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By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)

by Dominic Santi © 2004

Elizabeth was going to be mine again. That bitch was going to put her head down and point her ass at the ceiling and beg for my love juice. And when my sperm flooded through her cunt, she was going to keep her ass high and clench her pussy muscles together as hard as she can, so she didn't lose a single fucking drop.

My sweet bitch baby would stay that way until my cum had all run deep into her womb and every one of those nasty little drillers was racing up to screw his way into her quivering, defenseless, succulent egg. They were going to stab at her ovum's walls until the meanest, strongest one shoved his way in past the virginal cell barrier. Then my chromosomes were going to take hers, one gene at a time, until our genetic code was bonded in a way she could never rip apart.

And her worthless whoreson husband was going to pay me to do it. Again. God, that was rich. And so fucking easy. I'd intercepted her medical records on their way back from being transcribed in India. Piece of cake. The fertility clinic's records were always turned around within 24 hours. I sent out spiders the day after her doctor's appointments, and voila! I knew exactly when fancy Miss High Society Reformed Criminal Piece of Ass Who's Fertile as a Fresh-Plowed Field and her blank-shooting district attorney husband wanted to conceive again.

They wanted to use the same "anonymous" donor who had already given them their two darling daughters, of course. I assumed the brats' dark brown hair was the same shade as mine. Beyond that, I didn't know what they looked like, and I didn't care. They were so different from my beautiful blond-haired, green-eyed love, with her wonderful voluptuous breasts. I had a shelf full of videos of her nursing her babies, shielded only by the lace of the nursery curtains. Day after day, I sat at my desk chair, staring at my monitor, zooming the viewfinder in, and jacking off while she bared her deliciously full breasts and offered them, one at a time, to the anonymous hungry mouth I could see only from behind.

When Dear Don was there, she kept herself demurely covered while she nursed. But when he was gone, she opened her expensive designer negligees and let the milk squirt out of one nipple and onto a towel while the small dark head in her arms moved slowly against the other side. I remembered how soft her nipples had been under my tongue, how they'd hardened to nubs when I sucked them to bruises and she begged me to fuck her. When I closed my eyes, I could see my tongue snaking towards her nipple, lapping at the drips, tasting her milk and washing her satiny skin. Dear Don had never so much as cupped her breast while she'd nursed. I wondered if he'd suck her tits dry if she bore him a son, the way I would have.

This time, they were going to test twice each day, trying to catch the pre-ovulation endocrine spike right away to have a better chance at getting a boy. And the chances would be good. After all, "their" Artificial Insemination donor already had two healthy sons. The fact sheet showed that. Actually, it had originally shown only the two healthy children and blemish-free medical history required by the clinic's AI policy. But, well, Don wanted a son, to carry on the family name and business. And his lovely wife, as always, deferred to his wishes. So, when they'd pressed for more information, Donor 369 had reluctantly obliged. He'd provided details about his two healthy sons, young leaders-in-the-making who excelled in sports, football and baseball, of course, and had just enough academic prowess to make the grades without being too bookish. "All boy" boys, if you know what I mean. They loved to hunt and fish with Dad. Oh, and they'd had no problems with the law, of course, other than a couple of "harmless pranks" that Dad had straightened out with a stern talking-to.

I'd had to be careful not to overdo my illustrious little cyber darlings. "Father is a world class hacker who wouldn't be caught dead playing ball and fucks men as indiscriminately as he does women" probably would have given our wunder kind state attorney general hopeful pause in selecting said donor to impregnate his charming wife. Especially since Dear Don had gone to such lengths to protect society from the likes of me—and from me specifically.

So that night, in between sweeping floors and emptying trash in the dimly lit, empty medical building, my little specimen cup and I made a quick trip to the john. I dropped my pants and took my dick in my hand, working my dickhead under its hood until I was slimy with precome. Then I closed my eyes, stroking and squeezing, until once again, my beautiful Elizabeth was kneeling on the bed in front of me.

She was naked, her creamy skin glowing in the candlelight, her long blond hair flowing in shimmering waves over the pillow. Her lovely bottom was arched up high at me, her legs spread wide and her shaved pussy lips glistening with her juices and my spit. She was whimpering. She knew I'd make her come, knew I'd make her scream before I fucked her. But pussy licking embarrassed her. So I leaned forward and ate her long and slowly, whispering her name, over and over, while I told her how sweet her cunt was and how I loved tonguing her hole. And how I was going to fuck her, after she came.

She'd told her therapist she was "non-orgasmic" with Don. Not that she'd ever complained, per se. After all, dickhead was footing the bill. And even though those records were harder to access, I knew she'd waited quite a while to make her shame-faced little confession. But after a great deal of therapeutic questioning, she'd finally admitted that lying on her back while he grunted over her "failed to arouse her." She didn't add anything about how the scent of his money got her sufficiently hot to at least take his dick. She just mentioned, one time, about how "a previous lover" (yeah, right, bitch, the only other one, the one who took every cherry you ever had and now you can't remember his name) had liked to do it doggie style, that she'd been orgasmic then, and it might be nice to try that position for a change. But when she'd suggested a change in position to her husband, he'd icily ordered her to sleep in a guestroom for a week and cut off her allowance. So she'd apologized to him for being frigid and never mentioned it again.

She hadn't said one word to the counselor about how that "previous lover" had leaned forward and inhaled her scent, smearing her juices on his face while he licked and sucked her smooth, sensitive labia, then tongued her clit until she was slick and begging. How he kept whispering, "No yet, pretty pussy girl," and "open your bottom for me, sweetheart." He shoved his fingers up her holes and chewed on her clit and she'd screamed and screamed and screamed as she came. Then he fucked her cunt and her ass, filling rubber after rubber with his cum until she was just one big raw hole pointing up in the air for him to use until his dick was tired.

And the next day, she was rolling naked in front of me again like a cat in heat, rubbing her face in my crotch. She wiggled her tongue under my foreskin, teased me with her bruised nipples and swollen cunt, until I threw her on her face and jerked her ass up and growled, "Spread for me, bitch." And she did. She always did. And I paid homage to her pussy like she was manna from heaven. Which she was. I treated her body with the reverence it deserved.

And now the fucker who sent me up couldn't get her off. She "wasn't responding" to his cold, dry, ex-cop's dick, only to the plea-bargain he'd arranged and the money she'd married into while I was doing time for the money I stole for her. And his balls shot blanks.

"Suck me, bitch," I whispered, working my foreskin furiously over my dick. My precum was as slick as her saliva had been. "Tug on my balls while you choke me into your throat, so I get up a really good load for you."

My balls crawled up my dick, remembering. I wrapped my hand around my shaft, stroking faster, the way I had when I'd fucked her cunt and her ass and her face, the way I'd fucked her face until her tears ran down and sperm-thick cum shot from my balls. As the heat surged through my dick, I pressed the lip of the cup under my dickhead. It was hard, not soft like her lips had been when I'd pulled back and spewed my cream all over her face, as the long white ropes had spurted out onto her beautiful red lips and her flushed hot cheeks, and her eyelids and the bridge of her nose, and she'd lowered her head in shame and delicately, oh so delicately, licked a single strand off her quivering lips.

I pressed up my dick, draining the last drop out of my tube. Then I sealed the cup, stuffed my cock back in my pants, and tucked the specimen job in my overalls pocket. As always, there was no one else in the building when I grabbed my broom and pushed the mop pail back out into the main office. An hour later, the floors were shining, the sample was properly labeled and frozen, and the computer files had been altered to show that Donor 369 vial had just passed the 6 months waiting period and his recertified negative serostatus report was inserted in the files.

I was still horny when I got back home, to the guest house in back of Elizabeth's next door neighbor's. I turned on my computer and checked the digital "security" camera trained on her bedroom suite. Dipshit was already asleep, snoring on his back in his designer pajamas. But Elizabeth was in the bathroom, sitting on her vanity chair, in her long white satin nightgown, whispering into the phone. I knew my honeypot's cycle, and the glass vials on the counter confirmed what I'd already figured. I flipped on the eavesdropping equipment.

"This message is for Dr. Smythe. This is Elizabeth Dalton. Um, my levels are starting to rise, so I'll need an appointment tomorrow morning. Um, at 1000 if it would be possible, for the AI."

Her voice was the nervous kind of breathless she got when she was getting horny. She ran her hand unconsciously over the soft white satin folds over her breasts. Her nipples hardened, and as she hung up the phone, she glanced at the closed bedroom door, and lifted the hem of her nightgown. She closed her eyes and slid her hand between her legs. My cock started to swell, but I didn't touch it. Instead, I pulled up the appointment desk's password and confirmed Mrs. Dalton's desired appointment time.

Tomorrow morning, at 1000, while her fuck face husband was screwing people over in his sterile little office and his investment counselor was frantically trying to straighten out the latest "unexpected" glitch I was going to make in asshole's financial records, I'd lay in my bed, and I'd replay tonight's tapes. I'd watch Elizabeth finger herself to orgasm, remembering my tongue. And in my head, I'd see her in the doctor's office, her legs spread wide and her beautiful ass trembling high in the air. I'd see his sterile, gloved hands inserted the long, thin tube up her cunt and push the plunger, and my sperm once more shoot high up into her cunt. And I'd know that while she waited there alone on her padded table with her ass in the air and my expensive, designer, command performance sperm squirming through her cervix and into her womb, chasing her virginal egg, she was remembering me and wishing she once more had a real fucking man inside her.

© 2004 Dominic Santi.  All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio:  Dominic Santi is a former technical editor turned rogue whose stories are found in The Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica, both volumes of Best Bisexual Erotica, and many dozens of other erotic anthologies and magazines. Santi is also a featured monthly writer at Lady Susan's

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