The stem end would have to go up first this time. There wouldn’t be any fucking; she was simply going to give birth to the thing. She braced herself. The stem end easily opened her right up, but the bottom of the eggplant was significantly wider than the squash had been. She took a few breaths — she was really concentrating. Bertrand had done away with sipping his wine and was now swallowing it in mouthfuls. “It’s not going to go,” he said. “That thing’s too big.”
Paulina breathed sharply and said, “No — I’ll do it. I will. Ah!” She pushed hard. But then she squirted us, accidentally. A quick stream of piss flew out of her. “Sorry!” she said urgently. Her voice sounded high-pitched now and overwrought. “I’m sorry! ”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bertrand assured her. “In fact, do it again if you have to.”
His insatiable lust amused me, but still, I was on a mission. This was about giving birth to an eggplant; it wasn’t about his fondness for water sports. “Make yourself useful,” I told him. “Go pour yourself some more wine.”
“But I don’t want to miss anything,” he protested.
“We’re right here. We aren’t going anywhere. This is going to take a minute.”
But it didn’t take a minute. Suddenly, she’d opened up and the rest of the eggplant went in, and then the hole closed immediately around it once it was securely up the canal.
“Holy Christ,” Bertrand said.
“Wow,” Paulina said, breathing heavily. “Wow.” Then she added, “I’d like a little wine.”
Bertrand did the honours and brought us our glasses of wine. He topped us off with more Font-Mars and then we clinked our glasses in a toast. “To the baby eggplant,” I said. “Cheers, Paulina.”
She took a few sips of wine and then set her glass aside. She stripped off her stockings then scooted her bottom to the very edge of our kitchen island. She planted her heels wide apart and propped herself up in a half-sitting position. She bore down hard, until her anus was pushing open. She pushed and then pushed harder still. She grunted and groaned. She held her breath at times; then let her breath go and panted hard. She spit on her fingertips and began rubbing her clit. But it wasn’t coming. She let her clit alone and pushed some more.
I privately worried that the thing was stuck in there and would never come out; then what would we do? Take her to Beth Israel? It was the closest hospital. .
“Oh shit,” she finally squealed. “Yes.”
And we saw it, big and purple and round, crowning in her hole.
“Oh God,” she groaned deeply, her whole body relaxing. But then it disappeared again. It still wasn’t coming — it had slipped back up the canal. For a moment, Paulina did nothing. She was pacing herself, it seemed; she caught her breath. Then she bore down again and there it was, pushing her vagina open, really coming out now. She cried out and the pitch of her cry made my heart race. And then, for a few moments, she didn’t move and the eggplant sat there, right in her hole, opening her impossibly wide. I realized then that I was holding my breath, my mouth was filled with wine; I couldn’t swallow. I looked quickly at Bertrand and understood him a little better then. His eyes were glued to the sight of Paulina’s stretched vagina; he wasn’t swallowing either but his right hand was back underneath his apron.
Paulina gave a final grunt, a final push and, to our relief and delight, the eggplant popped out and headed straight for the kitchen floor.
The bottle of Font-Mars was long gone; we’d moved on to a Cavalchina Bardolino. Bertrand had settled on grilled brined salmon fillets for dinner with a fresh dill and fennel relish, roasted stuffed onions, green beans and chive and parsley mashed potatoes. Our amuse-bouches had turned out to be delightfuclass="underline" mesclun and ricotta salata on grilled garlic toasts. The wine suited it all to perfection. We ate leisurely, sitting in the overstuffed chairs by the fire, our plates spread out on the large coffee table before us.
Rather than putting her clothes back on, Paulina passed the remainder of the evening in one of Bertrand’s white, button-down shirts. Of course it was much too big for her and she looked adorable in it. The shirt held the added advantage of falling to the floor in a heartbeat, as well. It wasn’t long after our meal that we were feeling amorous for one another again. We were more subdued after two bottles of wine and a good meal (light as it was) than we’d been earlier in the kitchen, but we still had a grand time.
Understandably, Paulina was too worn out for traditional intercourse, so she and I concentrated mostly on using our mouths on each other. Until Bertrand wanted to have her the back way and she was game. It aroused me no end — watching the two of them together. They enjoyed their passions so thoroughly; they made such noise. Paulina was a good sport all the way around. She spent most Sunday evenings at our apartment after that, usually spending the night. We didn’t always start out in the kitchen on her nights with us but when we didn’t, it was solely because we were dining in bed. .
In the many weeks that followed, we experimented with all sorts of vegetables, helping Paulina give birth to quite an unusual selection. We had such great times with her, in fact — that and she’d lost the lease on her pricey uptown apartment — that in March, we asked her to move in and were delighted when she did.
One rainy night when we were feeling contemplative — the dinner had been heavy: a beef ragout with a Saint-Emilion — Paulina lamented once again that she had never given birth the real way. “I never got to breastfeed my baby,” she said. “I really wanted to experience that, too.”
As usual, Bertrand and I glanced at each other, reading each other’s thoughts. Paulina’s breasts were so full and exquisite, her nipples so responsive, that nursing would likely have sent her into orgasmic bliss in record time.
“In my country,” she assured us, “women can give milk without being pregnant. It is not necessary to be with child in order to give milk.”
We were sceptical, Bertrand and I. The following day, over the telephone, we consulted with some fetishists we knew on East 9th Street and they, in turn, assured us that it was true. The trick, they said, was to fool the pituitary gland into thinking Paulina had an infant to nurse.
Really? This was certainly news to us. But intriguing news; exciting news!
“It would require constant suckling, of course, maybe even for a couple of months. Do you think you’re up for the task?”
Constant suckling at Paulina’s breasts, her ecstasy so contagious that it would nearly make us come, as well? We hung up the phone. Our mission was clear: we would suck on Paulina’s nipples, night and day, until the milk came out. It was a mission that suited us thoroughly. And as luck would have it, in late spring, when Paulina’s milk finally came, I found myself with child. Bertrand and Paulina couldn’t have been more pleased. With Veuve Cliquot, they joyously toasted the baby’s conception. Though no less joyous, I abstained, however, from the champagne and thought instead of the moment of birth, contemplating ecstasy.
Darlene’s Dilemma
Andrea Dale
Darlene had surreptitiously squirmed her way through breakfast, trying to no avail to find a comfortable position on the chair. She was stubborn enough not to want to admit there was no comfortable way of sitting in public when there was a butt plug buried in your ass.
Of course, the wriggling around made it worse, made her more aware of the silicone toy inside her. It wasn’t terribly big — she wasn’t into harming delicate tissue — but it was there, and it brought a flush to her face any time Jaden or Sienna lubed it up and told her to bend over.
They allowed her to wear panties to breakfast, because they had a respect for the hotel’s antique chairs and didn’t want her staining the cushion.