How young hot wife gets pregnant part two

After few years marriage wife wanted a baby. Things didn’t work out as we thought. She surprised me with the guy she gets pregnant by black man

Six months in and Amanda’s belly looked like she’d swallowed a beach ball at a rap concert. Every time she waddled into the kitchen I got rock hard just watching that glorious black-baby basketball bounce. I’d snap another picture for our “Growing Evidence” folder and immediately need to celebrate by humping her leg like a confused chihuahua.

“Easy there, little guy,” she’d giggle, patting my head. “You’re gonna poke the baby’s eye out with that tiny thing.”

That was her new favorite joke. My 5-inch soldier had been officially demoted to “honorary consultant.” Kenny’s 9-inch wrecking crew was the only one with voting rights in her uterus.

One Saturday Kenny rolled up again in his shiny black SUV like he owned the driveway. He took one look at Amanda’s swollen tits and belly and grinned like a lottery winner.

“Damn, girl. You look like you ate a whole basketball team.”

I puffed out my chest. “That’s my wife carrying your baby, big guy!”

Kenny just stared at me for a second, then started laughing so hard he had to hold onto the counter. “Man, you really are something else. Most dudes would be crying in the garage. You’re out here taking weekly belly pics like a proud scrapbook mom.”

We all ended up in the bedroom again. Kenny had Amanda on all fours (the only position that still worked with the massive dome) while I sat in the “cuck chair” — a sad little folding seat I’d brought in specially. Every time he thrust deep, the baby would kick like it was trying to high-five its real dad through the womb. Amanda was moaning loud enough for the neighbors to file a noise complaint.

“Yes, Daddy—right there—fill up Mommy’s already full tank!”

I was furiously stroking my little guy when Kenny looked over mid-stroke, sweating and smirking. “Bro, you gonna finish before I do? Clock’s ticking.”

I came in about four pathetic seconds. Kenny lasted another twenty minutes and flooded her so thoroughly I swear I heard sloshing. When he finally pulled out, a thick river of him came pouring out onto our sheets. Amanda just sighed happily and rubbed her belly.

“See? Even the baby knows who the real MVP is.”

The next month was pure comedy. Amanda’s tits leaked randomly. One time at the grocery store she sneezed and two wet spots appeared on her shirt like she’d been shot by tiny water pistols. I proudly pushed the cart while strangers gave us the most confused looks in human history.

Old lady in the produce aisle: “Oh my, when are you due? And… is the father…?”

Amanda beamed. “Any day now! And yes, the father is very tall, very athletic, and very not this one.” She pointed at me like I was exhibit A in a museum titled Local Losers.

I just smiled like an idiot and said, “We’re very modern!”

The ultrasound tech nearly dropped her wand when she saw the baby. “Wow… that’s one healthy, very… strong-featured little boy.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Strong genes! From the donor!”

The tech looked at me like I’d grown a second head. Amanda just rubbed her belly and whispered loud enough for the whole room, “Kenny’s got excellent swimmers.”

Delivery day was legendary.

Amanda’s water broke right as she was riding Kenny reverse cowgirl in our living room (we’d turned it into a temporary “birthing suite” with plastic sheets and everything). She screamed, Kenny laughed, and I sprinted around like a headless chicken trying to find the hospital bag while still half-hard in my sweatpants.

At the hospital the nurse asked for the father’s information. I proudly stepped forward.

“Technically me, but genetically Kenny.”

The entire labor and delivery team went silent. Kenny — who had somehow sweet-talked his way into the room wearing scrubs two sizes too small — just waved from the corner. “Sup.”

The baby came out looking like a miniature Kenny with lungs that could power a jet engine. When the doctor held him up, the little guy took one look at me and immediately started crying harder.

Amanda was glowing. “Look at him! He’s perfect. Just like his daddy.”

I was tearing up (half from joy, half from the brutal reality) when Kenny clapped me on the back so hard I almost fell over.

“Thanks for the weekend rental, bro. Best nut of my life. I’ll send you some baby formula money or… whatever.”

Three weeks later we were home and the jokes had only gotten worse.

Every time the baby cried, Amanda would hand him to me and say, “Here, practice being useful.” Then she’d FaceTime Kenny so the baby could “hear his real dad’s voice” and immediately calm down.

I changed every diaper. I did every 3 a.m. feeding. And every single night when I finally crawled into bed exhausted, Amanda would roll over, belly still soft and stretch-marked like a battle trophy, and whisper:

“Ready for round two? Kenny says he’s free next month.”

I looked at the beautiful mess that used to be my life, then down at my sad little erection, and smiled like the happiest cuck on planet Earth.

“Book the hotel, baby. This time I’m bringing a better chair.”