing one of his three-sizes-too-big shirts. He wasn’t sure why they were so nervous; it wasn’t as though this was their only chance to get pregnant, right? But it was, this was the last pregnancy in the world and if they didn’t get it now humanity would be doomed. She wrung her hands together. She hummed a wordless tune. She recited a mnemonic his mother had taught her years ago to remember the periodic table of elements. He silently agreed with her, but he did his best not to show it—somebody needed to be calm for the both of them.

 

He stood up and walked behind her. His arms slipped about her waist, restraining her constant pacing. “Hey”, he murmured. “Hey yourself”, she murmured back. He held the test in front of her face. He heard a noiseless gasp, and then quiet sobbing. He held her, and the test slipped out his fingers to the floor, forgotten, the single red plus sign staring lazily up at the sky.

 

They went back to bed.