Three Months of Pleasure

The last trimester of my pregnancy wasn’t filled with swollen ankles and lonely nights. It was filled with hands—so many hands. Gentle. Rough. Worshipful. Greedy. I was adored, consumed, and utterly spoiled by nine men who couldn’t get enough of me. And I didn’t just let them—I invited it. I thrived in it.

Every day was a different rhythm. Some mornings, I woke up to Tyler and Ethan, their bodies tangled with mine, hands already exploring, mouths murmuring sleepy praise against my skin. Ethan kissed the curve of my belly, whispering how beautiful I looked carrying life. Tyler pulled me into his lap, letting me rock against him, slow and soft, his hands on my hips, guiding every movement while Ethan kissed my breasts and massaged my thighs until I came shaking, clenching around Tyler as they held me between them.

Afternoons brought a different kind of heat. Max and Marcus would find me outside barefoot, flushed from the sun, in little more than a robe that didn’t quite close over my growing belly. Max would pull me down into his lap under the canopy, my robe pushed aside, breasts full and sensitive, his mouth latched onto one while Marcus knelt between my thighs, tongue soft and reverent. When I begged for more, Marcus would slide in while Max stroked my hair and whispered filth in my ear, until I was gasping, whimpering, soaked in both their praise and their pleasure.

Noah was my bath-time ritual. Every evening, he ran the water hot, added oils, undressed me slowly like I was a goddess in a temple, and sank into the tub behind me. His hands roamed my belly, my breasts, my thighs, and he’d enter me gently, rocking us both in the water, kissing my shoulder, my neck, murmuring how strong and radiant I was. We made love in candlelight, my back to his chest, his hand resting protectively over the curve of our child growing inside me.

Then came the nights. Oh, the nights.

They were never quiet. Never still.

Rylan, David, Jake, and Liam took turns—and sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they shared.

There were nights where I was laid bare in the middle of the bed, belly round, skin glowing, and they’d surround me like a feast. Jake between my thighs, Liam massaging my hips from behind, David cradling my head and kissing me breathless, while Rylan teased my nipples until I cried out, overstimulated, overwhelmed, completely undone.

Some nights, they took me one at a time—slow, measured, drawing it out. Other nights, I was passed between them, used and cherished in equal measure. They learned my pregnant body like an instrument, what made me gasp, what made me tremble, what pushed me over the edge again and again.

And they loved it.

They loved watching me swell with life. Loved the way my body changed. They touched my belly reverently while they fucked me. They kissed the stretch marks, worshipped the new curves, praised the strength it took to carry.

“You’re glowing,” Liam would say, eyes dark with lust as he slid into me from behind, one hand cradling my stomach while the other teased my clit until I was sobbing his name.

“You were made for this,” David would whisper, dragging his mouth over my breast, feeling how sensitive and full I’d become.

Sometimes, they all watched. And sometimes, they all joined.

There were nights where I didn’t know whose hands were whose. All I knew was the pleasure—unending, layered, exquisite. One would be in my mouth, another inside me, others touching, kissing, moaning, praising. They coordinated like it was instinct, like they knew my body better than I did.

And every single time, they treated me like I was precious.

Because I was.

I was carrying life. And they were obsessed with worshipping the woman doing it.