The Bathtub's Relentless Throb

The old clawfoot tub in the upstairs bathroom of the farmhouse had seen some things, but nothing quite like this afternoon. The window was propped open with a worn paperback, and the smell of cut grass and rain-soaked earth drifted in on a breeze that did nothing to cool the heat between us. I was on my knees in the warm water, my pregnant belly buoyant and round, my tits resting heavy on the porcelain edge, milk already beading at the tips.

You stood over me, Peter, still half-dressed in those worn jeans, your dark skin gleaming with a sheen of sweat from hauling firewood earlier. I watched your hands undo the button, slow and deliberate, and I felt my mouth go wet before I even saw it.

“You’ve been staring at my crotch for ten minutes, Kylie.”

“I’ve been staring at what’s inside those jeans for ten minutes. There’s a difference.”

You laughed, low and rough, and pulled the denim down. Your cock sprang out, and I mean *sprang* — it was already half-hard and swinging, that thick uncut length slapping against your belly with a wet sound because the tip was already glossy and leaking. Ten inches of veiny, throbbing dick, the head barely peeking from all that beautiful foreskin, shiny and purple-brown and so goddamn big it looked like it belonged on a different species.

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

“It’s bigger than last time,” I whispered.

“It’s always bigger when you look at me like that.”

I reached out and wrapped both hands around the shaft, my fingers not even close to meeting. The skin was hot and loose, and I slid it up over the head, then back down, watching the ridge of that enormous glans stretch the foreskin wide before it retracted again. A thick string of pre-cum dripped onto my knuckles, warm and slick.

“I want to taste it so fucking bad.”

“Then taste it.”

I leaned forward and ran my tongue along the underside of that ridge, right where the foreskin attached, that sensitive little frenulum that made you hiss through your teeth. I pushed my tongue under the skin, swirling around the head, and you grabbed the edge of the tub so hard I heard the old iron creak.

“Fuck, Kylie. Describe it. Tell me what you’re doing.”

I pulled back just enough to speak, my lips brushing the tip.

“I’m licking under your foreskin, Peter. That thick, loose skin that covers your huge cock head. It’s so soft and stretchy, and when I push my tongue inside, I can taste everything — the salt, the bitter, the pure fucking *you*. The head is so big it barely fits in my mouth, but I’m going to try.”

I opened my jaw and took you in, just the first few inches, and my cheeks hollowed as I sucked. The foreskin bunched up against my lips, and I worked it back and forth with my tongue, feeling the veins pulsing along the shaft — thick, ropy veins that stood out like cords, throbbing against my palate. My own nipples were so hard they ached, and I could feel milk starting to leak down my belly, hot and thin.

You reached down and cupped one of my tits, your thumb brushing the nipple, and a stream of milk squirted across your forearm.

“Look at you,” you growled. “Leaking all over yourself. Suck your own tit, Kylie. I want to see it.”

I didn’t hesitate. I lifted my left breast with one hand, heavy and veiny and so full it hurt, and guided the nipple to my mouth. The moment my lips closed around it, I moaned — the relief was instant, the sweet, warm milk flooding my tongue as I sucked hard, pulling deep draughts from my own body. The taste was thin and sugary, and it mixed with the pre-cum still coating my mouth from your cock.

“Oh fuck, Peter, my nipples are so sensitive. They’re so hard and long and the veins are popping out, and when I suck, I can feel the milk letting down all the way from my armpits. It’s like a hot wire running through my chest.”

I switched tits, sucking the right one now, and milk dribbled down my chin and dripped onto your cock. You used it as lube, stroking yourself with my breastmilk, the foreskin sliding slick and noisy.

“Get in the tub,” I said. “Now.”

You stripped off the rest of your clothes and climbed in behind me, the water rising dangerously close to the rim. I turned around, my belly between us, and you sat on the built-in bench while I straddled you, my swollen pussy hovering over that monster cock.

“It’s going to hurt,” I whispered.

“It always hurts. You always beg for more.”

I lowered myself slowly. The head pushed against my opening, and I felt my lips stretch obscenely wide. The foreskin bunched up, then slid back as the huge glans forced its way inside, and I screamed — a real, throat-tearing scream that echoed off the tile walls.

“Oh god, oh fuck, Peter, your dick is splitting me open. The head is so fucking big, it’s like a fist pushing into my pussy. I can feel every vein, every throb, every fucking inch of that uncut cock stretching me out.”

You grabbed my hips and pulled me down harder, and I felt my cervix bump against the tip. I was full — impossibly, devastatingly full — and my pregnant belly pressed against your stomach, the baby shifting inside me as if making room.

“You’re crying,” you said, and you sounded almost gentle.

“I’m crying because it’s so good. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You didn’t stop. You fucked up into me with short, brutal thrusts, and I could feel your foreskin sliding inside me, that extra layer of skin moving independently from the shaft, creating a friction that was unlike anything I’d ever felt. It was like being fucked by two cocks at once — the hard, veiny shaft, and the soft, sliding sheath that teased my g-spot with every stroke.

I leaned back, bracing my hands on your knees, and my tits bounced and sprayed milk with every thrust. Streams of it hit your chest, your face, your open mouth. I reached up and squeezed both nipples, aiming the spray at your cock as it disappeared in and out of me, the milk mixing with my juices and your pre-cum until we were both coated in a slick, sweet mess.

“Tell me about your pussy,” you grunted. “Tell me how it feels around my dick.”

“It’s so tight, Peter. So fucking tight and hot and wet. I can feel every inch of you — the veins rubbing against my walls, the foreskin bunching up and stretching out, the head battering my cervix. I’m so full of cock I can’t breathe. And I’m still sucking my tits.”

I had one nipple in my mouth again, drinking my own milk as you fucked me, and the combination of sensations — the sweet taste on my tongue, the massive dick in my pussy, the pressure of my belly — was sending me into some kind of overload.

“I’m going to cum,” I sobbed. “I’m going to cum all over your huge, veiny, uncut cock.”

“Do it. Cum on my dick.”

I shattered. My pussy clamped down on you so hard I felt your cock pulse in response, and then you were cumming too — hot, thick jets of semen flooding my insides, filling me up until I could feel it pooling around the head and leaking out around the shaft. But you didn’t stop thrusting, and you didn’t stop cumming. Load after load, pulse after pulse, your dick just kept throbbing and pumping more and more semen into me.

“It won’t stop,” I gasped. “Peter, your cock won’t stop cumming.”

“It never stops. You know that.”

And I did know. I’d learned that the first time we were together, in the kitchen with Carol, when you’d filled me so full I’d leaked for hours. I’d learned it on the bus, when you’d pressed me against the window and fucked me while the city rolled by. Your cock was a never-ending fountain of cum, and I was addicted to it.

I pulled off you, and a flood of semen poured out of my pussy, thick and white and steaming. I turned around in the tub, my knees on the bottom, and took your still-hard cock in my mouth. My pussy was still leaking, my tits were still spraying milk, and now my mouth was full of your cum as I sucked you clean.

I pulled off just long enough to talk, my lips still pressed to the tip.

“I love your foreskin, Peter. I love how it tastes, how it feels, how it moves. I love the veins on your dick — they’re like tree roots, so thick and pulsing. I love how you never stop cumming. I want to drink your cum and my milk at the same time.”

I pushed your cock back into my mouth and sucked hard, and at the same time, I squeezed both my tits and aimed the streams of milk into my mouth. My cheeks bulged with the mixture — sweet milk and salty cum, warm and thick and utterly filthy — and I swallowed it down in huge, greedy gulps.

You pulled me up by my hair and kissed me, tasting yourself and my milk on my tongue.

“You’re a fucking animal,” you said.

“I’m your animal.”

We stayed in the tub until the water went cold and my skin was pruned. You helped me out, wrapped me in a towel that was too small to cover my belly, and led me to the bedroom. We collapsed on the unmade bed, the sheets still tangled from the morning, and you pulled me against your chest.

“You know,” I said, tracing the veins on your softening cock with one finger, “most people would be empty by now. But you’re still half-hard and leaking.”

“I told you. It never stops.”

“Good. Because I’m not done.”

I climbed on top of you again, my belly resting on yours, and guided you back inside me. You were still slick with cum and milk, and you slid in easier this time, but the stretch was still breathtaking. I rode you slowly, grinding my clit against your pubic bone, and you reached up and cupped my tits, squeezing milk into your mouth.

“I could do this forever,” I said.

“We have forever.”

“No, I mean literally forever. I’m never getting off this dick.”

You laughed, and the vibration traveled through your cock and into my pussy, and I moaned.

“Then don’t get off. Stay right here, full of my cum, with my dick throbbing inside you.”

“And my milk in your mouth.”

“And your milk in my mouth.”

We fucked again, slower this time, and when you came — because of course you came again, you always did — I felt it fill me up until it leaked out my nose. I’m not exaggerating. Semen literally dripped from my nostrils, and I laughed so hard I snorted, which made it worse, and soon we were both laughing, covered in cum and milk and bathwater, tangled together in the sheets.

Later, when the sun was setting and the room was golden, I propped myself up on one elbow and looked down at you.

“You know what the best part is?”

“Tell me.”

“The baby’s going to come out already knowing the taste of your cum.”

You stared at me for a second, and then you burst out laughing — a deep, belly-shaking laugh that made your cock twitch against my thigh.

“That’s the most fucked-up thing you’ve ever said.”

“And you love it.”

“I love you.”

I leaned down and kissed you, soft and slow, and felt the baby kick between us.

“I love you too, Peter. And I love your foreskin.”

“I know you do.”

“And your veins.”

“I know.”

“And your never-ending cum.”

“I definitely know that.”

I settled back against your chest, your arm around my shoulders, your other hand resting on my belly. The milk had finally stopped leaking, but I could feel it building again, ready for the next round. And there would be a next round. There was always a next round.

Because Peter’s cock never stopped throbbing, and I never stopped wanting it.