Interracial | Pregnancy | Erotica
Wombs as Reparations — Chapter 23
Hello, and welcome to the newsletter for “Mixed Pregnancy Stories”. This article is Chapter 23 of a series called “Wombs as Reparations,” an erotic story about a sweet, young girl and her journey towards racial, and sexual liberation. If you haven’t read Chapter 1, you can do so by clicking here.
Harold helped Stephanie waddle up onto the stage at the school’s basketball arena. The day had finally arrived. It was her time to introduce her radical idea to the world.
It had been quite the journey to get this far. Not only did she have to blackmail the Dean of the school, but there were almost one hundred protesters at the stadium’s entrance. Most held picket signs or Tiki torches, expressing their concerns without appearing racist.
But to her delight, there were nearly 10 times as many counter-protesters. There were several hundred on Stephanie’s side, ready to protect her freedom of speech. And the “good guys” were way more diverse, but that didn’t surprise anyone.
There were three thousand people in the stands, most of whom only showed up to see what all the fuss was about. Funny enough, the protestors brought a lot of traffic to her little event.
Stephanie was wearing a white blouse that barely covered her humongous belly. It was the most prominent shirt she owned, at least semi-formal. As she waddled towards the arena’s entrance, a splash of hot coffee came out of nowhere and splashed onto her torso.
Stephanie screamed as the campus security scrambled to cover her from further debris, and a few of them had to shove three angry protestors away. Nobody could tell who threw it, but thankfully, it wasn’t hot enough to cause any skin damage.
The auditorium was nearly full when she stepped onto the stage, her heart still racing from her encounter outside. She took a deep breath, gripping the sides of the podium to steady herself. As she looked out at the sea of faces, she saw a mix of curiosity, skepticism, and support. She could still hear the faint chants of the protestors outside, but she pushed them from her mind.
“Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice shaking a bit. “Today, I want to talk to you about something very personal to me. I want to talk to you about the possibility of becoming a surrogate for families who desperately need your help.”
She went on to share stories of Black couples who had struggled to find surrogates, explaining the emotional and social challenges they faced. Just as people of color had been denied their freedom, access to property, and higher education in the past, they continue to suffer discrimination in the surrogacy industry. Black couples who try working with agencies are often put at the bottom of the list if not outright denied.
She emphasized the importance of diversity and representation, breaking down barriers, and building bridges. As she spoke, she could feel the skepticism in the audience melt away.
“We all are a privileged lot,” she continued, referring to the white college students in the audience. “What prejudices have we had to suffer? Sure, being a woman is hard in today’s America. But try being a Black woman!”
The arena was silent.
“Despite all the atrocities our ancestors have committed against our Black brothers and sisters, we can at least begin to make things right.”
She paused to lift up her blouse and expose her bare, protruding belly.
“A Black man did this to me,” she continued. “My belly is swollen with his seed, and I’m due any day now. Most of my friends and family quit speaking to me once they found out. They think I ‘ruined my bloodline.’ But to tell you the truth, I couldn’t be any happier.”
She paused as she felt a sudden contraction. Please, God, don’t go into labor now.
“Our professors preach nonstop about the benefits of diversity and inclusion, but last time I checked, they’re almost all pasty white guys with a few white women scattered about. Well, why don’t we put our money where our mouth is? Why don’t we create a more diverse world?”
Stephanie grabbed the remote from the podium and pointed it to the massive screen behind her. It displayed a chart plotting America’s white population versus its mixed population.
“Each year, America is becoming less white and more diverse. And that’s a good thing.”
Suddenly, she felt another contraction, but this time, it caused her to let out an audible grunt.
“Excuse me… they must be excited,” She remarked, rubbing her big round belly, now glistening from the bright stage lights.
“Mixed relationships are growing at a faster rate than any other pair, and the most common is white females paired with Black males. If this trend continues, the majority of Americans will be mixed race in 20 years. The future of America is this.” She said, gesturing towards her stomach.
“So, do you want to watch the world pass you by or be a part of it?”
The arena fell silent.
“Several volunteers in Black shirts will be passing around clipboards for any white girls interested in giving up their wombs to Black families in need. We need your help to right the wrongs of racial injustice that have plagued our country for centuries. It’s not enough to just pay lip service to people of color. It’s time to act.”
Dozens of volunteers roamed the auditorium looking for willing participants.
Unfortunately, nobody seemed interested. For 30 seconds, not a single college girl raised her hand to sign her womb up for service.
Until out of nowhere, a middle-aged housewife shoots her hand into the air, to her husband’s horror. As she was handed a clipboard, he leaned over and demanded an explanation.
“I don’t need to explain anything,” she remarked, handing the filled-out sheet back to the volunteer. “It’s my body, my choice.”
Then, a college freshman with red hair gave her information. Her 6 friends quickly followed suit.
Suddenly, almost half of the college girls in attendance were scrambling to give their wombs up for rent. The volunteers ran out of sheets and had to send someone to gather printer paper for the vast demand.
Although Stephanie was delighted to see that her plan worked to perfection, she had to waddle to an office because she could hardly stand. Her contractions were getting worse.
Between cramps, she pulled out her phone and texted Karen.
“Come to the office behind the stage. 109C.”
She was stretched out on a long black sofa, sinking into the cushions from the sheer weight of her stomach. It probably weighed 60 pounds by itself. Surely, she wasn’t going into labor, right? She still had so much work to do. Plus, she needed to figure out how to make Harold put his name on the birth certificate.
Suddenly, her friend opened the office door.
“Oh my God, you’re huge!” Karen shrieked.
Stephanie rolled her eyes as she lifted her shirt. She knew her friend wanted to rub her round tummy. It was as tight as a drum.
Karen pulled out some belly butter from her purse and started to apply it all over the big globe that sat in front of her.
“You look so sexy, Steph. What’s your secret for looking so good throughout pregnancy?” She asked.
“Getting my horny friends to put belly butter all over me,” Stephanie replied.
Stephanie leaned in closer to Karen, her lips meeting her friend’s. The office around them seemed to melt away as they lost themselves in the moment. It had been a stressful few months, and this reignited flame with Karen had been a welcome distraction.
But just as things began to heat up, a sharp pain shot through Stephanie’s abdomen. She pulled back, gasping, her hand instinctively going to her swollen belly.
“Stephanie, are you okay?” Karen asked, concern replacing the desire in her eyes.
“Contractions,” Stephanie managed to say through gritted teeth. “Bad ones.”
Karen quickly helped her to a nearby chair, her face a mask of worry. “You need to call Harold. He should be right outside.”
Stephanie nodded, her breathing shallow and fast. Harold had been her rock throughout the pregnancy, even though he wasn’t the biological father. But right now, she was more annoyed than comforted by his presence.
Moments later, Harold burst into the office, his face pale with worry. “Stephanie, are you alright? What happened?”
“I think it’s time, Harold,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation. “But that’s not the issue right now.”
Harold knelt beside her, taking her hand. “What do you need? Tell me what to do.”
Stephanie squeezed her eyes shut, another wave of pain washing over her. When she opened them again, she looked directly at Harold, her expression fierce. “I need you to go into my phone and contact Treyvon.”
Harold blinked, taken aback. “Treyvon? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she snapped. “He’s the father. He deserves to be here.
Harold swallowed hard, his heart sinking. He had always known this moment might come, but it didn’t make it any easier. Taking a deep breath, he nodded and reached for her phone on the desk.
Steph could sense his uneasiness.
“Baby, I know these aren’t yours, but you’ll be there for me regardless, right?” She pleaded.
Karen watched silently, her face a mixture of sympathy and confusion. She hadn’t known the full extent of Stephanie’s complicated situation until now. Harold unlocked the phone with Stephanie’s guidance and found Treyvon’s number.
“What should I say?” Harold asked, his voice strained.
“Tell him I’m in labor, and he needs to get to the hospital,” Stephanie said, her tone softening slightly. “Please, Harold.”
He typed out the message, his fingers trembling. “Stephanie’s in labor. She wants you to be there. We’re heading to the hospital now. Please come.”
He hit send and looked up at Stephanie, who was breathing heavily, trying to manage the pain. “It’s done. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
With Karen’s help, Harold guided Stephanie to the car. He kept one hand on her back and the other on her humongous belly to help stabilize her.
The drive was tense, every contraction making Stephanie gasp and clutch the seat. Harold kept glancing at his phone, hoping for a response from Treyvon.
“Anything from Trey?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Inside the hospital, the nurses quickly took over, guiding Stephanie to a delivery room. Harold stayed by her side, holding her hand through the pain, even as he felt his heart breaking a little more with each passing minute. Karen stood nearby, offering support, her presence a calming influence.
Suddenly, a nurse barged into the room.
“Is he the father?” The nurse asked.
A silence fell over the room.
“Yes,” Stephanie replied confidently. “Isn’t that right, honey?” She said, her eyes glistening in the dark room.
“Uh… yes, I am.” He replied.
“Okay, follow me,” the nurse said.
Stephanie was confused. What was going on? She was starting to freak out.
Karen calmed her down. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll go check it out.”
Steph’s friend followed the nurse and the fiance until they entered another room. A few minutes passed, and she couldn’t take the suspense. Finally, she barged open the door, and she gasped at the unexpected sight.
Harold was standing naked against the window, and the nurse was on her knees, sucking his dick.
“H-Harold!!! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!”
Thank you for reading Chapter 23 of Wombs as Reparations! We couldn’t do this without your passion and support, and if you’d like to get notified when we post the next chapter, click the follow button on this page!
