Velour Couch

"Wait, what, I never..." Derek protested as Doug produced a syringe.

When he woke up, Doug was sucking his cock and Derek giggled.

Doug wiggled up and sucked on Derek's still quite sore nipples; then again thrust his tongue into Derek's mouth.

Derek felt Doug's cock bump against his very sore rectum and wiggled.

"Aw yeah, can't wait get my cock back in that pussy, huh?" Doug chuckled, mistaking Derek's motions for excitement.

Derek grunted in pain as Doug sat up and thrust his dry cock into Derek's sticky anus. He sobbed in shame as he realized, he was being taken like a girl. More tears of shame poured as he ejaculated onto Doug's belly.

When Doug finally did ejaculate into Derek's bowels, he used Derek's hair to pull Derek up into a sitting position.

"Got your pecker juice all over me, bitch," Doug snapped. "Better clean that shit up."

Still holding onto Derek's hair, Doug forced Derek's face close to his belly.

"Aw yeah," Doug chuckled as Derek used his mouth to lick Doug's belly clean.

Less than ten hours later, stomach cramping horribly, Derek begged Doug for another injection. Doug made Derek tongue his sweaty scrotum and soiled anus, then suck his cock before he fixed Derek up. Then he fucked Derek hard.

Derek's mother refused to give her son any more money and the two and three hundred dollar sales of drugs Doug managed to score wasn't enough to keep both men in heroin daily and pay the rent.

An infuriated Doug stared at the Eviction Notice taped to the apartment door, kicked the door in rather than check to see if his key still worked in the lock, and beat Derek mercilessly.

Derek died on the couch, died of a subdural hematoma while a contrite Doug hugged him and fucked him, sobbing his apologies.

It would take the landlord three weeks to clean the filth out of the apartment. The furniture, rotted food, clothing all went into the large dumpster behind the building.

An enterprising young lady retrieved much of those items. The clothing and the books were sold to a consignment shop; Derek's mother had given him many nice sweaters as well as a nice suit.

The cookware needed to be cleaned, but Carrie did manage to get the Paul Revere cookware looking almost new.

The loveseat, chair, and ottoman, she surmised, needed a serious steam cleaning; she thought it might be blue in color, but wasn't really sure.

The landlord did try to shampoo the carpet, but finally had to concede defeat and tear out the old carpet.

Finally, when the paint dried, he replaced the door and rented it to an older, seriously overweight woman and her yapping toy poodle.

Fourth Home

Carrie carefully pulled the material off of the foam rubber and cleaned the cushions with a solution of vinegar and water. Much of Derek and Doug's skin cells, seminal fluids, sweat and saliva were sponged away, leaving only a trace amount of the two unfortunate men.

Nicole's traces had been forced into the core of the cushions where her existence lies dormant with Sammy and Michelle's biological material.

The warmth of the sun baked the cushions; Carrie was a firm believer that there was nothing more soothing and wholesome than Nature herself.

Careful scrubbing of the velour material did remove a good amount of the stains and did restore the couch to its original garish blue color. The bold color, however, went very well with Carrie's 'shabby chic' washed out and well-worn white oak furniture.

"Oh, hey! Nice couch!" Stacy, Carrie's friend said as she entered her friend's apartment. "Been dumpster diving again, huh?"

"Shut up, Stacy; you just said it was nice," Carrie defended.

"Knew it," Stacy said smugly.

"Shut up Stacy; not all of us have a Baby Daddy helping out with the bills," Carrie snapped.

"Ooh, defensive," Stacy teased, rubbing Carrie's swelling belly. "Somebody getting a little cranky?"

"Quit," Carrie giggled, pushing Stacy's hand away.

"I swear to God, though, I cannot wait to drop this puppy," Stacy said and settled on the chair portion of the new couch. "Oh hey, this is nice."

"See?" Carrie said and sat at the opposite end, on the loveseat portion.

"And I swear to God; I knew how horny Frank gets around pregnant women? I'd have told him 'fuck you, Frank; you have the baby.' God! Minute I walk in he's all over me," Stacy complained happily.

"Uh huh, bitch," Carrie said. "Jack? He's all like 'shit girl, that ain't mine we done used them condoms, know what I'm saying,' and I'm like, 'Yo yo, home boy, you all white, know what I'm saying? Fucking talk English, huh?' Just fucking man up; it's your baby, bitch."

The two watched 'The Bachelor' and both complained when their favorite contestant was removed from the show. In between commenting on the show, gossip about friends and former classmates and complaining about their eternal pregnancies, the two nibbled on an endless supply of carrot sticks and celery sticks which they dipped into a variety of sauces.

"I can't stand this honey mustard shit; why you keep making it?" Stacy complained.

"Because you keep eating all the ranch, dill, and ginger shit I make," Carrie said.

After their show ended, Stacy true to form, did not help clean up; just left to walk up to the third floor of the apartment building.

Carrie sighed heavily as she lay back on the couch. She and Stacy were best friends, had been best friends since their first day of kindergarten. Carrie knew, however, that their friendship would come to a screeching halt if Stacy ever found out that the baby she was carrying was most likely Frank's baby.

And she knew that Stacy's complaint about Frank's attraction to pregnant women was true; Stacy went to her job at St. Elizabeth Parish Courthouse, leaving their complex at eight and at eight oh five, Frank was in Carrie's apartment, seeing to Carrie's physical needs.

Then, balls fully drained from Stacy's morning blow job and Carrie's shaved pussy, Frank would go to his job at Huvall's Texaco. If he gave an iota of thought to the guilt Carrie was carrying, if Frank gave an iota of thought to how upset Stacy would be, he did not show it.

After showering the illicit love off of her skin (Frank seemed to delight in pulling out to ejaculate onto her swollen belly) Carrie dressed and walked briskly to her part time job at Annie's Floral Designs, pulling her two wheeled cart behind her. Along the way, she kept her eyes open for any scraps and refuse that could be garnered, could be converted to cash.

By the time Carrie arrived at the back door of the florist, her little cart held several aluminum cans.

Gabriel Florez, Lily's husband, had made a can flattener for Carrie, made it out of two pieces of two by four attached by a hinge. While Carrie waited for Lily Florez to come open the shop, she busied herself with flattening the cans so they'd fit more compactly into her cart.

Lily smiled at the pregnant girl as she swung open the rear door of the shop. She did wish she could give Carrie more hours, but was dangerously close to having to let the enterprising. Young woman go. Between herself and their delivery driver, there was hardly any income left to pay Carrie the meager salary she did pay her.

"Look at you," Lily mock complained. "I swear, you sure you're six months? Looks more like two."

"Liar," Carrie laughed. "I look like I'm about to pop!"

After her four hour shift ended, Kamau, the delivery driver drove Carrie home and waited while she gathered up the other bags of crushed aluminum cans. Then he drove her to Siegel Recycling and smiled as the woman happily bounded back into the van.

"I had forty three bucks worth of cans!" she announced happily.

Lily had told Kamau, since she couldn't really afford to give the pregnant girl any more money; he was authorized to use the store's van to help the girl whenever possible.

"Wish my old lady would learn how to do that shit, like it'd kill her to help out a little, huh?" Kamau said genially as he dropped Carrie and her cart back off at her apartment.

Carrie pulled her cart up to the second floor. Just as she passed Apartment two A, the door opened and Carrie did not hide her groan.

"H-h-h-hi," Brennan stammered.

Carrie ignored the thirty three year old man as she stopped in front of Apartment Two C.

"L-l-l-listen, I kn-n-n-know you th-th-th-think I'm just th-th-th-this wee-wee-wee-weirdo, b-b-b-but I'm just t-t-t-t-trying t-t-t-to s-s-s-say h-h-h-hi t-t-t-to you," Brennan managed to stutter before Carrie could slam the door shut.

He sighed when the door did slam shut and cursed his damned speech impediment. Slowly, he closed his own door and returned to his job of writing. He wrote technical manuals, and knowing how to write and read Spanish and French was a definite plus. But he found it hard to concentrate on the battery powered children's scooter he was writing the manual for.

The girl was pretty. True, she was probably too young for him; he was thirty three and she didn't look any older than twenty, twenty one at the most. But Brennan was very lonely; it would be nice to have someone to share a cup of coffee with every now and then.

Carrie flopped down on her couch and felt absolutely horrible. Yes, the man was strange, odd, annoying. The almost daily greeting as she pulled her squeaking cart past his door was also a little creepy.

And, until Stacy decided to come down, or Frank decided to chance coming down for a quick fuck and suck, she had absolutely nothing to do but watch television. She was too frugal to buy more than basic cable, so she only received local stations. Which meant, there really wasn't much to watch.

"Wonder if he stutters when he fucks?" Carrie giggled out loud.

And it struck her, they'd been neighbors for nearly three months and she did not even know the man's name, other than 'that creepy fucker that lives in Two A.'

Carrie hefted herself off the couch, scurried into the bathroom, and emptied bladder and bowels, sighing in relief. Infrequent as it was, constipation was her least favorite part of pregnancy.

Brennan almost jumped when a knock came at the door. He looked through the peephole and blinked; it was the cute girl from Apartment Two C.

"h-h-h-hello?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Hi, I um, listen, I'm sorry I was rude to you; had to potty and was afraid I wouldn't make it," Carrie lied, smiling tightly; smiling tightly was a habit she had when she lied.

"Oh! Y-y-y-yeah, b-b-b-being p-p-p-pregnant' s g-g-g-g-got t-t-t-t-to b-b-b-be hard," he sympathized.

"You have no idea," Carrie agreed.

"N-n-n-n-no k-k-k-k-kidding!" Brennan agreed. "I'm a g-g-g-g-guy!"

Carrie laughed at his joke.

"Hi, I'm Carrie. Carrie Buckmeyer," she said, holding out her hand.

"B-b-b-b-bre-n-n-nnan B-b-b-b-brown-n-n-n-ner," Brennan smiled, shaking her hand.

She laughed again when Brennan said it was obvious his mother didn't know he was going to have a horrible stutter when she named him. She agreed to come in for a cup of coffee; she could smell the rich brew and it beckoned to her.

"Clinic says I'm not supposed to have this," she said as she stirred in powdered creamer and hefty amount of sugar. "But it's been what? A month since I've had a good cup of coffee."

She was impressed when he showed her what he did for a living, and made him blush when she declared he must be a genius for knowing how to write in Spanish and French, as well as English.

"Had this coffee pot, speaking of coffee, huh? Came with this book and if I'd have read it? I still wouldn't have a fucking clue how to use it. Finally just threw the book away and figured the stupid thing out myself," she said, sipping her coffee.

She looked around the apartment; Brennan's furniture did not look like it had been rescued. And his table and four chairs matched, unlike the table and three chairs she had. Two of her chairs were metal with vinyl seats and the third was a wooden chair with no padding.

"And I g-g-g-got th-th-th-this n-n-new b-b-b-bed, wa-wa-wa-with a p-p-p-pillow t-t-t-top," Brennan said excitedly. "It's s-s-s-so s-s-s-soft!"

"Oh! I'd LOVE to try that out!" Carrie said. "My bed's like a hundred years old."

The bed Carrie had was twenty four years old; it had been her aunts, then her cousin's bed. When Carrie's mother kicked her daughter out for becoming pregnant and refusing to get an abortion, Carrie's cousin gladly gave her the bed so he could get himself a newer, firmer one.

"G-g-g-go a h-h-h-h-head," Brennan offered. "I really g-g-g-got t-t-t-t-to g-g-g-get th-th-th-this f-f-f-fin-n-n-n-nished."

With the impulsiveness only the young and inexperienced can get away with, Carrie agreed to try out the bed.

Looking into the bedroom, Carrie deduced that Brennan probably slept on the left side of the queen sized bed, the side with the alarm clock, and the three pillows instead of just the single one that was on the right side. Carrie shook her head; it was obvious that Brennan was a man; only a man would sleep that far away from the bathroom.

She kicked off her very well worn flip-flops and hefted herself up into the slightly raised bed.

"Oh!" she sighed, sinking into the soft comforter and mattress.

"N-n-n-nice, h-h-h-huh?" Brennan chuckled from the second bedroom, his home office.

She did not crawl under the comforter, although she would have loved to. The air conditioning was blowing at full force inside the small room. She did not intend to fall asleep either, just wanting to lie down and relax, relish the plush comforts

The smell of a marinara sauce roused her and at first Carrie was terrified, forgetting where she was. It was dark in the room as it was now late afternoon on a very overcast day.

She remembered where she was and shook her head in wonder. Then the need to pee overwhelmed her initial discomfort and she flopped out of the bed, found her flip flops and scurried to the bathroom.

At first she was going to refuse Brennan's offer of dinner but the smell of the spaghetti and meatballs won out. When he threw a loaf of garlic bread into the bargain she solemnly asked him to marry her.

"Oh! Th-th-th-this is s-s-s-so s-s-s-sud-d-d-den!" he gasped dramatically and she laughed.

"That bed is the best, I swear," Carrie said.

He told her she was welcome to come over and use it any time, then groaned and apologized for how creepy that must have sounded.

"Stop, Brennan," Carrie ordered. "I know what you meant. Yeah, if I didn't know you, that might have sounded kind of 'ew' but I know you were just saying."

Finally, at nine o'clock, she finally left the neighbor's apartment.

"Where the fuck you been?" Frank demanded the next morning. "Fuck! Stacy was at her sister's so I came down here but you weren't nowhere!"

When Carrie pleaded a sore back as well as a headache, Frank called her a stupid cunt and stormed off.

Numbly, Carrie sat on the couch. She had been thrown out of her mother's house, risked her closest friendship, endured the physical demands of pregnancy and teetered on the brink of poverty for a man that called her a cunt when she didn't feel like fucking.

"I sure could use a cup of coffee," she decided and got dressed in her nicest, cleanest maternity outfit.

"You spoiled me," Carrie declared when Brennan opened the door of Apartment Two A. "My bed's useless now."

Brennan smiled and pointed toward his bedroom. Carrie wasn't surprised to see that he'd already made the bed. Even though it was getting harder and harder due to her pregnancy, Carrie just could not leave the apartment without making her bed.

Brennan told her he was on a tight schedule so he would be pretty busy. At first, she lay on top of the comforter. Then she wiggled underneath, trying hard not to disturb too much of the neatly made bed.

Then she wiggled out of her maternity pants; the comforter was a thick plush one. Then her bra joined the pants, leaving her in only a frilly top. Carrie did not wear panties; her pregnancy made them feel uncomfortable, binding.

In his office, Brennan sighed as he proof-read the final page, once again ran spell check and grammar check, and then saved it all to his drive.

Once again, he had beaten the deadline by forty eight hours and he smiled when his agent sent him an email asking him what had taken him so long.

He smiled as he heard Carrie's snoring. But his very brief marriage eight years earlier had taught him, no woman wants to hear that she snores.

The smell of coffee roused her and Carrie slithered out of the bed, then bent and pulled the comforter straight and folded the flat sheet over.

"I j-j-j-just m-m-m-made f-f-f-fresh... Oh!" Brennan announced then gasped at the sight of the half-nude pregnant girl as she made his bed.

Carrie gave a little scream and put her hands over her bald mound. Brennan stuttered an apology and scurried out of the room.

A moment later, a red faced Carrie walked through the apartment and out the front door, slamming it behind herself.

"Wa-wa-wa-way t-t-t-to g-g-g-go, B-b-b-b-bren-n-n-nan," Brennan miserably told himself as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Carrie stomped to her apartment door, and then realized her purse was in Brennan's bedroom. She sat down on the small stoop outside of her door and wondered if she could find the landlord to let her in. It seemed that the landlord had a habit of never being around when he was needed, but always around on the third of the month to collect his rent.

She wasn't mad at Brennan; Carrie was highly embarrassed. He had seen her at a very vulnerable moment, bending over, and fat naked buttocks waggling.

She stood and peered over the railing; the landlord's battered pickup truck was there, but his wife's compact car was not. Which probably meant he was not there.

After twenty minutes, during which time the compact car did not return, Carrie made her way to Apartment Two A and hesitantly knocked on the door.

"H-h-h-hello," Brennan asked as he opened the door.

"Forgot my purse," Carrie said, unable to look at him.

"Oh," Brennan said and turned around, leaving the door wide open.

He returned a moment later, holding her purse out.

"There any coffee left?" Carrie asked, still unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm g-g-g-g-get-t-t-t-ting r-r-r-read-d-dy t-t-t-to m-m-ma-make l-l-l-lunch; w-w-w-wa-want s-s-s-some?" Brennan offered.

"Sure," Carrie said after a moment's hesitation.

"By the way," she said as she sipped her coffee while he made chicken salad. "I really really really hate your bed; it's horrible."

"W-w-w-what?" he smiled over his shoulder at her.

"Yes, it's so lumpy and bumpy; you should get rid of it," she said, smiling tightly at him. "But don't worry, I'll find someone to take it, okay?"

"Uh huh," he said and held up a slice of bread. "T-t-t-t-toast-t-t-ted?"

"Depends," she said. "Your toaster burn or toast the bread?"

"T-t-t-toast," he said, almost defensive.

"Then toast, please," she agreed and slurped more of her coffee.

They ate in silence.

Despite his protests, as soon as they were finished, Carrie cleaned up, stacking the dishes into the dishwasher, then wiping down counter, stove top, and table with the rag.

She asked he what he was going to do now and Brennan told her he had finished the manual on the children's scooter and was just waiting for UPS to bring the next item.

"P-p-p-prob-b-b-bab-b-bly t-t-t-t-take a f-f-f-few d-d-d-days," Brennan shrugged. "S-s-s-so r-r-r-right n-n-n-now? I'm t-t-t-taking a n-n-n-nap; b-b-b-been up f-f-f-for th-th-th-three d-d-d-days n-n-n-now."

"Oh, you poor man!" Carrie said. "And I'm keeping you up!"

He protested that she wasn't, but now that Carrie looked closely, she could see the bags beginning under his eyes. She could see the five o'clock shadow on his face.