by Gabi Moore
I looked at her now, tucking into a bowl of pasta. Did she blame me that we had failed to conceive? I looked at my own bowl of pasta. Was it my fault?
She pushed her food away and smiled at me warmly.
“I bought something new today. Wanna see?”
I nodded, and she bounced off the couch and left the room, ponytail bobbing. When she came back a few minutes later, she was wearing a truly tiny pink lingerie set and nothing else. I could do nothing but stare for a few moments, a little stunned.
It was in just the style I liked – the teeny kind with strings that tie on the side – and it fit her like a glove. The top was two little triangles that stretched over her high breasts, tied together with two similar strings at the back of her neck. A few wispy hairs at the nape of her neck had gotten tangled in the makeshift knot.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Wow. That’s… nice,” I said, standing up and reaching out to her.
She raised her long arms up into the air and spun around, letting me grasp at her slight waist.
She had a fantastic body.
“It’s so nice, I almost want to just tear it off and throw it away, you know?” I said to her sleek flank as I lowered my head and began kissing her bare belly.
Tanya had two modes: one was her summer form when she went brown as a biscuit, and speckled with freckles, and the other was her winter form when she turned so pale she was almost translucent, and you could make out tiny blue and purple thread veins on the tops of her pixie-like thighs, on her shoulders, on her inner ankle. She was in the latter mode, and extra pink in the slightly chill air, and her body was responding to my compliments with tight little goose bumps.
“Throw it away? Ugh, you have no sense of art,” she said, and broke away from my grasp, striking a pose on the other side of the coffee table and then waggling a teasing hip in my direction.
“Just look, it has tiny diamantes on it,” she said and turned around to show me some sparkly crap on the back strings.
“Diamantes? Is that like… diamonds?” I said.
She threw a cushion at me.
“Brat!” I said and darted to catch her.
She dashed off to the adjacent room, her pert little ass jiggling behind her.
“Yes, like diamonds, but only not really.”
I seized her again and pinned her against the living room wall, smiling triumphantly. “Not really huh? A bit like this is a serious, dignified bra, only not really.”
I reached behind her and undid the knot, and the fabric went loose across her chest. She giggled as I kissed her, both of my hands still restraining her pale wrists above her. She arched her back off the wall, curling her full body up into mine.
There is a whole catalogue I could write of all the things I loved to do to this lovely woman’s body, any number of filthy, beautiful things; one of my favorite was also the simplest: I loved taking her little chin in my hands as I kissed her, and I did this now, from there dragging my hands down her long neck and onto her belly, putting a finger just so inside the edge of this ridiculous G-string, pulling it ever so gently away from her body.
She playfully slapped my hands away.
“No, I think at least this should stay on…” and she looked deeply into my eyes.
“This?”
“Yeah.”
“You want to keep it on?”
“Yeah.”
With a single, swift movement I picked her up, squealing, and carried her to the sofa, the flimsy triangle top falling to the floor as a casualty.
She was light and a breeze to carry, easily half my weight, her little heart beating in her body like a rabbit’s. I flung her onto the sofa and pounced down onto her. Already, her quick hands had found their way to my zip and were yanking my pants off. My body responded easily to hers, our system of sexual shorthand refined over the years, after the countless nights spent here, learning about each other’s body’s just as we learnt about ever other thing in life. She was my home, this woman; her warm little breasts, her supple torso and downy white skin… her gorgeous cunt.
I tore of my pants and shook them to the floor, and lay completely over here, nestled in her sweet-smelling hair. After 9 married years, our bodies were like easy puzzle pieces, and I could find my way into her in the dark by now (and frequently did, of course).
The tip of my cock pressed gently against her belly, and she rose up to meet it, rubbing against me as we kissed and caressed one another. With slow, lazy strokes, I glided my hands over her and casually parted her legs; raising her limber knees high into the air, exposing her white rump and little pink rosebud pussy hidden behind the slight patch of fabric, also pink.
The scent of her drove me utterly wild; an intoxicating, honeyed mix like fresh, metallic ocean water. Like a rock pool but with something so warm and delicious and gooey at its heart; and my dick bounced in anticipation.
Grabbing a hold of her hips, I angled her towards me and pressed my adoring face into her, drinking up her scent and thrilled to be so close to this part of her, this deep well of her body that I wanted to fall into and drown in and never return.
“Fuck yes…” I mumbled into the sweet folds of her, and I felt the tension in her lower body melt away. Pulling the pink slip of fabric to the side, I planted one, luscious kiss and her hips tilted up in simple gratitude.
She rested both her hands on my head and anchored herself there as my tongue set to work, opening her up further with each kiss, with every ripple and flick of a tongue well-trained to each and every loop and fold of her pleasure. With each of my hands spreading the mounds of her ass apart, I tasted her loosening up, inviting more.
I had first done this to her ages and ages ago, in the back of my old beat up car when we had furtively stolen moments with each other, and it was there that I first learnt the fine art of pleasing her; in a way her body was a machine, a beautiful and complex one, and with patience and skill I had learnt to work it and manipulate it, to open all its secret doors, learnt all the ways it loved to be caressed and nibbled at, held, kissed, even joyfully and brutally violated…
Her clit twitched in my mouth – the sign that I could now dip my tongue into that dripping hole, and flicker around that tight, wet spot that I knew so well. She groaned. I smiled, even though she was too preoccupied by this point to notice.
With a giggle, she pulled my head up towards hers and gave me a long, luxurious kiss, and gave me that burning look that could only mean one thing. Linking her lovely legs around my back, she pulled herself towards me and I sunk the shaft of my cock into her, easily, her slick body offering no resistance.
She was smiling a ludicrously naughty smile at me, all sidewise and twisted, when she said, “Hmm… let’s make it count this time…” and thrust herself up to meet my hips.
What? Make it count? I found myself sucked out of the moment. She pulled me down again into a wet kiss and I obliged her, lavishing her lips and cheeks …but what did she mean? Was she still stuck on this baby business?
Tanya had always been particularly skilled at, shall I say, proactive fucking, and she knew her way around a dick, that’s for sure.
I hovered over her and her hungry body was curling, arching up to meet mine in long, liquid thrusts. With each downward stroke, her muscles sucked down on me, and with each upward thrust, the full length of my dick disappeared into her to the hilt, her pert little pussy lips swallowing me easily.
Is that all this was to her, though, a baby-making exercise? Talk about pressure. I was completely focused on nothing but her in this moment… and all she could think about was milking me for sperm? I was out of the moment again.
I turned to look at her and met her frank gaze.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
We both looked down.
Oh, there was something wrong. I had deflated completely, my sad dick hanging there, the visual equivalent of the sound a balloon makes when all the air whizzes out of it. You didn
’t have to be an engineer to see that it would definitely fail a structural viability assessment.
“Ah… sorry…”
I know, I know, men always say that it never happens to them, but me? Well, it never did. Not really. But once we were at that point, I couldn’t turn around. The spell was broken and all I saw around me was some cheesy knickers and a pretty shriveled looking todger that I wanted to put away as fast as possible.
“Do you want me to…?” she made a half-hearted gesture but I waved her off. I already basically had to kill her for this, what with her being the only witness and all.
“Nah, nah, don’t worry, it’s late anyway.”
When you’re married, you’re never that far away from the edge of some urgent thing that takes precedence over sex, it seems. It’s too late. It’s too early. You have to go to work. You have to go to sleep so that you can go to work the next morning.
“I’m sorry. It’s my baby talk again,” she started, but I tried to shrug and just make light of it.
“Nah, it’s fine! I’m used to all the girls objectifying me. They look at me and all they see is my sexy DNA, you know?” I said, winking at her.
She smiled. But it was a fragile, faint smile.
“Yeah. Something about having to makes it difficult to want to, doesn’t it?” she said.
I smiled, handing her back her pink bra.
“Here we go. It’s pretty. I like the diamandos.”
“Diamantes, you big idiot,” she giggled, and I kissed her.
As long as I could keep kissing her, I guess, we’d figure out a way.
Chapter Four
“Now, if you like a bit more heft to the thing, if you want a meatier feel, then I’d say go for this one…”
I wanted to get out of there, like, five minutes ago. A badly overweight guy in an ironic band t-shirt was showing my sweet, lovely wife an orange silicone penis, turning it over in his hands to demonstrate how it was weighted inside to make it more “realistic”.
Tanya isn’t the type to be blasé about sex, or chat about intimate details with strangers… but here she was, nodding and smiling, her deeper need for a good bargain trumping all, I suppose.
When I was younger, sex shops had always seemed so thrilling. I only saw one for the first time we came to London and we had all laughed at the blow up dolls and dirty old men behind the glass. This time round, it didn’t seem quite so much fun. Oh God, I thought with horror, was I the dirty old man behind the glass now?
“Love, can’t we just do this online?” I said to her ear, carefully trying to avoid meeting the fat guy’s gaze.
She looked at me, little hands wrapped around the bobbly shaft of… I don’t know actually.
“I mean, we could, but I wanted to come here in person, it’s fun. Plus, I get to see the things up close, you don’t want to buy junk, you know.”
She smiled at me, adding, “and I don’t want to accidentally get something too big. You know I’m a bad judge of these things.”
She was right; she did have terrible visuo-spatial skills.
The fat guy was nodding along. Yep, he had seen it all, this guy. He had that strange sort of immunity that gay men have around women. Change the context a little and he’d be a sex pest, but here he was, instructing my wife on the pros and cons of girthy toys versus longer ones, and everyone thought it was just fucking dandy.
“Love, look around and see what you like – you pick one thing, I pick one thing, remember? We agreed,” she said.
Not only had we agreed, we had pinky promised, so I harrumphed and went off into the rest of the shop, steering well clear of the butt stuff. It was walls and walls of pink, desperate body parts, some DVDs, a rack of sequined skirts. Diamantes? I had no idea. There had to be a more efficient way to do this. I whipped out my phone.
“Hey love, I’ve decided on my thing,” she came and cooed in my ear.
“Oh?”
She took a purple box she had been hiding behind her back and showed me excitedly.
“They’re special balls see, on a string. You put them in, you put them both in, then they come out again…”
“Then you put them in again?” I asked.
“And then they come out again” she said.
I snatched the box from her and examined it.
“What? Why don’t they put some sort of stopper here so they don’t fall out all the time?” I teased.
She playfully flicked my arm. “Over-analytical engineer” was one of our oldest and most cherished games.
“Don’t worry, I’m just ribbing you. For your pleasure, you know.” I jiggled my eyebrows at her and she erupted into happy giggles.
“You big idiot! Go on then, what did you choose?”
“This,” I said, and showed her a screen on my phone.
“Wait, what’s that?”
She grabbed the phone from my hands and looked closely at the screen. A simple, black leather dog collar with a single large, intimidating steel ring clasp as its front. I love well-made hardware.
“Ooh, that’s nice… is it in the shop though?’ she said looking dubiously at me.
“Yup. But it’s £4 cheaper on Amazon. So.”
“But love! Why did we come out here if you can just sit at home and get Amazon to deliver everything?” she whined.
“What, and miss the opportunity to hear Romeo over there talking about meaty dildos? Never.”
She tried to conceal a smile.
“Fine. We’ll just have to play with my toy first, then.”
We left the shop.
I like a good Gantt chart as much as the next man, and one of the things I love most about Tanya is her relentless, painfully efficient, list-making, color-coordinating, everything-must-be-right streak. All the same, I had a sneaky suspicion we were just throwing tools at the problem.
Surely normal sex is just as good at making babies as kinky sex? Anyway, couldn’t we just build a baby slow cooker or something? Couldn’t we adopt one from China? I felt a sense of dread descending as we arrived home that Saturday afternoon. We had never had sex on schedule before. Yet there it was hanging over us now, like overdue laundry. It felt all wrong. And contrived. I felt a small part of myself rebelling.
Chapter Five
Sweat was pouring from my forehead; every vein on my skull felt like it was about to explode. She wanted a baby, I’d give her a fucking baby all right.
I had her pinned against the bed, her legs nearly behind her ears, and was buried far up into her, both our bodies red and clenched from the effort.
My mind flashed back to a hot summer day on the beach, when Tanya and I had snuck into the little wooden beach huts and she sucked me off while a line of kids waited outside to change out of their wet swimsuits. Just as I was sure somebody could make us out through the thin gaps between the slats of wood, she had pulled my dick into her throat and swallowed once, hard, sending me easily over the edge. She smiled naughtily up at me as I tried to be silent, thumping a fist against the cramped wooden walls.
“Is there somebody in there?” someone had said, and she went in again to suck out the last pump of cum. God she was beautiful then. She could make me explode just by looking at me sideways. In our early twenties, my life’s mission was to hold on long enough to squeeze those sweet, sweet orgasms out of her; I never anticipated a future where I’d be struggling to eke out any orgasm at all.
Today was the last day of the “fertile window”, measly day 5, and she was pissy with me even though she said she wasn’t, and I was pissy right back, even though I said I wasn’t. I was being a little rough now, sure, but fine. If she wanted me to be some stupid breeding stud pony, well, then she could shut up and take it.
We had used toys, we had watched movies, we had nearly broken our necks sharing a shower. Our sex had taken on that weird, stubborn vibe of a long distance marathon just before things start to get ugly. We were going to procreate, dammit, come hell or high water.
I made a few more
angry thrusts then released a load into her, aware that I was probably pulling some rather unflattering faces. I flopped down beside her, knackered.
She did not look happy. I couldn’t believe it. I had huffed and puffed myself nearly to a coronary and she was lying there still, as irritated as we when we started. What did she want?
She cleared her throat.
“I’ve booked an appointment with the fertility specialist,” she said to the ceiling.
“What, why?” It seemed like a stupid question once I had said it.
“It’s been more than 6 months now. Something should have happened by now. I’m not that old. Something’s wrong. We need to take the next step now.”
I listened quietly.
“Are you sure you’re not just jumping the gun? Maybe this was the lucky time, eh...?” I said, reaching for her. She shot a dry look at me.
“But pudding, come on, this is part of the problem. You’re so stressed. And you’re stressing me out. Can’t we just go with it? Enjoy ourselves? It’ll happen.”
“But it isn’t happening now!” she snapped.
Oh shit. I was going to make her cry.
“Love, just calm down. We need a break or something, you and me both. We should go somewhere…”
I scooched up closer to her and propped myself up on my arm, looking at her imploringly. “Let’s go on a holiday, you and me, and we’ll forget about work and ovulation and whatever for a while and just enjoy each other again. People always get pregnant when they just relax a little.”
“I’m done relaxing,” she said, with a spite in her voice that was unusual for her. Almost instantly, she melted again and hugged me, her tangled hair tumbling onto my chest.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said, “I don’t mean to be like this. I’m just …I want a baby Alan. I’m ready for it. Now.”
We sat like this for a few moments, nothing but the sound of the neighbour’s telly to break the silence.
