 This is not a night when Dick will fart obscenely in bed next to her, pretending not to, and Sonia, despising him, will snap her magazine angrily into a perfect tent in front of her face. Nor is it a night, like so many nights just before this night, where Sonia, stinking of sweat from the  summer heat, from the sweat of fear and the sharp stink of bile and vomit, is so disgusting, no not disgusting, so terrifying, terrifying in her foreignness, in her stink, in her pale, ugly, possum-in-a-trap look on her face, that Dick just wouldn't look at her. I'm afraid! I'm afraid! I can't do this again! her every movement said. She'd be folding laundry and she'd say something, we're out of milk, or, Tom skinned his knee today, or something like that, and he'd look at her, catch her eyes, and her eyes were full of fear and sickness. Her jaw loose and weak. Her face bloated and sickly. Her tone insupportably whiny.Those first three months are over. Those three months of hell, that first trimester of pregnancy when the only thing Dick could do to survive being in the house with her was to pretend she wasn't there. Gone is that horrible time. Done with it. She'd be there, and he'd pretend, just like he did as a child when his father was yelling, or his mother was yelling, that the person in question was not there. Dick's imagination is so powerful and has always been so powerful, that he can play this trick very well. He draws a white chalk line around the person, just like if the person were dead, and then "poof!" he can no longer see them. They disappear. But not tonight. Tonight he can't not see her. He couldn't, if he wanted to, which he doesn't, imagine her gone. Tonight he is mesmerized. Tonight he looked at her on the couch, lazing with him in front of the TV, and he saw a beautiful, young woman. The woman he fell in love with. He saw her as she was fifteen years ago, he saw her as no different than she was when she was barely twenty. And now, in their marriage bed, in her blue nightgown that he lifts over her head, he sees her and loves what he sees. The bones in her face are strong but womanly, her mouth is wet and inviting, her eyes are smart but slightly troubled, definitely knowing. Often thinking of something dirty. His wife is still his dirty-minded college girl. And this, in the dark now, now that she is over that first part of her pregnancy, now that she no longer repulses him, no longer hates him, now that she is resigned to her body and the strange creature inhabiting her, the stranger that neither of them have any idea who it will be,  this bud of a person that he planted in her womb, now that this baby isn't torturing his wife anymore, now, now, she is so fuckable. Her skin seems powdered with stardust, it's moist dammit, and sparkling at him he swears, and her eyes are wet like a healthy cat's, glowing at him in the dark, open now, looking at him while their tongues stroke the insides of their mouths like they've never tasted each other before.How could kissing this woman be anything that ever happened again? After years of marriage, years of just fucking, not that anything's wrong with that, but years really where they would never, ever have kissed, preferring to get straight to the part that matters, kissing having bored them, kissing having been something of the past. Kissing not being on their minds, but they still needed to get off. His balls would fill. There's the nice lady next to him who empties them for him. He always felt gratitude, but he had stopped feeling wonder. Excitement. Urgency. Except during these precious months when she was pregnant with their first son. And their second son. And now, again, this gift. This time, this fleeting moment in their lives. Here he is, his hands on her breasts which are so swollen, so sensitive she moans and pulls away slightly and he just can't believe these are his wife's tits because these were not his wife's tits a few months ago. His wife's tits a few months again were dried out, tired nipples that lay nearly flat against her ribcage. His wife's breasts, when she's not pregnant, were never as fleshy as her upper arms. It would be jangly arms and flat breasts. Now he can't even see her arms. His wife has breasts! Serious breasts. Not yet full of milk, but swollen and ready for what's to come. He has one in his hand and another in his mouth and she's shaking now, because all those hormones that are making her breasts grow into these beautiful flowers are making them raw with Hooksexups. He has to be gentle. He doesn't want to be gentle, precisely because he must be in the face of her painful, swollen breasts. He squeezes and sucks them and she can't stay still, she's just squirming, he can tell it's uncomfortable, hears her breathe out the word ouch, and she puts her own hand on them to protect herself, but also to feel them herself. Because these breasts are a gift from God, the God who gave humans the ability to reproduce, and to feed their young. These tits are blessed and she wants to hold them too. He arches his entire body over her now, he's up on his knees, not leaning his body on hers, no, he wants to see her, and he locks his mouth on hers again and fuck, he's kissing his goddamn wife. He wants to lick out the inside of her fucking throat. And then he puts his finger in her pussy, just like that, and it's as warm and wet as melted honey. He nearly comes right then. But he pulls away from her and takes a deep breath. On his knees now he grabs his dick hard and pushes at it. Down boy.  Not yet. Breathe in, breathe out. Oh, man. Her skinny legs are splayed out from the bowl of her small hips, and in the dark he can just make out her glistening pudenda. Jesus. He can't look at it. He looks away. If he puts his dick in there now, he'll just come right away and that is not what he wants to do. But what else can he do now? He could eat her pussy, but he doesn't really want to. It's about his dick tonight, about the effect this bitch that is his wife is having on his dick. He could get back on those tits, but he'll probably fucking come right away doing that, too. So what he does is turn her over and there's her ass, which he loves, he loves his wife's ass. But it's calming him a bit, he loves it but it's familiar, not strange and new like those breasts and it's not her fucking wet pussy staring at him either, and he feels calm. But oh God, she's lifting it up at him and there's no hiding from what's underneath it. And so he leans over her to not look, and, anyway, his dick has been safely calmed, it's still hard as rock, but not as near to bursting, and he rubs it on her like a cat in heat and then she's rubbing her ass back at him, her ass is asking him to stick it in her, which he does sticks it into her like a knife in butter and he leans over her and takes each one of those breasts in his hands. And then he grabs both breasts in one hand, smashing them together hard, and she lets out a short cry, and with his free hand he grabs her head and twists it around, back toward him, so that he can shove his tongue down her mouth again. Damn. Damn.Oh, if his wife were always pregnant! Oh, if his wife were always four months, five months, even six months pregnant! Not one or two or three! And not seven or eight or nine! But that middle time, this middle time, how he loves her, how he can't believe it's her, how ripe she is, how womanly, how soft and precious and giving and forgiving she is! Oh, if she could only stay this fleshy, this wet, this ready. If only she were always in a dark room, if only her breasts were always like this in a dark room. Then, then his life would be perfect. His wife, locked away in a dark room, a room which only he had the key to, permanently four months pregnant. This whole putting things off is not working. Or, rather, it is working and Dick has changed his mind. He turns her over again, and his wife's breasts flop around in a good way, move like Jello, loose and real, and there are her  hip bones, her splayed legs, and he gently thumbs her clit but she pushes his hand off of her pussy and arches up to him, her own hands on her tits, moaning and he grips her hips and thrusts in there deep and he's just gonna come. It's just gonna happen. Her head is twisted to the side and her own hands smash her breasts together they touch! They're so big they touch each other! and he thrusts again but he's going to come and he can come inside her if he wants, she's already pregnant, it's not going to make her more pregnant, and he loves everything about this, the no condom, the no cervical cap which he used to bang up against, the no smelly spermicidal jelly, just the thick, tangy smell of his dick in her pussy and he can come inside of her if he wants. But he wants to come on her face is what he wants and he hopes she's up for it, and really he knows she is because that's why he married her. Not because he needed someone to cook him dinner, not because he wanted her to raise his kids, mop his floors and put his underwear in the dresser drawer. No, he married her because she's the kind of woman who likes to pretend she's a porn star. He wants to lift his dick out and hold it over those breasts and that's exactly what he does, his knees up near her armpits now and one hand is on his pulsing cock, and the other is grasping her round, fleshy breasts together, and he shoots out come all over her tussled, beautiful face, and her round, round breasts, banging his cock against one nipple, then her chin, tap, tap, tap, knocking out every last drop of himself onto her, his wife. And Dick is, in no small way, the happiest man on earth.
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