iscariot girl

You begin bouncing on his cock, rising to your knees and falling back down with a swiftness he’s never seen from any woman. He’s too flustered and pussy whipped to protest that you haven’t come yet, lemme take care of you first. His orgasm is approaching much quicker than usual, and his fingers dig into your plush thighs.

“Where-ah, fuck, baby girl…where do you want me?” He grunts barely break through the wet sounds of your pussy sliding on his length.

You don’t answer him because, well, you’re embarrassed now. Too shy to say it out loud. Too timid to beg for it. So you just keep riding him, harder now. Robby drops his head on the back of the couch, the muscles tensing in his throat underneath his beard.

“‘M so close, gotta tell me.” He nearly whimpers.

You grip his shoulders harder to keep your balance, and the burn of your thighs is getting to be too much. You have to answer him. “Inside.”

Robby snaps his head up, brown eyes blown wide. Not so much with surprise. It was something deeper than that, something more primitive.

“Inside?” He parrots. “You’re not on birth control.”

You moan when you feel his cock twitch inside you, prepping for his release. “I know.”

“Are you gonna take a Plan B?”

The question hangs in the air, and your hips slow just slightly. Your eyes are locked on his, and his stare is intense enough to rip out your answer.

“No.”

No.

Just one word.

It’s a word that people don’t like to hear.

But it makes Michael Robinavitch grin ear to ear, his pupils blowing dangerously wide, like he’d been given the keys to the kingdom. “S’that right?” He hums, and he readjusts his grip on your thighs. “What’s it you want, sweet girl? You want a baby? You want my baby?”

When you nod shyly, he presses a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’ll give you a baby.” His hips begin to buck faster, and his fingers are digging bruises into your skin. “I’ll give you five of ‘em. Have our own basketball team. How’s that sound?”

If you weren’t being fucked into oblivion, you’d agree to every word he whispered against your ear. “Mmmmichael…” You whimper into his sweat-slick shoulder.

“I hear ya, kid. Almost there.” He groans into your ear. And with a few final snaps of his hips, he empties into you. The hot sensation of his cum spreading inside you then dripping out around the base of his cock to make room for more is overwhelming. Your body trembles in his arms, gasping with every deep twitch of his cock.

Robby keeps you close, chest heaving as he comes down from his high. “You’ll be a pretty momma.” He hums as he drapes a throw blanket over your frame, sheltering your body with warmth.

You grin against the skin of his neck and press a sloppy kiss against the roughness of his beard. “Think it’ll work this time?” You ask, even though you knew the answer.

He runs a soothing hand against your scalp, patting down the fly aways. “Might. But there’s no harm in trying again. Ya know…just in case.”

The shrill cry of the baby monitor jolts Robby from his slumber. His mind never quite turned off the fight or flight instinct so ingrained from years of commanding an E.R. 

You sleep peacefully next to him. So exhausted that it seems you don’t even hear the monitor. Snoring softly and drooling onto your pillow (both of which you will fight Robby and say you do not do). 

The infant's crying is not calming down so he gently extracts himself from the bed, careful not to wake you before quietly padding down the hall into the nursery. 

Esther Jane Robinavitch, named after her great grandmother, lays in her crib, tiny limbs flailing and chubby face scrunched in anger. 

Robby’s face relaxes, the wrinkles fading, his tiredness leaving him. Scooping the wailing infant into his arms and swaying her while murmuring soothing words into her tufts of hair. Hair that she got from him. Just like your other two kids. All three Robinavitch children are carbon copies of the man. He can’t help but melt for them.

Esther calms in his hold. Wails turning into little whimpers. Rooting around on her fathers chest. 

“I gotcha sweetheart. Let's go get a bottle huh? You hungry?” 

He presses a gentle kiss to the baby’s head. Breathing in that sweet sweet baby smell. 

Cradling her in one arm he moves through the dark house. Mindful of every creaky floorboard and the toys left out. He passes y'all's room. You’re still blissfully asleep. Sprawled out onto his spot. 

“Still snoring,” he murmurs to Esther, who lets out a soft hiccup, as if in agreement. “She’ll say she doesn’t. Swear on her grave, even though she’s very much alive and clearly rumbling the walls.”

He quickly makes a bottle from your last pumping session. Popping it into the warmer for the five minute wait time. Esther kicks her little legs out in protest.

“Five minutes is a long time when you're hungry huh” She just sighs into his arm as if she agrees.

Once the bottle is done he tests it and makes his way to the living room. It’s dark. Soft sounds of cars outside. Stars dimmed by the city lights. He settles in his recliner. Esther stirring and rooting once more. 

Her eyes flutter half shut as she suckles, one tiny hand resting against his chest.

“That’s the good stuff huh? Believe me I know.” 

She settles against Robby. Tiny little mouth working hard to drink. Little hands clutching his shirt. Face nestling into him. 

He doesn’t turn on the T.V, doesn’t check the ER group chat, doesn’t do anything but sit there and watch Esther. 

Drinking in all the details of your last baby. Not wanting to miss soaking in a single thing like he did the last two times. 

So, big bad Michael Robinavitch sits there. In the dark. 

The man who barks orders across a trauma bay. Who instills fear and wisdom into interns. Now sits now in complete stillness. Nothing beeping. No alarms. No staff waiting on his call.

Just Esther Jane, tucked into his chest like she was always meant to be there. Warm. Soft. Perfect.

He thinks to earlier tonight. You had been so tired. Post-partum was hell, even worse than the last time you went through it. Run ragged from recovering and tending to a newborn. Along with tending to your other two kids and maintaining a house. He helped where he could. It was an adjustment for both of you. 

Despite being so tired you could’ve fallen asleep standing up, you sang and rocked Esther to sleep. Running your finger over the girl’s curved nose. Just swaying and looking. 

He shifts slightly in the recliner, tucking the blanket from the back of the couch around her small form. The same ratty throw blanket you've been trying to replace for years, but he always claims that it still has some life left in it. 

Her fingers relax, still tangled in his shirt, like she needs the physical proof that he’s there. That he’s staying.

“Last one,” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. “How the hell did that happen?”

The words settle like dust in the dark room. He thinks of how fast it all went. Diapers, first words, scraped knees, bedtime books he could recite in his sleep. He missed so many little things with the other two. Between late shifts, overnight calls, traumas that bled into dawn. He was saving lives, sure. But he was always running.

Not this time.

This time, he’s not rushing back to anything.

This time he wouldn’t miss anything. 

Wouldn't let you drown in the post-partum trenches.

Wouldn’t let Elaine and MJ feel left out or unimportant with the new baby. 

And now Esther. Curled up against him like she’s part of his chest. Like she was always meant to be here.

“I’m not gonna miss it,” he whispers into her hair, as if saying it aloud will make it truer. “Not this time. You hear me, kid? I’m right here.”

He blinks slowly, his throat tightening.

“For all of it.” 

He makes a silent promise that night. A promise to you and your three children. 

But the thought of you haunted him like a specter. His every thought, night and day, was consumed with the echoes of you. Your intelligence, your boldness, your beauty, your kindness. The way you bit your lip when you were deep in thought or holding in laughter–and how he was desperate to taste that lip. To bite it himself just to see if it was as juicy as he imagined. 

He thought of your pretty face and imagined what it would look like when it twisted in pleasure.

He thought of your body–especially that one time he accidentally walked in on you changing your scrubs. He felt like a dirty old man for fantasizing about what you would look like completely naked under him, but that particular image of you in your baby blue bra was in his daily rotation of thoughts about you. It was embarrassing just how hard you made him.  

His hand found his dick as he imagined your breasts completely bare, bouncing seductively as you rode him. He closed his eyes and began stroking himself at the pace you were setting in his mind. He imagined your tight little cunt, wrapped perfectly around him, convulsing and tightening when your pleasure increased. 

He groaned, desire soaring and his strokes picked up speed, his hand tightening around his dick. You increased your speed in his fantasy, slamming down on his cock and moaning, your sweet voice begging him for more, more, more. Your head leaned back, exposing your throat and he imagined grabbing it, hand tightening around the delicate skin until the pleasure was too much and you were coming, tightening almost painfully around him. 

Fuck. 

He groaned out your name, stifling his loud moans with a pillow, as ropes of cum spurted from him, landing on his lower stomach and sheets.