I had just finished some carpentry work on a house; the people were great and paid me straight away. Even better, it was cash in hand. I decided to drive to a takeaway shop for lunch, where I would decide whether to take the rest of the day off or ring a customer to see if I could start their job. It was a warm day, so I was leaning towards going for a swim. I guess I was daydreaming at the traffic lights when my passenger door opened and in climbed a young woman.
A bit about myself: I am forty-five years old and have been divorced for about six months, although separated for about two years. That was when I started my business, which I have been busy building with very little social life. Don’t get me wrong, I have been on some dates, mostly blind dates set up by some of my mates’ wives; none have gone anywhere, but I am guessing that was my fault for not following up after the dates.
Anyway, back to the story. Brought back to reality, I look over, and there is a young pregnant woman, by her looks around her early twenties, and I am guessing about five months into her pregnancy. In a hurried voice, “Can you drive to the hospital? It is just up the road.”
The lights turn green, and I start to drive at the same time, and in a worried voice, I ask, “Are you okay?”
She answers, “I don’t know; please hurry.”
As we pull into the hospital, she tells me that in her rush, she has left her purse at home, and is it possible for me to lend her some money for the taxi fare home? At the entrance of the Emergency Department, I gave her $100 and my business card, not expecting to hear from her again.
A week later, I get a phone call from a private number; why I answered beats me, but on the other end is the female voice thanking me for everything and saying that she has my $100 that I lent her. Fortunately, my customer asked me not to come today because they had a house full of sick children. So, I mentioned I could be at her place in an hour.
Pulling into her driveway, I look at her house; it is a moderate house that needs a little tidy-up but is in reasonable condition.
Knocking on her door, she answers wearing a see-through top and a mini skirt barely covering her bum. Immediately, she wraps her arms around me and kisses me with a full-on wet kiss. “Come in, my handsome shining knight; everything is ready.”
Confused, I enter her home with her holding my hand; by this time, my cock is twitching, as she is one sexy, hot, young, pregnant lady. She has hair down to the middle of her back, and her boobs must be at least 38 DD in the old measurements, and she has an arse to die for. As we enter her lounge room, she turns around and kisses me again, this time pushing her tongue deep into my mouth; my cock is no longer twitching—it is rock hard. Pulling away, she leads me to her couch. Sitting beside me, she says, “Let’s talk.”
There was no hiding my cock, as my shorts were not hiding its hardness, and her hand was only millimetres away from it, resting on my lap. She then proceeds to tell me that her trip to the hospital meant a stay overnight for observation and that all was well, just a false alarm. Then explain to me that she had been left the house and considerable money when her parents died, also explaining that the father of her unborn child was a gold digger and she kicked him out before she knew she was pregnant. She also told me she was thirty-five years old (boy, was I wrong).
With her hand slowly sliding up and down my inner thigh, she asked about my situation. I then proceeded to explain that she had run off with a toyboy, and after our one year of separation, she applied for divorce. As I finished talking, she leant over, now rubbing my cock, and whispered in my ear, “Let’s go to my bedroom, as I really need to thank you.”
The moment her fingers brushed against the fabric of my shorts, I knew this wasn’t just about gratitude anymore. Her bedroom smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe—mixed with the warmth of her skin. The sheets were rumpled, as if she’d been lying there earlier, thinking about this. She didn’t waste time. One hand undid the button of my shorts while the other tugged at her own top, letting it slide off her shoulders. Her breasts were heavy and full with pregnancy, nipples dark and already pebbled.
“Touch them,” she murmured, guiding my hands. “They’re so sensitive now.”
I’d forgotten how electric skin could feel. My ex had stopped wanting me years before the divorce, and the few awkward dates since had been more like interviews than anything else. But this—her back arching as I thumbed her nipples, her breath hitching—this was alive.
She pushed me onto the bed, straddling me, her skirt riding up to reveal she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. “You’re not the only one who’s been lonely,” she said, grinding down against me, her heat undeniable even through the fabric.
I should’ve asked more questions. Should’ve slowed down. But her mouth was on mine again, tasting like mint and desperation, and when she finally freed my cock, the way her fingers wrapped around it felt like redemption. “I want you inside me,” she breathed, lifting herself just enough to position me at her entrance. She was wet, so fucking wet, and the sound she made when she sank down—half gasp, half moan—unravelled me. She moved with a rhythm that was all her own, one hand braced against my chest, the other cradling the swell of her stomach. “You feel so good,” she sighed, rolling her hips in a way that had my fingers digging into her thighs.
I could feel the difference—the tightness, the warmth—her body changed by the life inside her. It should’ve been strange. It wasn’t. When she came, it was with a shudder, her inner muscles clenching around me like a fist. I followed soon after, my release hitting me so hard I saw stars. She collapsed against me, both of us sticky and spent.
For a long moment, the only sound was our breathing. Then, against my chest, she laughed—soft, a little amazed. “I wasn’t planning that when I called you,” she admitted.
“Neither was I,” I admitted, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead.
She lifted her head, studying me with eyes that were suddenly serious.
“Would you be upset if I said I’d like to do it again?”
My cock, still half-hard inside her, twitched in answer.
She grinned. “Guess that’s a no.”
Her grin widened as she shifted slightly, still seated on me, and I felt myself hardening again inside her. She arched an eyebrow, mischief flickering in her eyes. “Hungry for round two already?” Before I could answer, she leant down, her lips brushing my ear. “Good. Because I haven’t had a man’s hands on me in months, and I plan to make up for lost time.”
Her fingers trailed down my chest, nails scraping lightly over my skin, before she sat back up and rolled her hips experimentally. My grip tightened on her waist—god, the way she moved, like she knew exactly how to wring every bit of pleasure from me. “Tell me what you like,” she murmured, rocking against me with deliberate slowness now, her breath coming faster.
I was beyond coherent speech, but I managed to rasp out, “Just like that.” She laughed, low and throaty, and obeyed, her pace quickening until my hips jerked upward involuntarily. She moaned, throwing her head back, and I seized the chance to sit up, wrapping my arms around her to pull her flush against me. The new angle made her gasp, her fingers tangling in my hair as I sucked a bruise into the curve of her neck. Later—much later—we lay tangled in her sheets, the afternoon sunlight fading into dusk.
She traced idle patterns on my chest, her earlier boldness softened into something quieter. “I should probably feed you,” she said eventually, nodding towards the kitchen. “Considering you saved my life and then fucked me senseless.”
I snorted. “Dramatic.” But I followed her as she slipped from the bed, admiring the sway of her hips as she walked naked to the fridge. She pulled out leftovers with a shrug. “Microwave pasta or questionable takeaway?”
“Questionable takeaway,” I decided, leaning against the counter as she bent to rummage in a drawer. The view was… distracting.
She caught me staring and smirked, straightening with a container in hand. “Still looking at me like that, huh?”
I reached for her, pulling her close again. “Hard not to.” Her smile turned softer, almost shy, as she pressed a kiss to my collarbone.
“Stay for dinner,” she murmured. It wasn’t just an invitation—it was a question.
I tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll stay.”
