Who calls the (cum) shots

Character-driven blow jobs challenge convention of who's in control of baby-making.

My head lays on his stomach, my ear against his belly button.

“Do you really believe this is it for us?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Two kids. Two boys. That’ll be it, then?” 

“Absolutely.”

I roll my face into his stomach and smile. Pulling my head up, I accidentally pluck a strand of his stomach hair. His abs tighten reflexively. “Cheeky.”

“That was an accident,” I say.

“Of course.”

“I’d feel sad knowing it was over, no matter how many we have. It’s pure emotion for me.”

“More kids would be untenable.” 

“You, on the other hand, are pure logic.” 

“We’d go mad.”

“Well. Many may ask if we’ll have more. But only one can decide,” I say with my voice-over voice.

He squints, tilting his head.

“The keeper of the sperm. The boss of the semen. The cum master. Only he can choose where the seed is sent.” His brow furrows at my performance, but I don’t let that stop me. “I am only its humble recipient. A cum receptacle.”

“Ok, that part is arousing.”