You're Trying to Be More of a Housewife

From the second you saw his profile, you had a good feeling about him. He was a couple years older than you. You shared a lot of the same interests. He was also gorgeous. He didn’t have a lot of photos up, but your eyes studied the ones he’d posted, drooling a little over his broad shoulders, well-muscled arms, and just a hint of a belly. He looked solid, like he could stop a runaway train with his bare hands. His profile also mentioned that he was interested in “settling down” and noted that he wanted “a big family.” You felt much the same. You weren’t looking for a hookup or a relationship that would fall apart in six months. It was cliche, but you were looking for a life partner.

So, you messaged him. Right away, it was clear you had chemistry. You fell into conversation easily, talking about books you’d read and movies you’d watched, with little bits of personal info woven into the conversation. He was charming and funny, and it was clear he was interested. He asked lots of questions about you, and answered the ones you had about him. Every message back and forth made your heart flutter.

After a few weeks of chatting, he asked you out to lunch. The place was a little fancy, and you made sure you dressed up for it. Your makeup was perfect, your dress fit you like a glove, and you wore heels that made your ass look great. When he picked you up at your place and you opened the door, you saw his jaw drop a little. He was a gentleman and composed himself quickly, but it made you happy that he thought you looked that good. He looked great, too—even beefier in person than in his photos. The blazer he had on was tight along his biceps, and his pants were fitted perfectly, muscles rippling beneath the fabric. He offered his arm for you to loop yours around as you headed to his car. It took everything you had not to give his bicep a squeeze as you sat next to him on the way to the restaurant. God, I’d love to have his babies, you told yourself. And god help you, you meant it.

At lunch, he told you to order whatever you wanted, his treat. You worried a little, trying to decide if you should demur and get a salad or get the ridiculously huge sandwich you actually wanted. You watched what he ordered, and he went all out and got a full rack of ribs with a side of fries. You decided to follow his lead and got your sandwich.

You both chatted happily, a little nervous now that you were finally face to face. By the time your food arrived, you were both a lot more comfortable, talking about work. He ran a custom carpentry business that was doing pretty well; you worked as an executive assistant, which you didn’t love, but at least it paid the bills. You shyly told him, “If I’m being honest, I’m a lot more skilled at homemaking than I am in the office. I’m definitely trying to be more of a housewife than a breadwinner.”

A grin spread across his face at that. “I definitely understand. It’s a little corny, but I kind of like the whole provider-protector role. It makes me feel good. But if I had all the money in the world, I’d definitely just stay home with my family and build cool shit all the time.” He showed you some photos of things he’d built: amazing little treehouses, cedar cabinets for someone’s fancy cabin kitchen, incredibly detailed crown molding. Your brain couldn’t resist telling you seems like he’s real good with his hands.

Your eyes went wide as the server set down your sandwich. It was way bigger than you’d realized. You weren’t sure if you’d be able to finish it all.

“Ooh, that looks so good. I might have to try that next time,” he said, pointing at your sandwich. You liked that he was already thinking about next time.

Your food was out of this world. It had a little too much sauce, and the excess dripped onto your fingers. You paused to lick some off, and realized he had stopped in the middle of a bite of rib, watching you intently. Your face went hot with embarrassment, but you decided to lean into it, taking your time and licking every drop of sauce on your fingers with flourish.

He made a little noise in the back of his throat. “Aw, come on, that’s cheating.”

“Cheating at what?” you asked coyly before taking another big bite.

After the initial tasty rush of the first few bites, you took a little more time to watch him eat. He cleaned every bit of meat off his ribs, pausing every few to chomp down some fries and pop his thumb into his mouth to suck off the extra barbecue sauce. You liked that he had an appetite and wasn’t holding back.

You talked back and forth about the food, and then back to more personal topics. You joked about your families and told stories about your friends and yourselves. Soon enough, he’d finished every last rib and fry on his plate, and your sandwich was sitting heavily in your stomach. You both hit the bathroom to wash your hands, and he paid, leaving a generous tip and thanking the server.

When you got in the car, he sat at the steering wheel for a moment, looking straight ahead. He took a deep breath and then turned to you. “I’m gonna lay it all out right here: I really, really like you.”

You couldn’t hold back a smile. You felt exactly the same way.

“I normally don’t ask on the first date, but… would you like to go back to my place? No pressure; I just don’t want this to be over yet.”

You didn’t hesitate to answer “yes.” Because you didn’t want this date to be over, either.

***

His house was older but very spacious, located in an older neighborhood near the edge of town with smaller houses on big lots. You could tell walking through it that he’d made a lot of improvements to it. The light coming in from the windows was perfect. You felt right at home from the moment you walked in.

As he showed you around, slipping off his jacket and shoes and setting them aside as he went, it was clear that this was no bachelor pad. He had proper furniture (and expensive tastes, you noted). Everything actually matched, which was more than you could say for your own place. He pointed out a few pieces he’d built himself. He was most proud of the big oak dining room table he’d built, along with the matching chairs with elaborate scrollwork carved into the backs. He had a few plants here and there, and they were all thriving, even the couple varieties you knew were super finicky. You peeked outside and saw that his backyard was vast. There was a little bit of manicured grass, but he’d rewilded much of the yard, local grasses and wildflowers surrounding large walnut trees that had clearly been on the property for ages. You allowed yourself a moment to imagine a gaggle of kids, all yours, playing outside while the two of you sat on a blanket in the shade.

The kitchen was impressive, and very large. It was clean, but it was clear he cooked often. You noted that he had a wine fridge built into one of the lower cabinets. A whole little fridge, just for wine! You noticed that he also had big drawers labeled “flour” and “sugar.” You’d seen that kind of setup in the homes of rich people who baked a lot. You’d always been jealous of them, wishing your little apartment had the room for you to bake like you wanted to. You gestured to the drawers. “Do you bake?”

“Not as often as I’d like. I’m a better cook than a baker. I like to keep everyone around me well-fed.”

You laughed at that. “You can stuff me full anytime,” you said with a wink.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he flirted. He asked you if you’d like anything to drink. “Water, beer, wine?” You asked for a glass of wine. He opened a bottle and said, “I think you’ll really like this. It’s nothing too fancy, but it’s good.” And then he honest to god pulled out a glass decanter and poured the wine into it. You felt like you were in a movie. How were you on a date with a guy who actually took the time to decant his wine? But there you were. “It’ll have to sit for a bit, but I’m sure the time will fly by.” He smiled broadly at you, and you felt a little tug in your stomach. God, he was hot.

He grabbed two regular water glasses and filled them, then took you out to the backyard. It was warm out. You slipped off your heels and walked with him out to a bench set on the grass. Once you both sat down and got to talking, you felt like you didn’t even need the wine anymore—you were already a little love-drunk.

As the sun started to creep lower in the sky, he took a few moments to go back inside and get the wine, bringing out glasses for both of you. As you took a sip, you couldn’t think of a more perfect afternoon. And watching him sit there, wine glass dangling from his fingers between sips, looking ridiculously hot in his slightly strained white button-down, you had to set your glass down in the grass and lean in for a kiss.

You were a little overeager and maybe went in a little too fast, but you could feel him smiling. He set down his glass and pulled you close. “I’ve been waiting for that for so long. One look at your profile and I knew…” He didn’t say what, exactly, he knew, opting to kiss you back. He was passionate and gentle and it was clear how much he wanted you. He kept his hands on you lightly, as if he was trying not to scare you off. You pressed in closer, halfway to climbing in his well-muscled lap, tongue swiping into his mouth. He moaned and you felt his hand drift down, gripping at your hip.

You’re not why, but at some point, a switch flips. He picked you up off the bench and carried you inside, his mouth not leaving yours once. His hands fumbled around corners and for door handles until he finally threw you down onto his massive bed. You were both breathless. He unbuttoned his shirt, revealing dark chest hair and that gorgeous tummy you’d seen hiding underneath his clothes. He took off his belt and pants and underwear, and if you hadn’t already been wet, you were practically dripping now. It was like every bit of him was designed to set you off.

He stroked his cock as he watched you in the bed, propped up on your elbows. “You look so beautiful,” he told you. He stepped forward and spread your legs wide, fingers sliding up your thigh to your entrance. You were wet all the way through your panties and so sensitive that even that feather-light touch made you gasp. He pulled you to the edge of the bed, hiking your dress up and shoving your panties to the side, not even bothering to take them off. For a split second before he entered you, you thought about asking him if he had a condom. But then you realized that you didn’t care, you wanted him, all of him, every inch and every drop he’d give you.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“Stop being such a fucking gentleman and fuck me,” you answered.

He obliged, pulling your hips up against his as he thrust into you. You both moaned loudly, and you were grateful this was happening at his place and not yours, with your paper-thin apartment walls. After that, it was like a freight train, starting off slow and picking up speed until you hit a rhythm that worked for both of you. One of his hands drifted to your belly, still a little pooched out in your dress from lunch. “I wanted to throw you over my shoulder and fuck you in the car during lunch,” he said as he pounded into you. You reached your hand down to your clit, pleasuring yourself as he took you. Every time you felt yourself twitch inside, he groaned. “You looked so perfect with your little belly.”

And then he said something that, if it were anyone else, would’ve made you turn and run. “You’d look so cute pregnant,” he said. You felt his cock throb against your walls. “I’d love to knock you up and watch you get big and round with my babies.” He started thrusting even harder, his full length penetrating you to your core.

This should’ve scared you. You should’ve at least thought, wow, that’s a lot for a first date. But you didn’t. Because you’d been thinking the same thing since you messaged him. You’d been envisioning fucking him just like this, feeling him come inside you, and then getting fat and round with as many babies as he wanted to put in you. As soon as he said it, it was like you’d found your life’s purpose. People often used the term “baby factory” with scorn, but that was what you wanted to be: his baby factory, filled up with his seed every night, popping out kids as fast as you could, because the sooner one was born, the sooner you could start all over again. A perfect cycle of fertility, getting bigger and rounder every time, your tits permanently swollen and milk-heavy, your hips widening with each birth, getting a little thicker with each pregnancy because the cravings never stopped.

He didn’t stop fucking you, but he asked, “Does that freak you out?”

You answered by wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, ensuring he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. “I wanna get big for you,” you gasped, your fingers nearly working you to orgasm. “I want to give you all the babies you’ve ever wanted.” At that, you finally came, harder than you ever had before. You nearly blacked out for a moment. But you were fully aware when he came, too, pulling you in close, spilling it all inside you and making sure not to waste a drop.

Both of you went limp afterwards, exhausted. He collapsed on the bed beside you, a little sweaty and smelling like sex and cedar. You turned on your side and curled into him. He wrapped his arms around you and pressed his face into your hair, breathing deeply. “I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “From that first message you sent, I knew.” He pulled back, looking at you nervously. “If it’s too much, I get it. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to bail after that.”

You answered by putting your leg over his hip and rolling both of you to the side so you were sitting on top of him. You ground into him, feeling him get hard again. “Let’s go again. I wanna see if we can have twins the first time.”