Bred By Your Father-In-Law On X-Mas

Transcript

Christmas has come and gone, thank God. The world is dark outside, save for this slow falling snow, backlit by the neighbor's Christmas lights. What feels like one hundred in-laws are sleeping in the rooms upstairs as your husband, Sean, snores beside you on the couch, though not so loudly that he drowns out the small fire crackling in the fireplace, or the dull Christmas rom-com playing on the television.

And then there's the tinkle of ice in my tumbler of bourbon, a sudden reminder that you're not the only one awake. The sound of the tumbler against my lips sends a tremor through your knees. You spent a long winter's day ignoring your body, but now there's nothing left to distract you.

You haven't needed to open your mouth once in the last sleepy hour, haven't been obligated to answer the same dozen questions from half a dozen relatives, haven't had to fret about presents or recipes or phone calls. Now it's quiet, and you feel the empty ache inside you like a fist, squeezing. You shift uncomfortably on the couch, trying not to move too much, trying not to draw my attention or wake your sleeping husband.

It's only when your pajamas rasp over the couch's fabric that you realize just how quiet it is in the house now. We've both been quiet, basking in it, after hours of the family filling these old rooms with their endless echoing voices. Your heart beating faster, you train your shy eyes on me.

We're both night owls, that was one of the things we bonded over when you first began dating my son, and these are the little moments we live for, the quiet hours when the rest of the world is asleep and we can just exist, unbothered. But you are bothered, aren't you? And you know I know.

But you also know I won't ask, won't break this peace, until you're ready. And that thought makes the ache sharper. You squeeze your thighs together until you feel the pulse between your legs.

You don't want to be thinking about what you're thinking about right now, because you know you're not in your right mind. What you want, what your body thinks it needs, exists below the sound logic of a decent married woman in the primal space that knows only hunger and yearning, a primal desire exacerbated by a guilty secret that dates back to the years before you and Sean were even dating, when I wasn't his father but just every girl's favorite teacher. And then Sean lets out a rip-roaring snort and you can't help yourself.

You laugh, as quietly as you can manage, covering your mouth to keep from waking him. Across the room I smile back at you. You tell yourself you're not blushing.

You're a grown woman. Still, when I pat the nest of pillows beside me, here on the big couch, you can't help but obey. You drape my sister's hand-knit blanket over your drunk husband.

Then, with small, sneaking steps, you cross the faded carpet to join me. I lean close until our heads are nearly touching and whisper, I think this is the worst movie I've ever seen. You tell me you know it's the worst movie you've ever seen, though, truthfully, you haven't been paying attention.

It's just white noise, a distraction that no longer serves its purpose. I should lean back, but I don't. I stay close.

I know there's something you want to tell me. I've sensed it for months. I can see the wheels turning in your mind, the ceaseless hum behind your alluring eyes, but you're butting your tongue for another scene of this cloying film, so we watch the beautiful idiots on the little TV, their dialogue barely audible, and pretend there isn't something gnawing at you.

Do you remember when you were too shy to talk to me? I didn't blame you. You thought the last names were a coincidence, had no idea the boy you were seeing was related to the man who taught you English.

For the longest time, you couldn't see me as anything but your teacher, but you could always talk to me about books. I loved that. I still love that, and that the first moments of our every hello spent digging into the authors we loved and hated this year.

I would have been happy with my boy bringing home a girl who was halfway literate, but my star student? I told him to cherish you. The television flickers, and now you train your impossible eyes on me.

I see you're ready to talk. You ask me how it feels to be a grandfather twice over, now that Shawn's sister has had her second child. Feels great, I say.

I intend to spoil this one even worse than the first. And you smile at that, but you don't laugh. And I ask if you and Shawn are thinking about kids.

When you don't answer that, I ask if you've already been trying. And from the wounded expression on your sweet face, I finally know what's really been on your mind. I ask you to tell me.

It's taken years to get to this point. You and your husband, my son, had talked about having children since before you were married. You've always dreamed of having a big family like his, being a mother, feeling new life grow inside you.

And you thrilled to be available for your husband whenever the passion took him. Those first few months after your wedding were like pages ripped from the most decadent romance novel. Sex in the mornings before work, in the kitchen, on the dining room table, even in the car after a date.

But as the year dragged on, you wondered why you hadn't conceived. Every couple is different, you knew that, but it seemed impossible that nothing could result from all this lovemaking. Yet your period arrived each month like clockwork, in mockery of every delayed or skipped cycle of the years before.

You refused to lose heart. Some of your girlfriends took years to get pregnant, but they got there in the end. But after two years, you were worried.

And you were more worried when Sean refused to visit the clinic. It was pride, plain and simple. He's always been a proud man, and sometimes you've loved him for that.

Not this time, though. Of course, you went immediately after the first year, and the doctor told you your body was begging to conceive. You were fit, with a regular cycle, a healthy family history.

Healthy and willing was what your doctor called your reproductive system. Are you still trying, she asked. You were, but Sean.

.. His passion flagged after that first year, and his excuses mounted. We could try IVF, you told him, but he said that was ridiculous.

And the more he delayed, denied, prevaricated, the hotter you burned. You weren't proud of it, but you suddenly found yourself hornier than you'd ever been. You had confirmation that your body wanted a baby.

You'd begun having terribly dirty dreams of being taken in your workplace and used by every co-worker in the building. Being pulled over by amorous policemen, assaulted in public parks, of being inseminated, bred like a farm animal. It was embarrassing.

You'd wake up, wet and sweating in the middle of the night, reach out for your husband as he once reached out for you in the whirlwind nights before your wedding, only to be shrugged off. Lately, when he was willing to try, he'd even had difficulty getting it up. You'd offered to do things to him in the last six months you'd never even imagined yourself.

He told you to chill out. And you can't believe you're telling me this, all of this, but you can't tell anyone else. A girlfriend might let it slip that Sean is firing blanks and then you'd never hear the end of it, and Sean's wounded pride might never recover.

So tonight, on Christmas, snow filling the windows of my quiet house, Sean dead to the world on the far couch, our heads close, and my dark eyes fixed on yours, you fight back tears and tell me, yes, you still want to try, but my son is losing hope and too stiff-necked to do the right thing. You even tell me, in your darkest moment, you considered stealing his semen to have it checked, and I laugh and mutter ruefully, well, he'd never forgive you for that. You ask if Charlotte and I ever had problems conceiving, and, for a moment, I consider lying to you.

I don't want to hurt you any more than you're already hurting, but your eyes are hard to lie to, and what kind of man would I be to lie to you after you've given me so much honesty? No, I tell you finally. All four of my children were conceived not long after we decided to try for them.

In fact, we were such a fertile match that we discussed me getting a vasectomy to prevent any future accidents, but instead we decided to just be careful. After the fourth kid, there wasn't a lot of time for bedroom play anyway. You ask me why I didn't get the surgery.

I smile and finish my drink, and I say, with a self-conscious smirk, I guess when it came down to it, my ego went out over my pragmatism. I didn't like the thought of being neutered. You almost laugh.

The lump in your throat and the tightness in your chest prevent it from fully escaping. I wouldn't let the doctors make my life easier because my masculinity got in the way. It's silly, but that doesn't prevent the sudden twinge in your neglected sex.

Maybe, if you didn't have baby fever, my confession would strike you as chauvinistic, but the thought that I'm still virile makes the muscles in your buttocks clench. This older, paternal man, this bigger, keen-eyed male is sitting next to you in the dark, his testicles full of potent semen, and you're ovulating. There's a buzzing between your ears, and you realize I'm still talking.

I'm sorry. If there was anything I could do, I would. I can talk to him, but he'd probably just be mad that I got involved.

And you're telling me you want to give me another grandchild to spoil. I'd love that. And you'd be such a good mother.

I want to see that glow come over you, to see your belly grow. I've always loved that. It's always done something to me, to see that new life, new promise, fill a woman's body.

Yes, you whisper. It's a fulfillment you've been waiting for, training for, in a way. You've exercised, eaten right, given your husband everything of yourself you can give, exhausted yourself, and what you need in return, it's so simple.

A thimble full of gratitude. That's all. That's all your body needs.

With a smile and a tone that tells you I'm not at all serious, I say, I don't suppose you'd think to ask Sean's brother for a sample. They do look alike. This time you're almost too disgusted to laugh.

You don't want Mikey's chromosomes anywhere near your body. But I go on, holding back my own laughter. It would be real simple.

You could use a turkey baster. That would be pretty festive, right? Holiday appropriate? You punch my arm for even suggesting it, and I pretend to writhe in agony.

You're right. You're right. I agree.

Turkey baster's no fun for anybody. Kids are serious business. You should at least have a little fun making them, right? Yes.

You would hope. So is there anything I can do for you tonight? The question hangs between us.

I gaze down at you, no longer smiling, no longer pretending. And you look up at me, suddenly shy again. My student again.

Is there a reason you waited to tell me this? Waited all day for tonight? Is there a reason your body has been burning fiercer than the fire? Your sex aching? The guilt filling your fertile belly? Your mouth is so dry.

You don't speak. I set my tumbler on the end table. I lean close and brush the hair from your wide, pleading eyes.

You look cold. Do you want to sit in Daddy's lap? You bite your lip.

You glance across the room at Sean, curled around the couch cushions and still dozing unaware. I pull the throw from the back of the couch and drape it over my lap, then fold it back to make space for you. I hold out my hand.

You stare up into my dark eyes. They catch the reflection of our small, dancing fire, and the imperative is just too strong. It is not only your body that cries out for this thing, this mad urge to procreate, but your mind, your heart, that cannot resist.

Your teacher is telling you to sit in his lap, something you would have had difficulty refusing all those years ago when you were desperately trying not to get pregnant. And so you don't tell me this is absurd or wrong. You whisper, yes, sir, and I whisper back, good girl.

You take my hand and let me pull you into my lap, not facing me, no, we're both facing the television, just a man and his trembling daughter-in-law, keeping each other warm until the movie ends. Your ass slides over my strong thighs and my big hands throw the blanket over the two of us. I pull you back into me until my lips can just brush your ear.

Can you be quiet for me? You can't even trust yourself to speak. You only nod as my hands disappear under the blanket to grip your shaking thighs.

We're both wearing pajama bottoms, matching pajama bottoms as it happens for the annual family photo, and you can feel every inch of my erection against your buttocks, your father-in-law's penis held back by two thin layers of the softest cotton. I pull you deeper into me until my shaft strains against the crack of your ass and you must hold your breath to keep from moaning. This will be our little secret, I say, as my fingers deftly untie your drawstring.

And when my fingers touch your naked skin, you ask me, trying, straining, to keep your voice below a whisper, if I can really give you a baby. I can put a baby in you, I promise. My palm cups your shaking mound, and with the other hand I trace the wet line of your labia where it sticks to your panties.

And will I spoil that child, you ask? Will I love it as my own? I promise all that and more, because that child's mommy is spoiling me with the only thing I truly wanted this Christmas.

I pull my hand out of your pants to cup your cheek and turn your face to mine. You can't stop me from kissing you, no more than you can stop your body from grinding against my knuckles when my fingers slide into your pussy. My tongue enters your mouth, sweet with ice and bourbon, and my fingers explore the wet mess you've made in your panties.

Oh, I think you're ready for me, I tease. It is an understatement you won't correct, because you don't think you've hidden your crush very well. Ready for me tonight? Oh yes, but you've been ready for me for a long, long time.

With a sudden burst of strength, I lift you up to push your bottoms and your panties down to your knees. I hook them there, and then move under you, pushing down my own bottoms. My cock brushes against your skin and pulses, hot and eager.

Just before I pull the blanket back over your lap, you have a chance to see it, limbed with firelight and the television there between your thighs. It is thick, the head bulbous and moist with pre-cum, daddy's cock. Before you can touch it, before you can squeeze it, I pull you back again, into me, my strong body behind you, beneath you.

I roll my fingertips over your hips, your belly, and growl into the nape of your neck. This body was built for breeding. My hands glide under your Christmas sweater to cup your swelling breasts.

My thumbs roll over your dagger-sharp nipples. Oh, I can't wait to watch you grow. I can't wait to see these fill with milk.

I squeeze your delicious body. You begin to roll in my lap, to undulate like a deep-water snake. I squeeze you again, pull you, to calm your writhing body and remind you where we are.

Here, in this quiet living room, beneath a dozen dozing in-laws, and your husband across the room, the man you promised to, if only he could face the truth, if only he could seed your ready, willing womb. But now, lost in the bottomless ocean of your lust, you're almost thankful it's come to this, because daddy is here now to rescue you.