Christmas was a big deal for Jumoke. According to her, her village started celebrating in September and all through the “ember” months: October, November, and December. But this was the only time that our maid contract allowed her to go home to be with her family, and family was everything.
Our maid agreed with my parents to forgo it this year to take care of the house while I was preparing for my exams. It was hard on her, but we had talked about it and Jumoke wasn’t ready to reveal her pregnancy — or me — to her family yet, especially not in person. Besides, she loved spending three weeks of freedom alone with her big-dicked husband.
Dad left me with three hundred thousand Naira to fend for myself. Some kind of consolation? A bribe? Way more than I needed, but I guess that was my parents — overcompensating with money to try and solve the unsolvable. I gave most of it to Jumoke to spend on herself, and our babies, and to send home.
My sexy maid was overjoyed. It might not have been much to me, but it was more than Jumoke made working for ‘Sir-Madaam’ in a year.
It was a relief when they finally left. With the house to ourselves, we were free; unleashed, even. It was like two hormonal teenagers were on the loose, and we acted like it. Played music way too loud. Broke into my parents’ liquor cabinet. And we fucked a lot. My loving babe let me have her any time I wanted her.
We had fun walking around the mansion in various states of undress. Jumoke’s default became panties, one of my shirts, and her bare feet. She also liked to wear tight tops that showed off the naked swell of her burgeoning abdomen just to excite me.
There was something special about Jumoke being in my bed every night and us fucking to sleep with me buried inside her pregnant body. I felt closer to her than ever. More in love with her than ever.
My secret wife cooked every meal for me except when we went out to eat — exploring and enjoying the sprawling, sweltering city we called home. She got tired sometimes from her body working so hard to grow our young, but mostly it didn’t slow us down. Movies, markets, stores, tearing around the streets in a keke napep holding on for dear life — whatever we wanted. It felt like my money went forever.
I lugged out our neglected Christmas tree and we decorated it together; it was a ritual that meant a lot to Jumoke since I was the only family she would have for the holiday. I tried to make it up to her by buying her a ton of new clothes, bras, and panties from a boutique, and on Christmas Eve I surprised her with the gift of a delicate platinum pendant; a shimmering chain and a cross adorned with a single diamond in its centre.
It was nicer than the ring I had gotten her and she immediately let me claim her slender throat with it — another sign of our love and that Jumoke belonged to me.
It was like we were a real couple in public, holding hands, sucking face and totally in love. And it was pretty clear to passersby with the way Jumoke proudly flaunted her swollen breasts and belly that I had knocked her up too. Seeing a young guy with a petite, pregnant girl definitely got some jealous eyes from the neighbourhood women and insecure glances from their tiny-dicked men.
With all my free time, I tried to help improve Jumoke’s English every day. I found out she had been trying to teach herself after she found out she was pregnant, but it had been slow going. Yeah, it might’ve been a lost cause and I loved her thick accent, but it was a barrier between us too. She understood a lot, just wasn’t good at expressing herself.
For her part, Jumoke tried to teach me some Yoruba and more about her culture and family. I finally learned her last name — Dayemi. Her little sister’s name was Adenike. Just a bit younger than me at 16 and going to high school in Abeokuta.
It was bittersweet when she showed me old pictures of her parents, a warm-looking older couple. I could tell she loved them deeply and missed them badly. Jumoke only had one of Adenike when she was a shy 13-year-old standing outside a hut with a big goofy grin.
Jumoke was passionate about local delicacies, which she was delighted to introduce and make for me. It was too crude for Mother’s tastes, but Jumoke’s amala and ewedu kicked ass and her pepper soup was amazing. All of her food was great, really — in another life, Jumoke probably could have been a successful chef in a high-end hotel or restaurant.
At least I got to enjoy it. She did too, eating more and more for the hungry babies that she carried for me. I was in an almost constant state of arousal around her, watching her belly grow visibly what felt like every few days.
But beyond the physical, as I learned more about Jumoke and her story, the more I cared. Trying to break the cycle of poverty that had gripped her family for generations, Jumoke had fallen into what was indentured servitude to this domestic maid agency simply for having the courage and resolve to create a better life.
Being a spoiled kid I had no clue about any of her hardships. It wasn’t stupidity that had gotten her into this situation either — it was desperation. The revelation made me angry; and more determined than ever to protect her and help in whatever way I could.
For my part, I kept my promise to study for my UTME exam. When it got tough, Jumoke was there to give me a head massage or suck me off to keep me relaxed. I had no idea if I would pass it. I would have to hope that old money would land me somewhere that’ll get my family off my ass.
If it was up to me, I’d have applied to the fuckin’ backwater shithole University of the Port Harcourt, for no other reason than to be close to Jumoke, stupid as it was.
After our first two weeks of vacation, I went with Jumoke to check on her pregnancy. At this point, the busy, distended globe of her belly was big enough that it pushed out well past her breasts. It was probably the size of one of the footballs we used in PHE — she looked pregnant now, like 5 or even 6 months along even though I knew she was barely 4.
It was big enough that when I fucked her from behind that her belly swung heavily underneath her and dragged against the bed. My woman just emanated young, sexy maternity; impossibly feminine with the large swell of her abdomen protruding from her lithe body.
Jumoke had a fierce maternal pride about her pregnancy that bordered on smug, broody arrogance.
For the appointment, Jumoke decided to wear her cute red maternity tank top, new jean shorts, sneakers, and dark cap — all gifts from me. She wore her long, lustrous black hair free down her back. Jumoke looked hot as hell. That was my sweet, horny wife, right there.
The word-of-mouth domestic helper network in our compound led us to a modest clinic that had a reputation for its service and discretion. It was a lot more expensive than the nearby shithole community clinic that Jumoke’s housekeeper friends used, way beyond their means, but that one wasn’t nearly as well equipped.
And honestly, Jumoke deserved better. Me coming along was a show of solidarity and support that meant a lot to her. She seemed genuinely excited by the visit.
In the inner street, hidden from the constant flow of passersby, the clinic’s exterior was unassuming, with a white sign that had the words “Samaritan Clinic for Women”.
Hand-in-hand, we went inside a spartan but fairly clean waiting room and reception filled with eight women in varying stages of pregnancy. The air exuded fertility.
Jumoke approached the reception desk, where a kind-faced nurse greeted her. She spoke to her in pidgin English, probably explaining her situation and concerns. The nurse seemed reassuring in her responses.
While I waited for her, I observed the other patients around me — a mix of women who all looked older than Jumoke. Some chatted quietly, while others wore expressions of anxiety.
The clinic’s walls were adorned with faded posters that I couldn’t read but looked like they promoted women’s health and the importance of prenatal care. The air-conditioned breeze from a vent in the ceiling was an incredibly welcome refuge from unrelenting heat and humidity.
I felt the eyes of the women on me as I stood there, the only male in their midst. I saw judgment, disapproval, jealousy, and even flirtatiousness as I glanced around and gazes quickly averted. They figured out that I was the father of Jumoke’s child. A tall, strong, good-looking teenager. A male specimen that at least four of the pregnant women couldn’t stop quietly eye-fucking.
I checked them out surreptitiously as I stood around and Jumoke filled out some registration. I had never been surrounded by so many knocked-up females before. Their males were probably all inferior to me; likely only barely succeeding in passing on their genes after months of limp-dicked effort and prayers.
Now, confronted with a real alpha guy, something deep down in them was responding, whether they wanted to admit it or not.
None of them was as hot as Jumoke, but at the sight of their feminine faces, shades of dark skin, womanly bodies and gravid bellies on display under the fabric of their clothes, I couldn’t help but start to fantasize about fucking them.
Especially the one who was the farthest along, probably here for her final checkup with a huge, round-shaped belly that stretched her cheap maternity dress to its limit.
I thought about cucking their husbands and claiming their bodies over the rest of their pregnancy, then filling their wombs with a second child.
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