“Did you see the new pictures of her babies Kaitlyn put on Facebook?” my wife asks me. She’s sitting on the couch with her iPad, obviously checking Facebook. I’m sitting in a nearby chair, reading through the archives of a webcomic on my laptop.
I give a grunt of assent.
“The little darlings are sooo cute!” she practically squeals. “Though they kinda look familiar, but I guess all babies do.” She sighs contentedly.
It’s late June; Kaitlyn’s twin girls were born two days after the seniors graduated, which was in late May, making the little girls a month old already. It meant Kaitlyn had to get some special dispensation; she’s in one of the districts where seniors graduate a little before the other grades do finals, but her teachers liked her enough that it wasn’t much of an issue.
As it turns out, I suspected Kaitlyn’s little babies were going to end up looking very familiar. After all, I was their father. Not that my wife knew. Not that I hoped my wife ever found out. Though she might have suspected, but the fact that I supposedly hadn’t met Kaitlyn until she was three months pregnant contributed to keeping her in the dark.
Either way, I had visited Kaitlyn at the hospital and spent a fair amount of time there, helping out. Having gone through the process with my own wife, I knew what to expect, and figured I could help out. I met Kaitlyn’s parents through this; her step-father was standoffish, and wasn’t around much. I got the distinct impression that Kaitlyn’s mom hired him for his money and frequent out-of-town trips than any sort of love.
Kaitlyn’s mom, Mary, on the other hand, was at first a little wary about my presence, but soon warmed to it, especially after she met my wife. I think she was just glad there was another adult around to help with paperwork—something I am good at managing—and by the end of the hospital visit, was no longer shooing me out of the room whenever Kaitlyn breastfed.
Not that I hadn’t seen her tits before, of course. But Mary didn’t know that, and I wasn’t telling.
Mary did also give me a chance to discuss finances in a way that made me sound like a concerned citizen who had grown to like Kaitlyn as a babysitter. While I did offer to provide some financial assistance if necessary—my way of easing my own guilt at having imposed it upon a high schooler—I was told that Kaitlyn’s step-father’s salary was sufficient. But if I really insisted, once Kaitlyn had returned to a normal weight, and the babies were old enough to be left alone for a while, it was suggested I and my wife could take her clothes shopping. No one seemed to think this was particularly improper, mostly because of my wife being around, I think. It would also be a way for me to apologize for ruining her amazing teen figure—though she had assured me she planned on working to get it back.
Back to now, late June.
My wife gives an unsatisfied sigh. “Ever since she had her babies, we haven’t gone on a date, have we?”
“No, I guess not,” I say. “Kaitlyn’s been kinda busy.”
“Want me to try to find another babysitter? I don’t know that she’ll be able to for a couple of years, yet.”
“Sure.” I wonder for a moment if the new babysitter will also be amenable to regularly sucking out the contents of my balls, but I decide that’s probably not worth the risk to broach.
“I’ll ask around,” she says, absorbed in her iPad world.
It takes until early August for my wife to find another babysitter. I’m a little surprised it takes so long, but apparently having three young kids as we do is anathema to most high school girls, which is presumably who we’d be hiring.
We do eventually hire Clara, who’s basically the stereotype for “nerd girl babysitter”. Long, straight brown hair that looks like it’s never been cut. Big bottle-cap glasses. Braces. A voice that still breaks occasionally.
I’m introduced to her shortly before leaving on a date with my wife, so I don’t get much of a chance to suss out anything about her, other than her extreme confidence that she can do a good job despite her age. My wife says she’s highly recommended, and I’m fine with an evening away from the kids, and I really don’t care that much, so long as she gets the kids to bed before they kill themselves.
My wife and I do dinner and a movie, which is the sort of date she really likes. The movie is unremarkable, aside from a sex scene in the middle that gets me remembering that I haven’t actually masturbated in a couple of days, and I’m a little hot and bothered by it. Maybe I was hoping that the new babysitter would relieve me like the old one did.
Once we get home, my wife asks “So are you taking Clara home?”
“Like you always did Kaitlyn?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to pretend like that was my plan all along. I guess it kind of was, but Clara didn’t flirt with me or anything like that. “C’mon Clara.”
Once in the car and on the road, we make light conversation: mostly her asking what I do for a living, me asking about her classes.
I contemplate for a few moments prying into her love life, or something like that. Kaitlyn’s corrupted me.
But I don’t. At most, when I’m dropping her off in front of her house, I tell her “And if you ever have any sort of questions for an adult to answer, I’m willing to answer them. You can ask Kaitlyn, our last babysitter—you’re going to her high school. She’d ask me all sorts of questions about adult life while I was dropping her off, and I always gave her an honest answer.” It is true that she asked me questions about things she couldn’t talk about with her parents. And I did always give her an honest answer—often with a throat-full of cum.
“Okay, I’ll remember that. Thanks, Mr. Miller.”
I wait until she gets inside before driving off. I’m a gentleman, after all.
When I get home, my wife is in bed. As I’m undressing to get ready for bed, she pushes down the covers to reveal that she’s wearing lacy lingerie. “Why don’t you join me for a while before getting your pajamas on?” she asks, obviously trying to be alluring.
I hesitated for just a moment. But I knew there would be hell to pay if I didn’t. And the fact that my cock was hard—still thinking about that sex scene, of course. And what I wanted to do to Clara—and really, I just wanted some release made it easier.
I crawled into bed with her and kissed her, our hands roaming our bodies. Now, I love my wife dearly, and am devoted to her in almost every way. But she just does not rev my motor when it comes to sex any more, usually. But I still enjoy being romantic with her, and that includes kissing and making out.
More people really should just make out for the sheer pleasure of making out. Sure, it’s not sex, but it still feels really good in a different way.
It doesn’t take long before my wife’s as naked as I am and settled into her place on the bed. “I want to feel you in me,” she says, guiding my cock into her cunt.
It’s nowhere as tight as either Kaitlyn or Jenny—the two high schoolers I’ve bred—but that’s to be expected given that my wife has pushed out a couple of kids. But I’m horny enough it doesn’t matter, and I thrust into her repeatedly.
My wife is vocal enough to moan, but not vocal enough to actually say anything during sex. I tried it a few times early in our marriage, but it landed as well as a lead balloon. So I just stick to the old in-out, which gets the job done.
It makes my wife cum, at least. And I can’t take it any more, so I push into the hilt in her and let it go. A week’s worth of pent-up cum splashes deep inside her, and each and every spurt feels good to release.
Every time we actually do have sex, I tell myself we should do it more often. But, we get into a fight, or we’re exhausted from dealing with kids, or we go to bed at wildly different times ... all the reasons that married couples with young kids have terrible sex lives. I tell myself maybe in a couple of years, when the youngest is in school.
As we’re cuddling after sex—also a pleasure—she whispers “by the way, I haven’t been on the pill in months”.
It takes my brain a second to process that.
“And my little fertility-tracking app tells me that I’m probably ovulating today.”
“So I guess you really wanted another kid, what with your enthusiasm.”
One week later, I get a text from Kaitlyn, “I want more”
Getting a text from her isn’t unusual—though the frequency of nude ones has decreased immensely since she gave birth—but this was out of the blue while I was at work.
“More what?” I text back.
“🤰🏼🤰🏼🤰🏼🤰🏼🤰🏼” she texts after a moment. A lot of her texts were emoji-only, which sometimes confused me, but I got the point of this one: she wanted more pregnancies.
“I thought you couldn’t do that while nursing.”
“I got my period, so I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating again. And I’m so 💦💦💦” followed by a picture of a finger in her pussy, her juices very visible. I delete the picture quickly—she is still underage, after all—and try to think of a response.
“So soon?” I finally tap out.
“I always wanted lots of kids. At this rate I can have them all before I graduate high school”
.... There is more of this story ...