Medical Discretion
"His wife's OBGYN is a thick, aggressive woman who's been too handsy during exams. Her nurse is worse. When they discover his wife is infertile, they offer an 'alternative solution.'"
Dr. Elaine Foster has been my wife's gynecologist for ten years.
She's also been looking at me like I'm something to eat for almost as long.
"Mr. Bradley." She shakes my hand at today's appointment—an appointment Sara insisted I attend. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course."
She holds my hand a beat too long. Her fingers are soft, warm. Her eyes—dark brown, framed by silver-streaked hair—travel down my body before returning to my face.
"Follow me," she says. "We have much to discuss."
Dr. Foster is sixty-two and built like a mountain.
She has to weigh two-eighty, maybe more. Her white coat barely closes over her massive chest. Her hips are wide enough that she has to turn sideways through some doorframes. Her thighs, visible beneath her modest skirt, are thick and powerful.
Her nurse, Maggie, is only slightly smaller. Mid-forties, two-fifty, with red hair and freckles and a smile that suggests she knows things she shouldn't.
Together, they fill the consultation room. Sara and I sit across from them, waiting for news.
"The tests are complete," Dr. Foster says. "I'm afraid it's not good."
The diagnosis is clinical. Final.
Sara's fertility issues are untreatable. No procedures, no medications, no miracles. If we want a biological child, it will have to come from somewhere else.
Sara cries. I hold her. Dr. Foster and Maggie watch with expressions of practiced sympathy.
"There are options," Dr. Foster says gently. "Surrogacy. Donor eggs. Adoption."
"I want my own baby," Sara says through tears. "I want our baby."
Maggie leans forward. "What if there was another way?"
They send Sara home.
"She needs rest," Dr. Foster says. "This is a lot to process. You should stay. There are... forms to review."
I don't question it. I'm numb, reeling from the news. I barely notice when Maggie closes the door. When she locks it.
"Mr. Bradley." Dr. Foster removes her glasses. "Kevin. May I call you Kevin?"
"Sure."
"Kevin, I want to discuss an alternative. Something we don't offer to most couples."
Maggie dims the lights slightly. I should find that strange. I don't.
"What kind of alternative?"
Dr. Foster and Maggie exchange a look. Something passes between them—permission, agreement, anticipation.
"A direct one."
"I don't understand."
"Your wife's eggs are non-viable." Dr. Foster stands. Walks around the desk. "But yours are not. Your sperm is healthy. Prolific, even."
"What does that have to do with—"
"We can provide the eggs." Maggie's voice is soft. She's moving too, positioning herself beside me. "And the womb. If you provide the... biological material."
The implication hits me like a truck.
"You're suggesting—"
"Traditional surrogacy." Dr. Foster stops in front of me. Her body blocks my view of everything else. "The old-fashioned kind. No needles, no laboratories. Just nature."
"You want me to—"
"I want you to impregnate us." Dr. Foster's hands go to her coat. She begins unbuttoning it. "Both of us, ideally. Maximize the chances. Give Sara the baby she wants."
"This is insane."
"This is medicine." The coat falls. She's wearing nothing beneath but a bra and panties—industrial-strength garments struggling to contain her. "Unorthodox, yes. But effective."
Maggie is undressing too. Scrubs pulled over her head, revealing more industrial undergarments.
"Your wife will never know the details," Maggie says. "She'll receive a baby. You'll have provided it. Everyone wins."
"And you?"
Dr. Foster smiles. "We get what we've wanted since you first walked into this office ten years ago."
They don't give me time to think.
Maggie pushes me back onto the examination table—the same table where my wife has had countless procedures—and Dr. Foster climbs on top.
"First, we see if you're fertile," she says, sinking down onto my cock without warning. She's wet. Ready. She's been planning this.
"Jesus—"
"No talking." She rides me with clinical precision. "Just perform. Maggie will take notes."
Maggie is, in fact, taking notes. Scribbling on a clipboard while she watches her boss fuck me on an examination table.
"Heart rate elevated," she murmurs. "Response excellent. Subject appears... cooperative."
"Extremely cooperative." Dr. Foster grinds down. "Maggie, prepare for your examination."
They take turns.
Dr. Foster first, riding me to completion. Then Maggie, younger and tighter, but just as hungry. Back to Dr. Foster, bent over the examination table while I take her from behind. Then Maggie again, on her back, legs spread, demanding I fill her deeper than before.
By the time they're satisfied, I've come four times and I can barely stand.
"Excellent performance," Dr. Foster says, buttoning her coat. "We'll schedule weekly appointments until conception is confirmed."
"Weekly?"
"Optimal breeding window." Maggie is adjusting her scrubs, showing no sign of what just happened. "We'll need multiple attempts."
"And Sara?"
"Will receive her baby. Eventually." Dr. Foster cups my face in her hands. "You're doing a wonderful thing, Kevin. Giving your wife the family she deserves."
She kisses me. Soft, possessive.
"Same time next week. Don't be late."
The appointments continue.
Every Tuesday at 4 PM, I arrive at Dr. Foster's clinic. Every Tuesday, both women are waiting in examination room three. Every Tuesday, I fuck them until neither can walk.
Sara thinks I'm being supportive. Attending counseling. Processing our infertility news.
In a way, I am.
Three Months Later
Dr. Foster calls with news.
"It's confirmed," she says. Her voice is neutral, professional. But I can hear the smile beneath. "Maggie is pregnant."
"And you?"
"Not yet." A pause. "But we'll keep trying."
"What happens now?"
"Now, we continue the treatment. For both of us. Until nature takes its course."
She hangs up.
The next week, Sara is overjoyed when Dr. Foster offers her a "surrogacy option"—a private arrangement, very exclusive, with a healthy woman willing to carry our child.
"It's a miracle," Sara says, crying happy tears.
I nod. Agree. Hold her tight.
And try not to think about whose baby is actually growing in Maggie's belly.
Nine Months Later
The baby is born.
Healthy. Perfect. A beautiful girl with my eyes and... other features that Sara doesn't question.
"She looks just like you," Sara says, cradling our daughter.
"Must be a coincidence."
Dr. Foster and Maggie visit the hospital. They bring flowers. They coo over the baby like any family friends would.
Only I notice the way they look at the child.
Only I know the truth.
That night, a text from Dr. Foster:
Congratulations, Daddy. See you Tuesday. I'm still not pregnant.
I delete the message.
And I know, somehow, that I'll be at the clinic on Tuesday.
That I'll keep going back until both of them have what they want.
That this is my life now—husband to one woman, father to one child, breeding stock for two others.
Medical discretion, they call it.
I just call it complicated.