Surrogates

SURROGATES

K D Grace

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

More from Mischief

About Mischief

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Francie? Francie, are you there?’

Dan made his way around behind the jungle of runner beans, getting a shoeful of soil when he stepped off the path. As the warm, moist earth infiltrated his dress socks, he would have cursed his clumsiness, but then he saw her on hands and knees, the swell of her hips slightly raised in her efforts to pull stubborn weeds. She didn’t have to do that. She was the head kitchen gardener, a goddess in her domain. He hired underlings to do the weeding, but fuck, he was glad she took the hands-on approach, especially at times like this. She had kicked off the silly blue plastic gardening clogs she always wore, and her bare toes curled into the soft earth as though the very touch of it was an irresistible pleasure. How could soil between toes be so goddamned sexy?

The thin summer skirt she wore barely covered the heart-shaped roundness of her bottom, hugging her and clinging in the heavy summer heat to the delicious juncture where her thighs met. There were clearly no panty lines. She gardened in skirts, like she wanted to expose herself, like the acts of planting and digging and cultivating made her a naughty bitch who couldn’t get enough. But then that was the way he saw her in his fantasies, and oh shit, did he have fantasies about her! His cock jerked with an insistence that nearly took his breath away. ‘There you are,’ he breathed, fingers already fumbling at his fly.

‘Go away. I’m busy,’ she said, giving some unfortunate weed an angry tug, an act that made the thin skirt quiver, made the firm muscles of her buttocks beneath clench and release. And his balls surged, sending a testosterone buzz clear to the crown of his head.

He ignored the anger in her voice. Well, he didn’t actually ignore it. Her saucy temper made his cock even harder. ‘It’s all right, darling, you keep on working. Just lift your skirt for me.’ He grunted softly as he released his cock into his hand.

‘Lift it yourself. I said I’m busy.’

‘You know I can’t do that, sweetheart.’

She growled something particularly feral under her breath. He figured it wasn’t fit for polite company, which made him wish all the more that he’d heard it.

‘I’ve got such a load for you. I’ll come all over it if you don’t lift it for me,’ he said.

‘I have other skirts, Daniel.’ She only called him Daniel when she was really angry. ‘Why do I care where you come?’

‘Because you know where I really want to come, darling, and you have to know how badly I want it.’ He moved slightly to one side, not so far that her magnificent bottom wasn’t the centre of his attention, but far enough that, in her peripheral vision, she might catch a glimpse of him stroking his cock. Even if she couldn’t, she knew what he was doing, and he had no intention of being quiet about it. He lifted his balls free from his boxers and groaned at the feel of himself, so full, so heavy for her.

She gave another angry yank at the offending weeds, and the resulting squeeze of her buttocks nearly sent him over the edge.

He spat on his hand noisily, rubbed his saliva over the length of his cock and groaned again, squinting at her exquisite backside as though if he just stared at it hard enough he could slide the skirt up over her hips with sheer desire. And the view would be magnificent. The way her knees were open, the way she braced herself on the garden mat, would showcase the tight dark bud of her anus nestled just above the splayed pout of her pussy. And her pussy, he had no doubt, would be slickened from knowing what he was doing, from knowing what he’d come for, what he so desperately wanted … needed.

‘You were with her, weren’t you? You were with your wife,’ she said, reaching a gloved hand to deposit a handful of weeds in the trug next to her, an act that made the skirt ride up even further, leaving him breathless.

‘What? No! I wasn’t. I promise. I had a meeting with my accountant that overran. I swear it, Francie darling. I haven’t seen Bel since I got home. Besides she’s staying over at her sister’s this evening. They’re having a girls’ night out. Sweetheart, you know if I were with her, I’d tell you. Haven’t I always been above board about what goes on between Bel and me?’

She knew he had. Not that there was much to tell, but on the odd occasion when Bel had had too much wine with dinner and demanded he do his husbandly duty, or when she was feeling morose about her advancing years, all thirty-four of them, and needed to be shown she was still sexy, he never lied about it. It didn’t matter what sex acts he’d had to perform to please his wife; when Francie asked for details, he gave them. A part of him hated that she always asked. Surely she knew it would be easier if she didn’t know, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. And he didn’t hold back anything, even though he was always careful to remind her that, when he did his duty where Bel was concerned, it was thinking about her, Francie, that made him come.

And all the while he told Francie what he’d done to Bel, told her details that made him blush, details that made his cock stretch and arch towards her, she listened while her cunt got slick and fat. Even as those details made her angry and unhappy, she asked for them. And while he told her, she played with herself, fingers darting furiously in and out between her heavy slippery folds, hips shifting and grinding as she asked him in clipped, breathless words for more details. What did Bel’s pussy look like? How did she smell? Could he taste the wine she’d drunk or the spices from Cook’s curry when he ate her out? How hard did her nipples get? Did she talk dirty when he pushed into her? Jesus, having sex with Bel, even though he knew it hurt Francie, was almost worth it to watch the way Francie took the pain, twisted it, turned it, reshaped it and came on it, came in lovely gushing female squirts at what she had made of it in her filthy little head.

Of course she didn’t like it that someone else got his cock while she only got to watch him wank. He didn’t like it either, but there was nothing for it at the moment. As much as he wanted Francie, as much as he dreamed of riding her raw, he was still married to Bel, and he would stay faithful until he got the balls to ask for a divorce. No matter how badly he wanted Francie, he could never behave towards Bel the way his father had towards his mother.

So why was he such a coward? People got divorced every day. Lots of people. Hell, he knew people who had already been married and divorced multiple times. It was a simple thing to ask for a divorce these days. And yet here he was like a damned adolescent begging for a peek under a girl’s skirt. ‘Please, darling,’ he said. ‘I don’t have a lot of time, and I want to spend what I do have with you.’

He saw the sigh shiver up through her body, and he knew he’d been forgiven. She knelt up enough to take off her gloves, then with one hand she eased the skirt up over her hips and wriggled slightly to open her legs a little wider on the mat.

He pressed his thumb to the head of his cock. The urge to come at the sight of her all engorged and open was nearly overwhelming. The pearlescent sheen on the inside of her pouting labia told him he wasn’t the only one who needed to come. As she arched her back downward and forced her bottom even higher, her clit came into view looking like a heavy swollen marble at the apex of her pussy. ‘Oh, Francie,’ he breathed, ‘touch it for me.’

She dipped her index and middle fingers in between her slick folds then drew them upward tightly against either side of her clit until it bulged still further, like soft, ripe fruit waiting to be nibbled. And, fuck, how he wished he could!

‘Do you like that?’ she murmured, glancing over her shoulder.

‘Oh God, yes,’ he grunted.

‘I thought you weren’t going to show. I was angry,’ she said. ‘Oh, I definitely had plans for the vegetables I was sending Cook for your dinner tonight.’ She nodded at the basket of mixed phallic veg sitting on the ground next to her.

His cock jerked. ‘Show me,’ he whispered. ‘Show me what you were going to do to my veg.’

She took a heavy courgette slightly thicker than his cock, crooked and arched nearly in the shape of a banana. She gave it a leisurely deep-throating that had him thumbing the underside of his cock again, that had him imagining how it would feel if it were him getting the benefit of her delicious tongue. Her cheek muscles tugged and pulled on the courgette like it was a rod of steel.

When she was absolutely certain she had his full attention, she repositioned herself to face him. She wriggled her bare arse down on to the mat with her legs splayed. With one hand she scrunched her skirt into a wad just below her navel, raking her long slender hand over tightly trimmed pubic curls, then she slid two fingers into her milky cunt and opened herself. With a little lifting of her buttocks and shifting of her hips she was ready. She snugged the hard jut of the courgette up tight against her reluctant pout.

Suddenly it was as though he weren’t even there, and that made it all the harder for him to hold his wad. She spat on her fingers and rubbed saliva around the place where the courgette met the tight press of her cunt hole. As though the task at hand demanded all the focus in the world, she alternately lubricated and pushed, lubricated and pushed, all the while making tight little grunting sounds low in her belly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the slow but relentless yielding of her grudging pussy to the press of the veg. With each push, with each shift, her clit marbled and beaded harder and harder just above the nudging of the courgette. She continued to push and stroke, push and stroke until at last her pussy hole yielded, her eyes fluttered and she caught her breath in a little gasp as the veg slid cock-deep into her gash.

‘Ah!’ she breathed. ‘That’s better. That’s just what I needed. Such a tight fit, but oh so yummy.’ Then she raised her eyes to meet his and offered him a smile that was almost shy. ‘Now I’m ready to come.’ Fingers still wet from her efforts with the veg, she undid the buttons of her sundress, releasing high firm breasts topped with heavy raspberry nipples into the pinching, kneading caress of one hand.

‘I don’t know about you –’ she grunted as she began to thrust and gyrate against the veg ‘– but I won’t be able to hold back long with all this heft up in my tight little fanny. And when I’m done coming, I’ll let you take the veg to the house for Cook. That way if you want to sneak a taste of my cunt, who’ll know?’ With each breathless thrust she lifted her arse off the gardening mat, giving him teasing glimpses of her gripping anus, and she knew exactly what he was looking at. She offered a throaty chuckle. ‘Maybe next time I’ll let you watch me shove a nice plump carrot back there. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

He only nodded. This was the point in their wank sessions where he always fell silent, too taken in by the heat of her, by the want of her, by the knowing that this was as much as he could allow himself of her, no matter how willing she was. He yanked at his cock like it was a wild thing he had to tame. He yanked until it hurt, and he kneaded his balls, feeling the surge at the base all ready to spill out on to the warm earth in front of Francie. It was the best he had to offer her right now, his humiliation, his need, his lust once removed.

She fell back on to the ground with a little cry, legs apart, offering him an exquisite view of the tremors of her orgasm tightly stretched around the courgette. The view, combined with the ripe scent of her, was more than he could endure, and he unloaded in heavy spurts on to the ground scant centimetres from her bare thigh. He unloaded till he thought he’d turn himself inside out, convulsing and grunting until he was spent, bent forward on his knees in the veg bed next to her, gasping and gulping for breath.

It was almost enough to give him the courage to ask Isabel for a divorce. He was sure he could almost do it after such erotic bliss, and what a lovely surprise it would be for Francie. But before he could verbalise that bliss, Bel’s voice rang out over the garden wall.

‘Dan? Dan, are you there?’ Fortunately they heard her before she found them.

Francie cursed under her breath, grabbed the basket and fled into the greenhouse.

With a painful effort, Dan shoved his cock into his trousers and kicked at the earth to bury the evidence. ‘Coming, Bel.’ He fought hard not to sound breathless as his wife, dressed in tight jeans and a vest that showed plenty of her ample cleavage, stepped through the gate. He forced a smile. ‘I thought you were at your sister’s for the night, sweetheart.’

‘We had to cancel. She’s down with some sort of stomach virus.’ She grimaced. ‘God knows, I don’t need that.’ She took his arm. ‘I’ll be keeping you company this evening, darling. I thought maybe we’d make our own entertainment a little later. My massage therapist says sex is great for keeping the skin looking young. She says you’d be surprised at all the health benefits of an active sex life.’

Dan gave a quick glance over his shoulder, hoping desperately that Francie hadn’t overheard, but she had disappeared.

Bel continued. ‘Cook told me you were out here, so I thought I’d come down and have Francie send up a few more veg for dinner. During my massage today, Ellen also told me that we’d both benefit from eating more veg. She says a diet full of veg is the next best thing to the fountain of youth.’ She gestured exuberantly. ‘She says veg and sex are the keys to health and vitality. She says Francie probably grows most of the veggie superfoods right here in her garden.’ She looked around. ‘Where is Francie anyway? You haven’t seen her, have you?

Chapter Two

‘I must be out of my fucking mind.’ Francie shoved the basket of vegetables that would enhance Dan and Bel’s dinner tonight on to the big staging table in the greenhouse and wiped frantically at her eyes with the backs of her hands. She wasn’t about to cry. She wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

They were going to feast on her vegetables. Her vegetables would give them the strength and stamina to make their own entertainment. Wasn’t that what Bel said? Make their own fucking entertainment, and why not? The woman was his wife. And Francie was nothing more than the hired help. The stupid hired help, who didn’t have enough brains to stay away from her gorgeous boss! Make that her arsehole boss, she mentally corrected herself. She bit back a sob and grabbed a tray of basil seedlings from the incubator. Cook wanted a couple of new basil plants for the kitchen. Bel had it in her head that basil was the herb of eternal youth and had practically been grazing on the stuff recently.

‘Excuse me, have you seen Dan?’

Francie spun around and nearly jumped out of her skin at the sight of the unexpected man standing so close behind her. She dropped the tray, and seedlings and compost exploded on to the floor.

That was it. That was the straw that broke the gardener’s back. She’d babied those seedlings along for weeks now, keeping them safe and warm and trauma-free, then this happens. She burst into tears.

‘Oh God! Oh God! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Please don’t cry. Here, let me help you.’

But it was suddenly like the dam had burst. She had endured all these weeks of wanting Dan so badly, all these weeks of knowing that no matter what he said, no matter how hot their wank sessions were, at the end of the day it wasn’t her bed he shared. Then there were all the weeks of feeling guilty because while he stayed faithful to Bel, she didn’t care. She would have fucked him in a New York minute. And she liked Bel. That was a part of the problem. Bel was OK. Bel was wonderful. Still, she would have fucked him if he’d asked. But he didn’t. And it all bubbled over in one upturned tray of basil seedlings.

‘Here, sit down. Please don’t cry. I’ll take care of it,’ the man was saying, guiding her away from the mess on the floor. ‘There, there. It’ll be OK. Basil seedlings are tough. They’ll be OK, just please stop crying. Can I get you some water? Aspirin, maybe? Anything?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead he guided her to the stool near the staging table and settled her gently on to it. Then he knelt, scooped the spilled compost into the tray and began to replant the seedlings one by one. ‘There, you see? It’ll be OK. You see, no damage, just a little spill. Not even one broken stem. Don’t worry, these will be just fine.’

Even through the tears she recognised the untidy nails of a fellow gardener. It wouldn’t have mattered if his hands had been meticulously scrubbed and manicured, she would have known by the careful way he rescued the little basil plants, taking them gently by their stems and placing them back in the compost.

‘There, you see? Good as new.’ He placed the tray on the table next to the basket of veg. ‘Lovely veg, by the way,’ he added. ‘The courgettes are exquisite. Did you grow them?’ He picked up the one that had been shoved up her cunt only minutes before and she burst into tears again. A courgette! She had actually been reduced to fucking a courgette.

‘Oh dear. Oh God. I’m so sorry.’

She scrabbled off the stool to make a run for it, anywhere but here, someplace where she could hide her humiliation. ‘Wait! Don’t run off like that.’ He slipped an arm around her and caught her before she could flee. ‘I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. Please at least give me a chance to apologise.’

‘No, no. It’s not you,’ she sobbed against his shoulder. ‘You have nothing to apologise for. You’re doing great, wonderful, actually. It’s me. I’m so stupid. So absolutely stupid.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I know stupid when I see it, and you’re not it.’ He tightened his arms around her and she felt good solid muscle in the embrace. God, how long had it been since she felt good solid male muscle? She slipped her arms around his neck. He was tall and, as he tightened his embrace, he practically lifted her off her feet. Tall and strong, she thought, as the muscles low in her belly gave a little quiver.

One large hand began to stroke her mussed hair. She hadn’t worn it back today because Dan liked it loose, but Dan never touched it. This bloke was touching it, gently, tenderly, the same way he’d touched her seedlings. Her nipples beaded to a tight, nearly painful press against the rise and fall of his chest. She could feel the heat of his breath against the top of her ear, breath which seemed to have accelerated a bit. He continued, ‘In fact, if that veg garden I walked past is your doing, then I’d say you’re anything but stupid. You’re an artist. I’m in awe.’

Then she did the unthinkable. She curled her fingers in his thick brown hair and pulled his face down to hers. A little sigh of surprise escaped his throat, but he didn’t resist. Still standing on tiptoe, she brushed her lips across his. Not only did he not resist, but he returned the favour, cupping her cheek in his large hand and lifting her off her feet with the arm that now encircled her waist. The brush of lips became a full-fledged assault, tongues sparring, lips crushing, breath coming in harsh little gasps. And it wasn’t just the mouth. It was the overall effect of a real body, a real live male body barely able to contain the erection she could now clearly feel through his jeans. And just from the rub up, it made the courgette seem rather inadequate.

‘I don’t know you nearly well enough for this,’ he said when he finally came up for air. But before she could apologise for her unacceptable behaviour, his mouth was up for round two. This time, he lifted her bodily on to the staging table, her legs falling open on either side of him, her dress scrunching until rough denim raked the moist satin gusset of her knickers.

‘You’ve rescued my seedlings and fondled my courgette. That’s good enough for me,’ she breathed against his mouth.

She was just getting ready to open his fly and free Simba when Cook called from the garden path.

‘Francie? Francie, are you there?’

They barely managed to straighten themselves and look like they were engaged with the seedlings when a heavy-set woman in a pink track suit huffed through the greenhouse door all aflutter and already in full conversation mode. ‘There you are, Francie. Ms Bel says I’m not cooking enough vegetables. That silly massage therapist of hers says she should eat more, can you believe it? If the woman eats any more vegetables, she’ll be taking up residence in the toilet. Last I heard diarrhoea wasn’t an anti-ageing treatment, but what do I know? I’m just the cook. Oh, hello.’ She addressed the man next to Francie with a smile of approval, and smoothed her always frizzy hair with a flutter of her hand. ‘And who might you be?’

‘I might be Simon, Simon Paris. I’m here to see Dan … er … Mr Alexander, about the Renaissance garden he’s planning.’

‘He and Ms Bel just got home a few minutes ago.’ Cook nodded towards the big house rising above the shrubbery and trees. ‘You can walk back with me if you’d like.’

‘If you give me a second, I’ll pot up a couple of basil plants for you to take back with you,’ Francie said, when she’d caught her breath.

‘Oh, lovely, lovely,’ the woman said. ‘I’ll just have a wander around, see what’s ready, and get some ideas for next week’s menus.’ She turned on her heels and disappeared into the veg patch.

Before Francie knew what was happening, Simon found the dibber and the nesting terracotta pots she had planned to use for the basil then brought them to where the rescued plants perched on the table looking no worse for their tumble. ‘You OK?’ He asked, as she busied herself transplanting the seedlings, trying to salvage what little dignity remained to her.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Fine. Sorry about that. Just not a good day and, well, I’m a bit sensitive about my seedlings.’

‘I can understand that,’ he said, filling the pots with the mix of compost and grit she’d made up for the seedlings earlier. His hands were large and rough and clearly used to hard work. It was only then, only after she’d managed to regain some composure that she had time to properly take in the rest of the package. His faded but clean T-shirt bore the words ‘Renaissance Gardens’ in flowing italic script stretched just tightly enough over one mounded pec to convince Francie that what was underneath would be as much a pleasure to look at as it was to be pressed up against. She glanced up into startling grey eyes which offset a spattering of sun-browned freckles, all balanced by a broad smile that might well have been the warmest thing she’d felt all day. All in all he was a lovely specimen of maleness that, when combined with the adept way he dealt with her seedlings and her physical attack on his person, made her feel a whole lot better.

‘I’m very sensitive about anything I’ve nurtured and tended to,’ he was saying by the time she got her eyes up past the nice chest to the equally nice face. ‘And these are lovely seedlings, sturdy, healthy, not leggy.’