Fictional story about possible impregnation of two ladies who agree to appear in some marketing videos.
The humid Dominican air clung to everything as I stepped off the shuttle at the all-inclusive resort. Sixty-two, married, and traveling alone—my wife had work obligations that kept her home—I was here for one reason: to shoot promotional footage for my business. The resort knew me; they knew my videos brought them bookings. They had put me in a three-bedroom villa with its own pool and hot tub, private enough that I could work without interruption.
By the second day I had already filmed a couple of the VIP beaches and two of the higher-end restaurants. Around lunch I stopped at one of the lesser quick-service spots. That’s where I noticed them.
Joan and Jill sat at a small table under an umbrella, picking at sandwiches and complaining in low voices. Both looked to be in their late twenties, petite, and striking in the way that turns heads without trying. Joan had dark hair that fell in soft waves past her shoulders and a sharper set to her mouth, the kind that suggested she was used to making decisions. Jill’s was lighter, pulled back, showing off a graceful neck; her eyes moved more, taking things in before she spoke. They wore simple sundresses that still managed to hint at the bodies underneath.
I overheard enough. They were guests of a standard member, which meant limited access—no top restaurants, no premium bars, only three of the seven beaches. Their husbands were back home. They were close friends who had decided to take the trip together.
I walked over.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Couldn’t help overhearing. You’re stuck on the standard package?”
They both looked up. Joan’s dark eyes assessed me quickly. Jill’s were lighter, curious, already glancing at her friend for a cue.
“Yeah,” Jill said with a small sigh. “Unfortunately. Our husbands couldn’t get the time off, so it’s just the two of us sharing a two-bedroom suite.”
“I’ve got villa privileges,” I told them. “Private pool, better restaurants, all the beaches. If you want, I might be able to get you into the good stuff.”
They looked at each other. Joan spoke first. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just keep me company and be models in my videos of the resort. The resort already knows my work. Want to come see the villa I am staying at?”
Jill’s gaze flicked to the path behind me, then back. “Models how, exactly? Like… what would we have to do?”
Joan didn’t look away from me. “And why us?”
I kept it simple. “Bikinis at the beach and pool, nice dresses for dinner. Natural footage. You’re both photogenic. That’s it.”
Another glance passed between them—longer this time. Jill’s fingers worried the edge of her napkin. Joan gave a small nod, more to herself than to me, then stood. Jill hesitated half a second longer before following.
As they rose, their good looks were very much confirmed. Both stood about five-four with petite frames—narrow waists, soft curves, the kind of bodies that looked delicate until you noticed the confidence in the way they moved. Joan carried herself with a quiet decisiveness; Jill moved a little more carefully, observing everything. Perfect models, I thought.
They followed me to my golf cart and we made the five-minute drive.
The villa sold them the moment they stepped inside. High ceilings, marble floors, a private pool glittering in the afternoon light, two empty bedrooms with king beds and an unobstructed view of the nearby mountain. Joan ran her hand along the back of a sofa and said, almost to herself, “God, I wish I could stay somewhere like this.”
Jill walked to the open doors and looked out at the pool without speaking.
“As I mentioned earlier, you can,” I said. “Three bedrooms, all en-suite. I’m only using the master. If the resort says yes (and I have no reason to believe they would not), you’d just cover the difference on the all-inclusive—twenty bucks a day each and appear in a few of my promo videos—bikinis at the beach and pool, nice dresses for dinner. That’s it.”
Joan turned. “And if we change our minds halfway through?”
“You can always go back to the standard suite. No hard feelings.”
Jill finally spoke. “Can we have a minute?”
I stepped out onto the patio. Through the glass I watched them talk in low voices—Joan leaning in, decisive; Jill listening, arms folded, then nodding once. When they came out, Joan said, “All right. Let’s see if the resort agrees.”
I explained it all to the resort reps that same afternoon. When I told them having the women stay in the villa would make the shoots cleaner and more natural, they agreed to transfer them as long as the fee difference was covered.
Joan and Jill moved their bags before dinner. Even then there was a small pause at the threshold of the villa, Jill glancing back toward the main path as if second-guessing the decision one last time. Joan touched her arm lightly and they went inside.
The next two days were a blur of sun and cameras. We spent long stretches on the premium beaches, plus a couple of sessions as the moon began to rise. Both women wore the skimpiest bikinis they owned—thin strings, triangles that barely contained them, bottoms that rode high on their hips and disappeared between their cheeks when they walked. I videoed them laughing in the surf, lounging on the daybeds, the light catching the water on their skin. Men stared openly. Servers lingered. Neither woman seemed to mind the attention, though Jill noticed the stares more and sometimes looked away first; Joan met them with a small, almost challenging smile.
At night we went to the top restaurants and bars. They wore short, fitted dresses that clung to every curve. The fabric shifted when they moved, revealing the lines of their thighs, the soft push of their petite breasts. More stares. More quiet comments from other tables. I filmed some of it from careful angles; the rest of the time I simply watched them enjoy the privilege they hadn’t had before.
On the evening of the third day—our second full day together—we ate at one of the best restaurants on the property, then watched the evening show. Afterward we returned to the villa and sank into the hot tub with drinks, the pool lights casting soft blue across the water. The night air was warm. The three of us sat close, legs brushing under the surface.
The conversation turned personal.
“Our husbands,” Joan said, swirling the water with one hand. She was the one who started it. “They’re good guys. They really are. But they keep putting off having children. Timing, money, career stuff… the usual.”
Jill nodded, quieter. “We’ve been talking about it for a couple of years. We both want to be pregnant at the same time—go through the whole first-baby thing together. But they just won’t pull the trigger.”
I listened for a while, then asked, “How close are you two? And the four of you?”
“Best friends,” Joan said. “All of us. Weekends together most of the time. The guys are basically brothers.”
“Have you ever… played with that?” I asked carefully. “Teased each other. Or each other’s husbands.”
They both shook their heads no. Jill’s answer came softer, almost thoughtful.
“You need to get them so worked up they stop thinking about condoms until it’s already too late,” I said. “Until you’re already on them, bare.”
Jill let out a short breath. “That’s the problem. They won’t go without. Even though it would be the first time either of us ever felt a guy raw. We’ve talked about it.”
I offered a few ideas. “You’re that close—maybe watch porn together. All four of you.”
“Neither of us has ever watched any,” Jill said. “And I don’t think the guys have either.”
“Stripteases for each other and them. Or go further—switch for a night. Same room or adjoining. Each of you with the other’s husband, then switch back before anyone finishes. Keeps the risk controlled but turns the heat way up.”
They both laughed, then fell quiet. Joan studied the water. Jill watched Joan.
“Have you two ever done anything with each other?” I asked.
“No,” Jill said softly.
“Might open the door to the rest,” I suggested.
Both of them hugged me for the suggestions—soft and grateful, bodies pressed against mine in the warm water a moment longer than friendship required. Joan’s hug was firmer, more deliberate; Jill’s lingered as if she were still deciding how she felt.
Later, after more time in the pool and more alcohol, I teased them lightly—hands on their waists, fingers tracing the edges of their bikini bottoms, nothing more. Then I said, “We should shower together. Keep the suits on. What’s left of them, anyway. Master shower is easily big enough. You two could wash each other. I can help if you want.”
Joan looked at Jill. “I don’t think I’m ready for us washing each other.”
Jill nodded. “But… you helping. One at a time. That might be okay.”
There was a short silence. Joan’s eyes met mine, assessing again. “Just washing,” she said. Not quite a question.
“Just washing,” I answered.
Joan went first under the spray while Jill waited just outside, towel around her shoulders, watching.
I washed Joan’s hair, fingers working through the dark strands. She washed mine in return, her small hands careful. Then I soaped her back in slow circles. She didn’t stop me when I untied the strings of her bikini top and let it fall. I washed her breasts, palms sliding over the soft weight of them, thumbs brushing her nipples until they tightened. She breathed a little faster. I slid her bottoms down her legs. Soap over the curve of her ass, then lower, between her thighs, across the neat strip of hair and the soft folds beneath. She leaned into my hands. We kissed once, then again, mouths open, water running over both of us. My swim trunks stayed on the entire time.
When the water shut off she looked at me, cheeks flushed. For a moment she didn’t reach for the towel.
“That made me more than a little horny,” she admitted. Her voice was quieter now, less decisive. “I probably shouldn’t have let it go that far. Jill’s right outside. And I’m married. This isn’t… I don’t do things like this.”
She wrapped a towel around herself, but she didn’t leave immediately. She stood there a few seconds longer, as if testing whether the feeling would fade. Then she went to her room.
Next was Jill’s turn. She took the towel off her shoulders, hung it over the bar on the door, and stepped into the shower with me. She glanced once toward the hallway where Joan had gone.
“Same treatment,” she said quietly. “Please.”
It wasn’t long until her bikini was off and my hands soaped and rinsed her body—smaller breasts, firmer ass, a different, cleaner taste when I finally kissed her. She kissed back, soft at first, then deeper. When we finished she looked at me with the same flushed, slightly stunned expression Joan had worn, but she said almost nothing. She simply nodded once, as if confirming something to herself, and went to her room.
Both women retired to their respective bedrooms.
An hour later there was a soft knock on my door.
Joan stood there in a short dress that barely covered the tops of her thighs, no bra visible under the thin fabric. She had made the decision alone.
“Can I come in for a bit?” she asked. “That shower was so wrong… but it felt really right.”
She hesitated, then added, “I’ve never watched porn before. Will you show me some?”
I pulled up a few carefully chosen videos on the large screen in my room. First a wife desperate to get pregnant while her husband couldn’t manage it. Then a husband who wanted to watch another man impregnate his wife (I had to explain what a cuck was). Then a woman who owed a man money and paid the debt by letting him fill her while her husband watched.
Joan sat close on the edge of the bed. At first she watched with a kind of wary curiosity, arms folded, asking quiet questions—“People actually film that?” “Is that what they really want?”—before the curiosity shifted into something warmer. We kissed while the videos played, the kisses growing deeper, wetter. During the third video my hand slid under the hem of her dress and found the front of her panties already soaked through. She didn’t push me away. I eased the dress up and off her, leaving her in only the matching bra and panties. Her breathing was shallow.
I switched to an audio story instead of video—a daughter-in-law at a secluded beach asking her husband’s father to impregnate her. I mentioned that our age difference was almost exactly the same as the one in the story.
The narrator described every step in slow, explicit detail. I followed the same path with Joan.
I unhooked her bra and let it fall. Took her panties down her legs. Laid her back on the bed and licked her slowly, thoroughly, until her thighs trembled and she came with a quiet, broken sound. I kept going, two fingers curling inside her while my tongue worked her clit, until she came again, harder, hips lifting off the mattress. Then I pushed my trunks down and settled between her legs. I started rubbing the head of my cock along her vaginal lips.
“Do you have a condom?” she asked.
“No. Wasn’t planning on anything like this.”
“I really want to know what it feels like… bare. But I’m scared. I’m right in the middle of my cycle. Super fertile right now.”
“We can stop.”
“No. Just… pull out before you finish. Please.”
With that I slid into her in one smooth thrust. She was tight and extremely wet. I fucked her deep and steady, the audio still playing, the fictional voices describing the exact things I was doing.
When I felt myself getting close I asked, “I’m close. Want me to pull out?”
Her answer came without hesitation. “No. Stay inside. This is so wrong… but it feels so right. You should finish. Knock me up. Give me the baby my husband won’t.”
I came hard, pulsing, filling her. She held onto me, legs wrapped around my waist, and encouraged me to finish in her.
We stayed like that for a long time afterward.
The next morning Jill found us in the kitchen. She said she had heard everything the night before. She looked at Joan, then at me. Her expression was calm, observational, as if she had already weighed the information.
“Do you think you got her pregnant?” she asked.
We both said yes.
Jill’s expression didn’t change much. She simply said, “I want the same.”
That night it was Jill in my bed. Similar short dress. Similar nervous excitement, though quieter.
“How did it start with Joan?” she asked.
I told her about the videos.
I showed her the same kind of cheating-pregnancy porn. She already knew what she was asking for. She watched with less commentary than Joan had, simply taking it in. I took my time with her body—smaller breasts, firmer ass, a different taste—and when I finally pushed into her she was just as wet and just as willing. I came inside her the same way, deep and deliberate, and she kept me there until I softened. She didn’t say much afterward; she just rested her forehead against my shoulder for a while, as if confirming the decision had been the right one.
On the final night of the trip the three of us ended up in my large bedroom together. The girls started with each other—kissing, hands exploring, mouths on each other’s breasts and then lower, taking turns making the other come while I watched. Joan was more vocal, guiding; Jill more focused, attentive. Then they both turned their attention to me. Soft mouths, wet tongues, hands stroking. When I was close they guided me into each of them in turn. I filled Joan first, then Jill, pulling out of one and sliding into the other without cleaning myself, so that by the end both of them were leaking my cum down their thighs.
They flew home the next day.
A week later Joan sent a series of text messages. She knew they needed to hide that they both might be pregnant. The messages are summarized below.
Both of them had gone to their husbands the night they returned. Condoms had “broken.” Both men had finished inside them. The women had looked appropriately surprised and a little worried. Their husbands had believed it.
The next night the four of them got together. The women sat the husbands down and started dancing slowly with each other. To the guys’ surprise they began kissing—light at first, then deeper. They unzipped and peeled off each other’s dresses until they were left in just bras and panties, hands roaming, squeezing breasts, rubbing over the fronts of panties.
Then they separated and moved to the other woman’s husband. They pulled the men up, stripped off their shirts and pants, pushed them down onto the furniture, and climbed on, grinding against the underwear still covering their cocks. Before the men could fully process it, the women were deep-kissing them.
They told the men they were each going to take the wife they were currently with to bed and fuck her properly. They reminded them both women were still very fertile.
One rule: if either or both ended up pregnant, there would be no DNA tests. Each couple would raise the child as their own. No one would ever know who the real father was.
In the last message, Joan didn’t say whether either of them was pregnant.
I didn’t ask.
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