Shipwrecked & Horny: A What Could Possibly Go Wrong Bad Boy Romance (Bad Boys After Dark Book 10) by Gabi Moore (40)

“Alan! Oh my God, Alan! It’s happening!”

My wife of 9 years, my beautiful, wonderful wife Tanya, was racing towards me with something small in her hand and a look of deep consternation on her face.

If the last few weeks have been anything to go by, I could be mere moments away from having a heavy kitchen implement thrown at me, or else pinned down and shagged – or possibly both, in that order.

Tanya is a woman who knows what she wants. And she wants a baby, preferably yesterday.

Everything else had been checked off the list: I was one of the first items on the list as the handsome, successful husband, and soon after me followed the autumn wedding, the house with just the right tiles in the kitchen, the pair of beagles we named Bubble and Squeak, the coordinated bedspreads, and the yearly trips to Bali.

I loved Tanya. With every (exhausted) fibre of my being. I gave her everything, and happily. And as I saw her rushing over, I had the distinct impression she wanted something, shall we say, very specific from me.

She pushed a mound of papers aside and plonked herself down on my desk, square in front of me as her one, true and rightful project in life. She waggled a thermometer right in my face, looking very excitable indeed.

“Look? See?”

She had just woken up, and was still sleepy-haired and sweet and smelling like cotton pajamas. I loved her nearly half to death, this woman. But it was 6 in the morning, and I was bone tired. I rubbed my groggy eyes, trying to focus on what in god’s name she was showing me.

“Plus! Egg whites. I have egg white mucous. Raised temperature, egg whites… this is it. It’s happening right now,” she said, leaning in very close and whispering this last part to my still slightly confused face.

“You’re ovulating?” I said.

Men are oblivious, I know. She had been going on and on about her… secretions for the past week now, and I, unsure about my manly part in what seemed so clearly “woman’s business” was trying to be supportive while hoping she wouldn’t ever quiz me on the difference in viscosity between Day 12 discharge and Day 20.

I smiled weakly, trying to remember if “ovulation” is the part that involved blood or not. Before I could say anything, she had tossed the thermometer aside and had hoisted her butt onto the desk, plunking her two bare feet into my lap.

“We should totally do it!”

“What, now?”

“Yes now, silly! The window is closing, Alan, even as we speak. And once it closes, that’s it for this particular egg, you know. Whoosh, gone, down the tubes, as it were.”

I loved how she spoke like an indignant professor whenever she got pissy with something.

I ran my hands up and down her thighs, probably soothing myself more than anything.

“Alright, alright, but how long have we got?”

“The egg is only viable for 12 to 24 hours. We can make it a few days before or after, but really now’s the time, now’s our best chance.”

Egg? Viable? Was this the same woman who had once whispered dirty words in my ear in the back of a cinema when we were in High School? The same woman who had jerked me off under a picnic blanket at that festival that one time, the girl who had flashed her boobs at me in church at my niece’s wedding?

I stared at the papers she had shoved aside – council tax, credit card statements, interest rate changes, bills for that damn broken boiler - and now here was beautiful, wonderful Tanya, reduced to another one of my chores, it seemed.

My work schedule for the last while had been the same every day: work myself to the bone, try to fix up our piece-of-shit house, replace that broken tile in the bathroom, get Tanya pregnant.

I was tired.

She sat staring at me, legs slightly parted, a few wild strands of hair falling into her waiting face. Her hazel eyes, the soft curl of her lip, they were all as beautiful to me now as they had ever been. And yet…

“Ok. Let’s do it,” I said, smiling.

I would give this woman the world. And good god if she needed it, I would dig deep and find it in me to fuck her, right now, and give her all the damn babies she could handle. I lunged forward and grabbed both her legs, pulling her onto the desk and laying her down.

“Ouch! Careful,” she mumbled, revealing a pointy paper weight she had landed on.

She lay back and shot me a flirty smile. Oh yes. God yes. There it was. The gorgeous, sexy little thing I had married. Her hair fell onto the desk and her pajamas fell loosely open. The word mucous popped into my head.

Shit.

I leaned in and kissed her passionately, as though this would help dispel the thought. Ok, so if we started now, and it’s probably around 6 o’clock right now, or ten minutes past… so if we take 15 minutes to get this over with, I’d still have a chance for a quick shower and would make it to work if I left by 7… but what if we took longer than 15 minutes?

I snapped my attention back to the moment and kissed her some more.

“Ouch!” she said again, and tore her lips from mine to fuss behind her some more, the sound of bills crumpling beneath her.

“You ok?” I asked.

She smiled.

“Yeah, sure, but uh...”

“Shall we go upstairs instead?”

“Uh, yeah, we could? I mean, let’s just--”

“Yeah, you’re here now, now’s the time isn’t it?”

“Yup, we should be spontaneous about it.”

We looked at each other.

I leaned in for another kiss, this one more strained than the last. I thought of her naughty, tanned brown legs under a sundress on our honeymoon, the way she had run away from me on the beach, laughing, the dress whipping all around her in the wind. The dim memory was stirring something down below, thank god. I pressed my cock against her; it was the beginning of an old, old dance I had been doing with Tanya for years now, the familiar choreography, the well-worn, happy ruts we had carved out for one another, affectionate patterns in both body and mind. I’m more or less an idiot with most things in life, but hell, I knew what turned this woman on.

But somehow, here, spread on the desk, everything was wrong. Our lips were out of sync with one another. A cramp was growing in my calf as I try to balance myself over her (when was I going to go to the fucking gym already?) and she seemed to be distracted.

She was suddenly pulling at my hair, tugging at clumps of it and manhandling my head as she kissed. She threw her head back and moaned,

“Oh, yes, give it to me daddy!”

What.

I sat up straight, looking at her.

“Daddy?”

She flicked a lock of hair from her eyes, looking a little embarrassed.

We struggled to make eye contact with each other for a few moments more, then she threw up her hands defensively, sending two pay slips to the floor.

“Ok, I’m so sorry, jeez, I’m just …I’m just trying something new I guess, because of the …baby? I don’t know, just forget it.”

She was turning a deep shade of red, and started to pull her nightdress down again.

“No, no, it’s…” I started. The word “mucous” popped into my head again.“…it’s hot. I guess,” I said limply.

She glared at me.

I leaned in again for another kiss, but she shoved me away and jumped off the desk, looking angry.

“Just forget it,” she said and made for the office door.

Damn.

She turned around in the doorway and looked at me with eyes full of daggers. “I’m going to the shops in a bit – do you need anything?”

I looked at her tired face. I wanted to curl up in bed with her right now, and forget all of this, and play Angry Birds with her under the covers with our own patented system of kiss penalties, like we had done only last year.

“We need milk,” I said softly, with as much affection as I could muster.

She turned and left.

“And a baby would be nice,” I muttered to myself after she’d left.

I’m what you’d call an old fashioned guy, I guess. If there’s anything they don’t make anymore, it’s guys like me. Think of every mildly sexist joke and groan-inducing stereotype about men and women and, well, you have a pretty accurate picture of who I am. I like big boobies and fast cars and movies with robots and dinosaurs in them… although not if they’re too long. So sue me.

Every severely right-brained male specimen eventually gravitates to their own little niche, and my niche was engineering, where my other manly colleagues were more than happy for me to merely grunt at them for weeks, or come into work with the same shirt I did yesterday. I’m not too good with the written word, or social stuff, but I have a fair idea of how the world actually works, and what I know is that it needs people like me …especially when a part of it breaks.

I’m the type who thinks that a perfectly reasonable response to “does this make me look fat?” is, “aren’t you always as fat as you actually are, though?” and I’ll admit I’m a bit miffed that the consensus seems to be against me in these cases.

I understand machines. I can glance at an engine or a circuit board and see into its soul, but people… they’re a little trickier. My wife was something of a black box to me, although she was goofy and big-hearted enough to see my shoddy social skills for what they were: innocent. Figuring out the mysterious ins and outs of her unknowable female mind was an ongoing project for me, but after 9 years, I had made her happy, in the ways I knew how.

And giving Tanya things was one of the greatest joys in my life.

I hammered and filed down a penny to make her engagement ring and gave it to her in a box I chiselled myself. I gave her my secret recipe for chicken soup and made it for her whenever she was sick. We had bought a house together and every renovation, every new coat of paint, every nail and plank was for her. I wanted to build our life together, one piece at a time, with my own hands, and I wanted her right in the middle of it all.

In school I had given her my math homework to copy. Behind the bicycle sheds, we gave each other our tongues and our secret, hopeful dreams. I gave her bunches of daffodils, pink socks, a locket with a tiny “T” on it. As we grew older, I gave her my body, and she accepted it, willingly, and gave me hers. Everything I am, everything that I will be, I wanted to lay it at her feet, to give it to her, to make her smile.

And now, more than anything, she wanted this goddamn baby. And I had to find a way to give it to her. I sat at work all that day, chewing a pen to pieces and staring at my computer. Ovaries and cervical mucous were most certainly not my area of expertise, it was true. But if she wanted a little baby, well, then I would just have to find out how to give her one, wouldn’t I?

It was a real bastard of a day. The kind of day where you work and work and get sweet fuck all to show at the end of it. I was grumpy, headachey and in no mood for… well, anything really.

I came home a tiny bit later than usual, and Tanya had beat me to it. She was sweet, flitting around with dinner, chatting about this and that, but even I, oblivious as I am, could sense an extra tension, something like the weird change in air pressure you get before a big storm.

We slipped easily into our weekly night routine, a routine that had been my home for all these years as much as these walls, this furniture. She cooked, we ate, we did that married people thing where we snuggled on the couch and watched stuff on TV, half carrying on conversations started hours or even days ago. I’m a simple guy, like I said. I guess to an outsider I must seem like some kind of caveman, pleased with his woman and his dinner and his warm couch and not thinking too much further than that.

Something about this morning had scared me though.

Was she really happy? Getting bored in a marriage always seemed like one of those things that other, less vigilant people have to worry about. People who never loved each other as much as we did. But… well, let’s just say this wasn’t the first time I had been surprised by how unhappy she really was.

At work, I was most often the most competent person in the room, but when it came to Tanya… I hate to admit it, but there were times when I felt as though I’d been rudely awakened from a dream, where I’d hurt her without knowing, and part of the hurt was not realizing what I had done. She had stared hard at me on a drive home from her mother’s once, fighting back tears and eventually spitting out, “well?”

Well, what? I didn’t know. In fact, I never figured that one out. Maybe I’m a little autistic. Maybe there are vast fields of emotional nuances pulsating all around me, hidden but woven all around and through my life while I sit oblivious… until it’s too late, of course.

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.

“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.

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.

“Love, don’t worry. We will have a baby. Book an appointment. The doctor will probably say everything’s just fine… will you go on a holiday with me then?”

I gave her a cheesy grin, trying to cheer her up.

“Ok,” she said and nestled into my chest.

I’ve worked on some pretty complex machines in my life, honestly, but nothing compares to girl bits, and that’s the god’s honest truth. Tubes, frilly open pieces, what looks like a one-way valve but totally isn’t--

“Look at me,” I said, “I’m Ovaria, and I’ve come to fetch your soul, mortal.”

I was brandishing a plastic uterus model as a face mask, each fallopian tube making fabulous impromptu feelers. The middle bit made a pretty hilarious nose, if I did say so myself.

“Jesus, you’re such a two-year-old Alan, can you put that down?” she said.

“Negative! I will shoot you with my mucous lasers instead. Pew pew!”

Ovaria, queen of the vaginas, waggled menacingly at her. The doctor walked in just then, because of course he fucking did. He laughed.

“Well, you’ll have to get used to dealing with two year olds at some point or other,” he said as I hurriedly put the plastic model back on the table.

I couldn’t believe we had reached this point, to be honest, and everything still felt so unreal to me. Was this really necessary? Wasn’t this for people very much older and sicker than we were? I could still remember my thirtieth birthday, and the XKCD birthday cake Tanya had made for me. We had spent almost a decade furiously avoiding impregnation – how come it was so difficult all of a sudden?

“A lot of my job is actually to put people’s minds at ease. To be frank that’s really the bulk of what I do. We all like to work with these rules, you know, if you aren’t pregnant after 6 months or a year or whatever, then something’s wrong. Of course, nature doesn’t always work like that.”

It had the ring of a well-practiced speech. Tanya was hanging onto every word he said, though. Oh sure, she listens when he says it. Doctor Melville had kind, tired eyes and was squaring up the edges of a prescription pad on his desk before he continued.

“Your cycle is a little irregular, but it’s not anything we’re concerned about yet. We don’t see any irregularities with you, Alan, so it’s thankfully not a question of sperm quality.”

The last few months had felt like one long, arduous exam and here was my report card: we have examined your balls etc. and have found them sufficiently lacking in irregularities. Why thank you.

“So…” Tanya was leaning forward now, a little too dressed up you’d think, for a time like this.

“So, what that means going forward is that you’re not a candidate for any of the options we discussed at our last appointment, as least not for a long time yet,” he said.

I watched a small, wire like vein twitch in her neck.

“The good news is that it’s quite likely nothing to be concerned with at the moment.”

We both sat and waited for the bad news. Ovaria, queen of the vaginas, watched with bated breath as well.

“The bad news is that it’s not always possible to pinpoint the exact cause of why you haven’t conceived yet. But in my experience, it’s almost always the little things, you know. We spoke about lifestyle issues the last time, but it bears repeating. Sleep. Good food. Plenty of rest. That kind of thing.”

“She really isn’t resting much,” I blurted, feeling like a tattle tale.

“Yes, well, that’s a problem now, isn’t it? Maybe you could both try a little holiday somewhere or something, sometimes that kind of thing can help.”

I sent her over the best I-told-you-so face I could muster.

We finished the rest of the appointment, me entertaining myself by calculating how much we had paid this man per each minute of his time, and calculating how many fannies he’d seen in his career, given his advanced age and all.

I was feeling chipper, glad it was over and glad to be told, like I had said, that there was nothing wrong after all. It was a relief. I playfully poked her in the belly as we stood waiting for the lift.

“See? Didn’t I say?” I said, and leaned in for a kiss.

She pursed her lips and looked irritated. Oh God …what now?

I was getting angry.

The one thing the doctor was telling her to do was the one thing she simply refused to do. I had the completely unreasonable but steadily growing suspicion that she’d get pregnant if she just calmed down a bit and stopped being so uptight about the whole thing. I already felt like a performing monkey in some twisted circus, and she had long stopped seeing sex as something pleasurable. In fact, I thought angrily, we probably hadn’t had normal sex since the day she mentioned having a baby at all. Surely we’d have enough time for angst and stress later, when the thing was actually born?

I drew back, fuming a little.

“The doctor said it wasn’t my sperm, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing… just that there isn’t a problem. We just need to relax and--”

“Jesus Christ, if one more person tells me to relax I swear I’ll scream,” she snapped.

We walked down to the car in silence. I just wanted things to go back to the way they were. We were good together. We had our house. We were meant to live in it together. None of this worked without her. Life would be all wrong. There were way too many rooms in that house, for a start.

“I don’t want to fight,” I said lamely, starting the car.

“So then, don’t,” she said with a sneer.

I didn’t like this nasty side of her. Not at all.

We drove on in silence for a while, both feeling a little tender. I was always better at pretending fights weren’t going on than actually fighting them, so I relaxed a little as the car drove on, and we found a long, easy back road that would take us most of the way home.

I love driving. I love the simplicity of being in a vehicle, any vehicle really. I love just going, just the movement of it. Tanya and I had had some of our steamiest moments in cars. That reminded me.

“Hey, love! I forgot to say, I found the perfect thing for us, actually, a narrow boat cruise – we could maybe rent the whole thing pretty cheaply and then we sleep on it and everything, and we go up and down the river and we can have it self catering or not, it depends, and--”

“We’re not going on a holiday,” she interrupted.

Oh shit. She was still angry. From before. This was beginning to get exhausting.

“Look, what is your problem? Have I done something wrong?”

These words seemed to be the last straw for her, and she all at once and violently shook her wild hair and banged her hands against the car door.

“Just stop! Stop the fucking car! I want to get out.”

“What?”

“Stop the car!”

I slammed my foot on the break and tried to carefully guide us onto the roadside before turning off the engine.

“Tanya, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, all I said was--”

“But why do you have to say anything at all? Can’t you just leave me alone about it? Christ…”

“What are you talking about? You’re crazy.”

A look of pure fire flashed over her face.

“Yes, yes, I know. Crazy. And stupid, right? Don’t bother telling me, I know. Sorry not all of us are so perfectly fucking rational. And now I can’t even have a baby, it’s fantastic.”

Her chest was heaving in her thin cotton dress. She seemed flushed, only moments away from bursting into tears.

“Hey… hey, I don’t think you’re stupid,” I said softly.

She looked at me, nostrils flaring.

“Why is this so hard?” she said eventually.

We sat there for a bit, both silently wondering if the other was blaming them for this weird mess we had gotten ourselves into. Her eyes were strange and unnervingly fluid. She had only had this particular look on her face once before, once many years ago, during a fight we had that I try not to think about anymore. They were melting eyes, eyes full of blame and accusation, and they tore at my heart to see them like that, and it hurt me so badly I couldn’t stand looking at her.

She popped open the car door and stepped out suddenly.

“Hey, where are you going?” I said, but she was gone.

She was wearing one of her cotton sundresses again, except this particular afternoon wasn’t quite the right weather for it. Hot and dry wind blew at the skirt and started to lift it up, tossing some of her loose hair as well. I got out and stood looking at her over the roof of the car.

What I loved about Tanya was precisely that she was so rational. That she never asked me to play weird guessing games with her emotions, or mocked me for being a bit slow on the uptake when it came to subtle social cues. Yet here she was, a moody wife that couldn’t be placated. I had no idea what to do.

“Will you get back in the car?” I said.

“Will you stop telling me what to do?” she replied.

The wind was tearing at her dress, occasionally lifting it right up and giving a brief, full glimpse of her thighs underneath. Even now, even like this, she was the hottest thing I had ever laid eyes on.

“Ok,” I said, “Just tell me what you want me to do. Anything. Tell me how I can make this better.”

Her gaze softened. She walked over to my side of the car.

“Just hold me,” she said, and I was more than happy to oblige. She flung urgent arms round my middle and held me tight, and I kissed the top of her head, her hair whipping in the wind around me. She mumbled something to my chest and then did something strange; pulling in closer to me, she made that familiar, almost kitten-like, hungry little push against my crotch, curling her pelvis softly into mine like she did when she wanted me.

I looked down at her and beamed.

“Hey now…” I said, a little surprised.

She giggled.

“Not so cross with me after all?” I said, and she responded with another pulse of her hips.

“So, you wanna…?” I said quietly.

“Mmm.”

“Ok, let’s get home, we’re not too far now.”

“No,” she said simply.

“What?”

“Here.”

Ah. Here. But, like, here here?

I smiled a cheesy grin, relishing the idea of rogering her right here, in the back seat in broad daylight when we had both taken time off work for a doctor’s appointment. I moved to open the car door but she laid a simple hand over mine, stopping me.

“No… here,” she said again.

She turned up a different face to me now; a leftover tear had seemingly been slashed across the side of her face by the wind, where it had dried. She had a deep, naughty look on her face, and in a heartbeat I was rock hard, thrilled at this sudden turn of events.

“Love, it’s broad daylight,” I said, although I can’t think why I wanted to dissuade her at that point. She nodded.

“Who knows who will see us here?” she said and sent a pair of eager fingers to start working at my fly. A little rush of panic went through me. Seriously, what would happen if we were caught? My mind quickly tried to do an estimate of how many cars were likely to be on the road at this hour, and how many we’d encounter, the probability one of them would catch us, and how long it’d take to…

Unbelievably, my cock sprang out the second it was released, somehow doing its thing without a speck of permission from me. It felt wild to have the ordinary, weekday sunshine beaming down on it, right here, in public. She reached up to me and gave me a fitful, raunchy snog and quickly spun round, lifting her skirt up and pressing her rump square against my cock.

It felt amazing.

She skillfully pulled the narrow strip of her underwear to the side with one hand and with the other, clutched desperately at the billowing fabric of her dress, the wind blustering it in all directions. The image was so completely ridiculous, I couldn’t help but laugh. Here she was, flaunting her little pussy at me with one hand and trying to maintain a ladylike bit of dignity with the other. Through windblown hair, she said, “quick, before anyone catches us…”

But what about foreplay? Was she ready? I didn’t want to hurt her.

“Fuck me, you big idiot!” she said, and I didn’t need another prompt. I drove my cock into her barely wet hole, and she cried out, whimpering a little. Well, she did ask.

“Love, are you ok?”

She hung her head heavy to one side and reached behind her to clutch at my hips. A low grunt was her only response. I felt the tiny ripples of her body waking up to me, shivering and puckering all around me. It seemed that within just a few seconds she was growing wet and plumping up all around me, right then.

It was incredible.

The hot afternoon sun beat down on us; we were all alone out here on this empty road – but for how much longer? She flicked her hair to the other side and pushed back into me, forcing my own hips to bump into the car behind us. She was quite a bit shorter than me, and as I settled the weight of my cock inside her, she had to rise to tip toes to reach me, balancing, fully impaled. I reached forward to steady her with a firm hand under her belly button. My fingertips found warm, dry skin there, and her delicate heartbeat fluttering inside her.

I looked down through the flapping rim of her sundress at the two milky mounds of her arse, and my dick disappearing between them. No sooner had her body adjusted to mine, did she start pumping her hips back in a quick, panicky rhythm. I clutched gently round her slight waist, to keep her from falling; she twisted around briefly to grin at me, then down at the growing ring of wetness at the base of my cock. She pumped down over me, enveloping my shaft in the most perfect, hot little envelope; then, pulling back again she exposed that wet length to the chill air, sending prickles out over my skin that travelled the full length of my spine. I let my head fall back a little, waves of pleasure fanning out through me. My beautiful wife. My little fuck machine. She thrust into my lap again and again, each pump bouncing a fat ripple through the flesh of her backside.

“Love… we’ll get caught,” I said, although nothing in the world could have torn me out of her hot pussy at that moment.

With each thrust she built up a delicious heat, so thrilling against the cold air, and with this heat we seemed to meld and fuse together. Like dogs rutting in the fucking streets, I thought, with a new mix of panic and glee.

With a supple, cat-like bend of her long torso, she reached back and nuzzled her cheek against mine.

“Good,” she said.

I smiled. Naughty little bitch. Grabbing fistfuls of skin at her waist, I pulled her down savagely onto my dick, ploughing right into the middle of her lithe little belly, and held her down as she squealed and shook. I saw her desperately trying to lift higher up onto her toes, but gravity was on my side and she had nowhere to go but down, taking every last inch of me.

I was shocked at her. Did she want to be caught? My face flushed with the thought that my wife was a closet slut, a woman with nothing but a thin bit of sundress between her and a quick public fuck, like nothing was so normal in the world. Horny? Just pull over and shag, wherever you find yourself, like a little slut. She couldn’t wait. She wanted my dick so bad she couldn’t wait a few minutes for it, and now that we were in danger of being caught by strangers, she was dripping wet and grinding into me like an animal.

“You’re being very naughty, dear,” I said into her wind-whipped hair, and delivered my disapproval in the form of a string of quick, brutal thrusts. She had no air in her body to protest, and only fell forward limply, mouth half open, her little ballerina-like breasts hanging down in front of her loosely, inside her sundress.

So, let them catch us then. Let everyone see what a raging, dirty slut she was; let them look her right in the eye, and see her flushed face.

I thrust harder.

It would be my dick jammed so far up her she wouldn’t be able to move now even if she wanted. This was my whore of a wife, let everyone look, and let them see how much she was loving it…

These thoughts were rushing over me, completely new and surprising. I was angry that she was being so careless – this wasn’t like her at all – and angry that she was flaunting her body, her body that only I was supposed to see. With a confusing, faint sense of humiliation I pounded her even harder still, harder than I ever had, so that her little toes nearly came clean off the floor.

The ropes of her long hair were shaking with each blow of my hips into hers. I almost felt sorry for her – she had bitten off more than she could chew, poor little thing, and she was getting fucked to pieces now whether she wanted it or not. This woman in front of me somehow wasn’t my wife anymore; and somehow I was entitled to pour abuse into her slender body, here, on the side of the road with nothing but a flimsy cotton dress covering her hungry little body.

“Love …love …a car’s coming…” she squeaked. On the periphery of my awareness I heard a car approaching. Fuck. Fuck.

I picked up the pace to fever pitch and felt her fearful frame tighten and explode all around me into a hot, hurried orgasm. Her worn little pussy twitched violently against me and before I knew it I was tumbling after her, pawing at her belly and breasts.

“Oh god…” I said, exploding squirts of cum deep into her.

The car whizzed by. We were in public. In public.

Slack jawed, she twisted round to face the road, and I saw the slow movement of the car reflected in the wet curve of her eye. That moment lasted forever – the slow crawl of the car on the horizon, her body frozen like a startled deer, nothing but the sound of her hard breathing and harder heart beat. She was looking at them and I was looking at her. The bulk of her body was concealed by our pulled over car, but it was painfully obvious what we were doing, and even if she was covered up, her bare face told more than the full story to anyone caring to look.

“Oh god. They’re staring right at me…” she said, spellbound and unable to pull away her gaze. Then, something magical happened. As the car’s reflection disappeared out the one corner of her eye, her slack expression suddenly curled up, melting with a new wave of pleasure. She was coming. Again. All the tension in her body dissolved and her body crumpled down onto mine; long, vicious shudders worked their way through her exhausted frame. I stared down, thrilled to see dribbles of white streaming out of her.

She snapped her gaze from the road back onto my face, both of us stunned.

With a few hasty movements, she untangled herself from me and came off my dick, adjusted her clothing round her and smoothing down the skirt of her dress nervously.

I quickly zipped up.

Her hair was a mess.

We both stared down at the drops of cum in the sand, then back at each other.

In the 9 years we had been married, I had never seen such a wild look on her face.

We drove home in silence.

My wife’s sexuality, it turned out, was something like those joke jack-in-the-boxes: tightly wound, and hard as hell to compress and fit back into the box once it popped.

There was this new room in our sex lives all of a sudden, and she was happily exploring every last inch of it. Pandora’s box had been flung open. My wife’s dirty mind was like a clown car – I was amazed by just how much came out of it - and kept coming and coming.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

That evening after our trip to the fertility doctor was the starting point. She seemed wired, a little drunk, a little scattered. She smiled broadly every time our eyes met; all her movements seemed a little more urgent. She absentmindedly started to chop an onion and then tossed the knife aside, declaring we should just order in and that she felt like cider. She hugged me in the kitchen. “They were staring right at me,” she whispered in my ear, for what seemed like the hundredth time that evening.

And why wouldn’t they stare? She was a beautiful woman, in the throes of delicious, private pleasure. I loved how thrilled the idea made her, loved how buzzed she was. This was my wife, and with a softer, subtler realization I thought how proud I was of her. That they had looked her in the eye, and whatever bliss they saw on her beautiful face was because of me. I held her close. This was something new, something scary – something we hadn’t done in years.

She spoke about it more later that evening, as we drank our cider, and as I watched those flickers of new arousal appearing in her eyes, I knew that I wanted to fulfill every last little dirty desire she could come up with; I wanted to be there, to be the one to fuck her in public like the little show-off she was.

“It is technically illegal, you know,” I said, taking a sip.

She smiled.

“What if, like, they arrested us and threw us in prison and we just carried on fucking right there, in the prison cell?”

I laughed at the thought. There was something so cheeky about it.

“Then we just keep doing it, then we have to go to court, and we keep shagging in court as well, and nobody knows what to do with us,” I said. Her eyes twinkled.

I relished the thought of her bare little rump, her illegally exposed pussy lips, and everyone horrified with us… it was strange. It was also very, very hot.

I took another sip. I loved it when we talked like this. This kind of pointless, loose banter that could go anywhere. We had done so much of this kind of thing when we were both in university. Why had we stopped?

“It really turned you on though,” I said, with a new tone of voice. I reached over and stroked a lock of her hair.

“Yeah…” she said dreamily.

“But it wasn’t just the thrill of being caught. We actually did get caught!”

She nodded, blushing.

She sat up in the chair and looked at me with a new intensity.

“It’s hard to explain. There was just something so sexy about being there, with your dick actually in me, right there in the middle of sex, you know, and looking these complete strangers right in the eye…” she said, trailing off.

“You liked that they saw you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Saw you getting fucked.”

She shot a quizzical look at me. We hardly ever swore around each other. At least, not like this.

She took a long, slow sip of her cider and stared a little. I could feel her thinking.

“I want to do it again.” she said finally, and downed the rest of her drink.

I loved it. I loved this new reckless, naughty side of her. Sitting on the couch that evening, she was different somehow. Her hair was a little wilder, and her voice was a little higher pitched.

I reached out, wanting to hold her, to contain this new burst of energy somehow, and to hold it.

She turned up hungry lips to mine and kissed me. All at once, her body was pressing against mine again, and she was hurriedly tearing off her dress, that same naughty dress, the flimsy accomplice to all our crimes earlier that day. It was though all the new buttons we had pressed a few hours ago were still hot, still zinging with this surprising new energy we had stumbled on. Pushing them again felt easy, and all at once it was though she was turned on again, ready for more.

That evening, I learned something new about my wife, my beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous slut of a wife. I found myself irresistibly turned on by her; there was something so desperate, so urgent in this new side of her.

Animalistic.

She turned her back to me again, and my cock easily found the same passage I had opened earlier that day, and fucked her there again, hard.

She came easily, and I fancied I saw the slow roll of a tiny car over a horizon reflected in her eyes again. I could tell the memory of that day was fresh and aching in her memory still, still filled with juice, still an itch that she was nowhere done scratching. I clutched her beautiful hips in my hands and unleashed all my energy into her, driving everything I had into her flaming hot, tender core. She screamed, body bucking and throbbing, then, tossing the hair out of her eyes, she pulled her legs open even wider and begged for more.

I lost count of how many times she came that evening. After a while, the orgasms blurred into one, she stopped being coherent, her exhausted body eventually conceding defeat as she flopped down on the bed, one sweaty leg dangling off the edge. That morning, we both overslept by 30 minutes.

“Love! You’ll be late for work, come on now, get up,” I said in the rude morning light.

She nuzzled a dozy face into the pillows.

“Nah …I’ll call in sick. I’m staying home today. You know what, love? I think I do want to go on a holiday with you.” She smiled.

I smiled back at this lovable sleepy lump, wrapped in our duvet. I was pleased. There’s something primal and highly satisfying about fucking your wife so thoroughly that she has to call in sick from work the next day. Better still, she was finally coming round to the idea of a bloody holiday already.

“Toothbrush and toothpaste and things?”

“Check.”

“Camera?”

“Check.”

“Booking reference for that place?”

“Check.”

“Viable egg, ready to be fertilized?”

“Don’t even joke!”

She was looking as though she had already been on a luxurious Netherlands holiday. Her long hair was done up in some fancy braids she had been trying to replicate from Pinterest for years, it seemed, and a flowy embroidered shirt, little Denim shorts and a face that looked very much younger than its years.

We packed ourselves up, drew the blinds and locked up, temporarily leaving behind our little home and everything in there. It was fabulous, and both of us were light hearted, chattering all the way in the taxi to the airport. In the week it had taken us to organize this little trip, she had evolved fully into a proper little deviant, and I had already admitted to myself that the seeds of this particular fetish had always been there, right under the surface.

Almost overnight, she had become looser somehow, more expansive. In the evenings, we spoke dirty to each other – our new hobby – about what a little slut she was, and I fucked her raw, her new appetite for rough sex seeming never to be satisfied. In the day time, she seemed free and happy, wearing more revealing clothing than she used to, flitting around with just a little more fluidity than before, a little more sparkle to her voice somehow. I loved it, and was proud of her.

We had a full trip planned – walking tours, a special old church, a trip to the red light district (naughty!) and a restaurant she had been going on and on about. It was going to be perfect. Did I have The Baby in the back of my mind the whole time? Sure, I guess I did. But in a way, we were taking a holiday from that, too. Mercifully, she hadn’t mentioned it in ages. I could write novels about that woman’s pussy, but dear god was I sick of hearing about its multitude of discharges.

The first night we were too tired to do anything but fall asleep in each other’s arms, in the hotel room. We had ordered room service after a long day of walking and seeing the sights. We were in a beautiful part of the country, in the best season, it seemed, and for once we were both, well, relaxing. I knew a holiday would be just the right thing.

The next morning, we woke, and I lazily imagined how sweet it would be for her to suck me as I woke up, then we could have breakfast, and go and see that church or whatever. She had other ideas. She was already up and dressed, looking a little stressed, but fine, we had an itinerary to follow. Day two turned out to have a few more challenges to it than our first. We got lost, twice (I told you she had terrible visuo-spatial skills) and were late to our restaurant reservation, so they gave our table away. We ate some overpriced pancake things that weren’t very good, no matter how hard we both tried to pretend they were, and we were pooped by the time 4 o’clock rolled by and we landed in our hotel room again.

She laughed a little at some Dutch game show and then we settled on the bed for a moment. Now was the time, obviously. I rolled over to her side of the bed and started to kiss her knee, moving just a little further up.

“Well, this is a very flimsy little thing you’re wearing right here, isn’t it…?” I said, starting off again, trying out this new sex vocabulary that seemed to centre around how utterly inappropriate all her clothing was.

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” she said.

I sat back again. Women, right?

I watched the show with her and then after a while extended a hand over to her again, stroking her forearm a little without making any eye contact. It was as though I could feel the atoms in her arm recoiling from me.

There it was, all at once, back on us again: the heavy expectation. We were a pair of pandas in captivity, and we were back on a schedule, having to do it, and do it now, right now, or else. I felt the weight of this crushing in all around us; I felt it pulling her away from me. Nothing changed really, in the moments that followed, but everything was different somehow. We were rushing back, at a hundred miles an hour, to our same old lives again, our same old stale house and the same old stale life had followed us after all.

I pulled back my hand.

We didn’t have sex that day, or the day after it for that matter. With each day that went by, the mood grew more sour, although we both ostensibly acted very interested in all the touristy things happening all around us. The truth was, we had come there to fuck, but we were doing everything but.

She closed up again, and I was just about ready to admit that we had only discovered a small pocket, a little anomalous bubble of fun in the long expanse of boring, married life. And now that it was over, there was nothing to do but spend more money in this dump and then go home and catch up on the washing before work started again on Monday. It was hard, and she was miserable about it, too.

And even when we did manage to get it on, whatever magic needed to happen just wasn’t happening for us. My little swimmers were wiggling up to her egg and saying how do you do and she wasn’t having any of it. My sperm were dying, bored with life, wondering what the point of any of it was, especially something as outrageous as a baby. Or, her egg was too old, too tired, too rushed at work to bother with little swimmers anyway. I don’t know.

Everything was wrong. The planets never quite aligned. We never found that sweet spot. Our holiday was more depressing than we had anticipated, but I tell you, nothing makes you quite so depressed as knowing that you and your chosen mate are failing hard at your single biological imperative. On our last day, she wore some ratty jeans and told me we might as well cancel all our plans that day and just chill at the hotel pool. I couldn’t be arsed to argue with her, so we did.

We sat in the room, the Dutch game shows not seeming quite so hilarious anymore, and waited for the last bits of the holiday to get finished already. As a last ditch attempt, I sidled up to her as she was making tea and tried to rub her bum, hoping the suggestion would be enough, but she shrugged me off and pretended it hadn’t happened. Ouch. I gave up. I suppose I was doomed to get to work on buying a Chinese baby for her on the black market when we got home.

I mumbled something to her and declared I would have a nap.

“It’s gross to eat in the room all the time,” she said, “let’s just go downstairs to the restaurant at least.”

“Fine.”

We freshened up and headed downstairs for dinner, the heavy red carpets of the lobby seeming at that moment to be everything wrong with the world. We ate in silence, and I tried to convert the Euros in my head as she picked at a dessert, eventually complaining how she hoped it wouldn’t make her fat.

Then, god bless him, someone stepped in and ended our misery.

He was a good-looking guy, around our age, sitting alone at a table at the far end of the restaurant. He was seated facing our table, and it became clear to us quite quickly that he was staring at Tanya. A lot. Her eyes flickered to meet his and he smiled.

Interesting.

We sat there a little longer, being fabulously obvious. He wouldn’t look away, and every time Tanya noticed this she blushed and looked elsewhere …before looking back at him again.

I was a little miffed. At first.

“Having a nice time flirting, I see?” I hadn’t actually decided if I was insulted or not. Tanya was a beautiful woman, anyone could see that. She had always turned heads. Ordinarily, we skirted around that fact with all the tact married couples are supposed to have, but this time, something in me was …curious.

She looked at me, trying to decode my expression. Surprisingly, I felt a faint flicker of pleasure at the idea. I had called her a slut so often these last few weeks. Well, here she was, opening up again. To someone else. Like a slut. What I did next …well, let’s just say it took me by surprise as much as it did her.

I turned to look at the guy again, and then gestured for him to come over to our table. A quick flash of panic appeared on his face but he stood up and walked over. I swear I could feel the heat of my wife’s body increasing as he approached the table.

“Hey man. Want to join us?” I said, indicating the empty seat next to her. God, I was such an alpha male in that moment, I was turning myself on. It was more like an order, more like a challenge than a friendly invitation.

I had no idea what I was doing.

Instantly, Tanya extended her hand and burst off into prattle about this and that, her small talk covering up the awkwardness of the moment. Once or twice, she shot a glance in my direction, as if to ask me …something. Permission? For what?

The guy seemed cool enough, and was answering her questions, smiling and asking his own.

I sat quietly.

He had two tanned arms resting on the table, and to my surprise, Tanya lightly brushed her fingers against them, just once, just for a split second. He noticed this. I noticed this. We all noticed each other noticing. For the first time, he looked at me, with a questioning look echoing the one she had shown me moments before.

I smiled and said nothing.

We ordered a round of drinks together and chatted some more, but with each little touch of Tanya’s fingertips, here, there, she was slowly ramping up some strange new tension at the table. I noticed, very faintly, that her fingers were shaking, but then I remembered her devilish face that day on the side of the road, her hungry insistence, her utter disregard for whoever drove by that day… no, she knew exactly what she was doing here, I was sure of it.

The guy, seemingly content that I had given some sort of go-ahead, was focusing his attention more and more on her, his eyes flickering lower down over her body every time she turned away or looked at me.

Then, she did something: when a plastic coaster fell noiselessly to the floor, she instantly bent down to pick it up, lingering at the bottom so the billowy top of her blouse gaped open and flashed him an ample glance of the tops of her breasts.

She came up again, to a mood that had changed even more. She cleared her throat.

“So, like I was saying, the views are beautiful here, really. We’re very cramped at home so it’s lovely to see so far to the horizon. The view in our room is actually the best I think,” she said.

“What, better than this view?” he replied, referring to the beautiful sculpted gardens all around us.

“Oh yes. Much better. You get to see so much more…”

“Really? Probably not.”

“No really. Wanna come see?

And that was that. The form of the rest of our evening was beginning to snap into shape. She had been snaking along, looking for some sort of hook in the chit chat, some gap to wedge in some insinuation, some suggestion. And this was it.

Now, I’ve told you that I’m not too good with picking up on subtle social cues, but it did strike me that all this hinting and flirting was probably unnecessary, given how quickly and eagerly he responded.

“Yeah, sure, I’ll come up,” and he flashed another pointed glance at me.

“Yes, come up, she’s exaggerating the view, I think, but let’s go up. We have whiskey in the mini bar, too, I’ll pour you another.”

And with this flimsy premise of looking at views and drinking whiskey, we all got up and headed over to our room. Tanya, thank heavens, filled all the intervening moments with more small talk (I am constantly reminded of why I married this gorgeous woman) and we found ourselves in the room, on this last night of our trip, when suddenly something was going to happen and I didn’t quite know what to think about it yet.

As she flung off her shoes, Tanya threw me an intense, pleading look, one that even I could tell was imbued with a million hidden messages.

She wanted me to do something.

I kicked off my shoes and it dawned on me: I would have to be the one to instigate whatever happened here. Were we actually just meeting up for an innocent drink with a stranger in our hotel room? No, of course not, we were already well committed, surely. Right? Nobody could say that any of this was innocent. The guy was handsome, too, and you certainly don’t go around looking that handsome without fully intending to… to what?

I tried to decode the look she was giving me. She had been so grim about everything almost from the first day of this trip, and here she was, all naughty looks and stolen glances. I had played around with the idea, once or twice, of her with another man, but it never really held my interest. Did she want to fuck him? Was I OK with that? I would have done anything to please her, but something sore and unhappy stirred in me at the thought of sharing her. She was mine, wasn’t she? And I hers?

She plunked down on the bed and I went to make us a trio of drinks; whiskey in tiny etched hotel glasses, one for each of us. Three. An unstable number, that.

He had seated himself on the edge of a chair next to the bed, leaving the bed as the only remaining place for me to sit. A few sips of whiskey, and the whole thing seemed fun, amusing even.

They continued to chat, and I watched by idly, interjecting here and there or nodding.

She had on one of her usual sundresses, this one a little more chaste than our famous roadside number; it had a few fussy bits around the neckline and a slightly longer hem, a hem I had noticed shifting higher and higher up her thighs.

My mind was all over the place, and their words kind of washed over me – I was listening to the change in pitch of their voices, to the way they seemed to be moving closer to each other.

She playfully smacked my knee and then leaned in for a playful snuggle, which unexpectedly turned into a kiss. A lingering kiss. We kissed right up to the point of decency and then went past it. She seemed to wait there, half opened lips touching mine, deciding what she would do. She leaned in further and give me one long, slow, almost obscenely intimate kiss, one that sent her little tongue deep into my mouth, her lips hard against mine. She drew back, playful, a drunk little look in her eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind a little public affection,” she said to him, never breaking eye contact with me.

He laughed, taking a swig of his drink. “No problem. We’re not really in public anymore, so…” his voice trailed off, and their eyes met.

This was kind of hot. She looked beautiful. I loved this, showing her off like this.

He put his glass down on the side table and leaned in a little, placing a tender hand on her bare thigh. We all three looked down at this hand. That sore, unhappy place in me twinged a little, and I interrupted, pulling her head towards mine.

“Kiss me again,” I ordered her, and we were both surprised by how much force was in those few words.

She obeyed, and, with his hand still on her leg, she leaned in for another deep, slow kiss. This time, I grabbed her firmly, with a grasp that seemed to say not him, me. I angled her head to the side and kissed her roughly; her body went limp in my hands. Out the corner of my eyes I saw his hand, still there, stroking her skin faintly. My cock twitched in my pants. I kissed her harder. She tore her lips away from mine and looked over to him, to see whether he was OK with any of this or, she probably hoped, actually thrilled with it.

He had the same glassy, drunk look to his eyes as she did, and he only stared straight ahead at us, at her lips, his hand still stroking her thighs. She looked into his eyes, then down at the rest of his body, then back into his eyes.

Some secret bit of communication happened in a flash between them, something quick and dirty, and all at once she snapped her attention back to me, smiling and parting her lips a little to invite yet another luscious kiss.

His hand was still glued to her; impatiently, I grabbed her around her waist and threw her more fully on the bed, away from his hand, her hair fanning out all around the pillows. This gesture seemed to shock both of them. He moved back in his seat, and picked up his glass again, somehow sensing that I wasn’t ready to share her. Not yet, anyway.

Good.

This woman belonged to me. If anyone was going to fuck her, I was the one.

She writhed around on the bed a little, alternating delicious looks with me, then him, then me again. She was doing that hot little thing she did with her hips when she was horny. Oh, she was far drunker than I had originally thought.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, chuckling. He was slouching in his seat now, legs spread wide, with one casual hand balancing his drink on his knee, and the other held under his chin, as if he was carefully considering some new argument he had never heard before.

I placed my own crude hand on her thighs, as if to reclaim her, spreading my full fingers out over her skin and squeezing hard. With an almost deliberate vulgarity, I shoved my hand further up under the dress, then threw open the fabric, revealing a pair of pale pink panties. She squealed and giggled, making the most ineffectual attempt to pull it down again.

“Take this thing off,” I said to her, not quite knowing that I meant to say that until the words had already left my lips and were hanging there, between her and me and our new friend.

Her face was pink. She had that same dangerous, loosely reckless look on her face, one that I was gradually growing accustomed to. She wanted to break the rules? Little slut. Fine, I would call her bluff. She wanted to get fucked here, right now, in front of this stranger? Fine, I would show her.

She wriggled out of her dress and I grabbed it and flung it aside. Her bra went, too, and eventually the little panties as well, till she was completely naked in the bed, me towering over her and him watching on, fully clothed and taking slow, disinterested sips of whiskey now and then.

This was fantastic.

‘Show him your pussy,” I said, and grabbed each of her legs, forcing them apart. She made a show of resisting me, but I spread her legs open, and she turned her head to the side, bashful, hiding her face in her loose hair. Slowly, she lowered two hands down over her torso and then down to her inner thighs, slowly, slowly pulling her thighs up, giving our guest the most unimaginably filthy view.

He sat, unmoving, eyebrows knitted and mouth pulled tight. My cock twitched again. I wanted her. By the looks of him, he wanted her too.

I reached over to her again, but she sprung up, standing on the bed now above both of us, playfully pulling her tongue out at me. She stood tall above us both now, completely naked, her two little nipples tight and that particular shade of dark pink they turned whenever she was really turned on.

Man, she was wasted. Looking down at us both, a slow, naughty smile slid over face and she giggled, then raised both her slender arms up and tossed back her head. Arching her back and snaking her arms up overhead, she began to dance a little, rhythmic and slinky-like, something part prima ballerina, part strip tease.

We watched her, neither of us breathing or breaking our focus on her lean body. She dropped her hands down and slid them over her body, stroking herself from top to bottom, then back up again, but not before teasing a little between her legs. Astonishingly, she dragged a single middle finger up over her bare belly, leaving a slick wet trail. I could not believe how wet she was. The arms went up overhead again and she writhed side to side, throwing her hips this way and that way, the tight muscles of her belly moving underneath her velvety skin.

She opened her eyes and immediately grinned at him; I followed her gaze and found him on his chair, unzipped, dick in hand. The whiskey still propped on his knee. He had one of those weird tapered cocks, one that bulged fat in the middle but narrowed down at the end. He was stroking it absentmindedly. She seemed absolutely thrilled by this. She turned her radiant face towards mine.

“Where’s yours?” she said.

Dear lord, I never took my clothes off so fast as I did then. Before I knew what we were doing, she had impaled herself onto my rock hard dick, sitting in my lap like a little goddess, riding me up and down like a complete animal. I sat cross-legged, cradling her excited form in my arms, her small breasts pressing hard against my chest. I had my back to him, leaving her to face him full on, looking him square in the face as I hammered away at her hungry little cunt.

Her entire body was different somehow, exquisitely switched on; I had to admit, I had gone along with it for her, but I was becoming curious about him. No sooner had I thought this, did I hear him rouse behind me, and next he had his face to hers, kissing her greedily as we fucked.

It was so hot to see her this way, with a stranger’s tongue in her mouth, that I instantly felt my entire body pulse, hard, and I couldn’t stop myself from coming all at once inside her. I cried out as I pumped each spurt into her, and this temporarily pulled her surprised lips from his.

She looked down at my spent body, the cum now oozing out of her little hole and onto her thighs and mine. Then a second flutter of surprise washed over her face as she looked at him again, behind me and out of my sight. In an instant, I heard him groan and release a gush of hot cum all over her face, right over my shoulder. She was so surprised she laughed out loud and seemed genuinely happy to now be coated in not one but two loads of cum.

She threw herself back onto the bed, still laughing and still very, very drunk, completely doused in white. He was giggling too, and nervously reached for his glass, throwing back the last of his whiskey.

“Hey man, you look like you need another one,” he said, then put his trousers back on and headed to the mini bar again.

I looked at her, her face dribbling with strings of cum that she was now hurriedly trying to wipe off with her crumpled up dress.

With a deep, primal satisfaction, I gazed at her fucked pussy, and saw my own cum dribbling out of her, too, so much of it that there was no more room left inside her. I had thrust hard into her, putting it in as deep as possible, and I had come so much it was now flowing freely out of her again, right here in this room, on our holiday, with this, this guy watching.

He stayed the night.

My wife performed for him, little slut that she was, and I took full advantage of her altered state to send two more loads of cum into her before the evening was over. He slept in the bed, I think, but the whiskey was flowing, too, and blurred away the edges of all the events that came later…

In the morning, we overslept and missed out flight. Tanya laughed her head off at this.

Life went on, you know, as it does.

We caught another flight, came home, tried to make sense of what had happened, both completely ignoring all the tourist snaps we’d taken and throwing the picture postcards in the trash. For all we cared, we could have been in Timbuktu.

I’m a problem solver, by nature, and with satisfaction I was beginning to piece together that precise set of circumstances that would result in my wife turning into that raging little sex monster we now both knew she could be. I Googled it (and so what if I did?) and tried to get into her head in every way I could. She didn’t understand it, herself. She couldn’t tell me what left her cold and what seemed to flip that switch in her that turned her into the kind of woman that would gleefully take a load on the face from a stranger.

But I had seen it, and I wanted more of it, so I devoted myself to recreating the magic again somehow.

The first thing, though, was that she couldn’t know. It had to be spontaneous. Or, should I say, it had to appear spontaneous. Any hint that anything was planned would frightened off her newly fledged little kink and we’d be doing obligatory ovulation knobbing again and I couldn’t bear the thought.

No, she had to be surprised, on the spur of the moment, by complete or almost complete strangers, who would then be righteously turned on by how much of an unbridled tart she was being. I won’t say what effect this was having on me …but let’s say I managed to find hours each day to devote to furtive research on the topic.

About a week after we returned back from our holiday, both of us still riding this strange new wave that had appeared in the pool of our everyday lives …I had a plan. It grew slowly, almost imperceptibly, but after a few days it was there, fully formed, my own delicious secret.

“Turn around, go on, let me see the back of it,” I said.

She curled up her eyebrows at me, then looked at herself in the mirror for the hundredth time, then twirled around in front of me, the stretchy fabric hugging her little behind.

“Nah, I think yellow one is better, wear that one instead,” I said, staring at her behind.

She looked at me hard, trying to figure out my new interest in her clothing choices, something I typically didn’t give two shits about.

“Really? The yellow one? Don’t you think it’s a little too …slutty?”

I smiled internally.

“No, it’s great. It shows of your lovely bum, wear it.”

She went back to the cupboard and stripped off, wriggled the yellow one on.

It was a great dress on her. It had blurry, abstract leaves all up the front of it, in just the right color to make her delicate hazel eyes seem like they were cut from amber.

“That’s better! Little minx,” I said.

“Will you tell me where we’re going already?” she said, beginning to twirl her hair up in the mirror.

‘No. I won’t. And leave your hair down.”

“Bossy this evening, aren’t we?” she replied, letting her hair fall down again, still not sure what to make of this whole thing.

“Shush and just get ready. We should leave in the next ten minutes, and you’ll find out soon enough.”

A dubious look came over her face, but there was something else underneath it, something like the start of her enjoying something, shall we say, a little spontaneous. We caught a taxi and her protests and begging for more information took a playful turn. She tugged at my arm and whined and twiddled with her earrings.

“Shh… it’s a bloody well surprise, isn’t it?” I said.

She beamed at me and we drove on.

A few years ago, doing something like this would have been …inconceivable. But within the last few months, I had been so regularly surprised by just how naughty this woman truly was. She was so different these days, a little wild, a little unpredictable. She was less of a list maker now, less concerned with being on time. And in bed, she had become sex mad, a sexual daredevil, performing her heart out at the mere thought of someone watching her.

We arrived at a non-descript looking brick building in a non-descript location. There were cars in the parking lot, the outline of two bouncer-looking types at an arched entrance that gave no indication that there was anything going on beyond it. No music, no queue outside. I could see a mild look of disappointment grow over her face, but she tried to conceal it, saying, “Ooh …where are we now, this looks interesting!”

We went inside; even though they were dark glasses, I could somehow feel the bouncer types’ eyes scan over her scantily clad body as she walked through three or four folds of heavy velvet and into a foyer. It was only once we were inside that the possibility that I had fucked up dawned on me. There seemed to be an air of anti climax all of a sudden, as though she had been actively expecting some sort of big reveal. For all appearances, we seemed to be in an ordinary (and almost empty!) nightclub. I told myself not to sweat it, that her disappointment would make it all the sweeter when it finally dawned on her where we really were. I decided to hold my tongue and let things evolve as they would.

“Want a drink?” I said casually, and we walked over to a purple back-lit bar. I glanced over at her staring around listlessly, playing with a loose mint leaf she had found on the counter. Oh god, what if this completely blows up in my big stupid face? What if this is like, the first step of my divorce? Here she had begged me for a baby like a nice respectable girl and I had bought her to a sex club?

I desperately tried to think of something to say, but before I could, she began chatting absentmindedly with the bartender.

“Bit quiet for a Saturday night, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you just wait, it’s a costume evening tonight. Give it an hour and you won’t say it’s quiet…”

“Costumes?” she said, her face lighting up a little.

“Oh yeah, everyone goes all out. First time here is it?”

She nodded.

“First time? Ah, you’re gonna love it,” he said, giving her a lascivious wink and pushing two beers towards me.

I quickly steered her away before he said any more.

“Well, that guy was a bit creepy, wasn’t he?” she said, and we settled down at some tables in a small enclave some way off from the main dance floor. The room seemed big on purple – softly glowing purple orbs hung above us, and there were faint flecks of purple and pink glitter in the concrete dance floor. Each enclave was partly sectioned off with some heavy drapes that could be shut to create little private purple bubbles… I watched her closely, to see if she noticed this, or the little cushions that had been scattered in some of the corners.

“That’s cute! You can sit on the floor over there!” she said, and I relished how clueless she was. There was another room in this club. A room for her. But I would wait before I showed her that.

People started to drift into the club pretty quickly after that. The music was beat-heavy, loud yet unobtrusive. We hadn’t been there an hour when a big group of people stumbled in, a group of mostly women in outrageous outfits – they formed a mass of mostly bare limbs, straps and strips of lace and PVC as far as the eye could see, and a woman with a pair of tits so unruly they seemed constantly in danger of shaking off the flimsy pair of tassels she had stuck on them. Tanya stared with wide eyes, then raised her eyebrows at me.

It was imperceptible at first, but the arrival of this group seemed to click the whole club into its next gear, and somehow more people appeared, the music deepened, the lights dimmed and Tanya turned to me, half finished drink in her hand, “Oh my god did you see that! That girl’s totally taken her knickers off!” I threw back the rest of my drink and tried hard to suppress a giggle. A slow, shocked expression crawled over her face, then erupted into a smile.

“Oh my god. Alan. Where are we? Is this like…? Like a …?” she said.

I took another theatrical sip of my drink and nodded. Her mouth hung open for a few moments.

“Are they going to… right here…?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know honestly. But I enjoyed how excited she suddenly seemed.

“Finish your drink and then I’ll show you, they have other rooms too. This is just the dance floor.”

We got up and she flashed new eyes over the crowds around us, suddenly very interested in what everyone was wearing, and whether anybody had claimed the cushioned enclaves yet. I gently took her by the hand and we wandered till we found a new section, one that made her sparkly eyes light up even further. My heart ached to see her this happy. And the rest of me had started to ache, too.

We stopped and took in the sight of it: in the centre of the room was a large, shallow pool trimmed with spidery plants, scattered Bohemian looking cushions, little glass benches. But what caught her eyes almost immediately was the room’s real focus: suspended above the pool with heavy looking chains was an enormous bed on a floating platform. It was empty but richly upholstered with white pillows and cushions, almost as though it was waiting. I watched her face, the cogs turning, and hoped to hell she wasn’t about to chew me out for assuming she’d go for any of this.

Instead she turned to me after a moment and planted a fat, urgent kiss onto my lips, grasping my head in her hands. I laughed in relief. And then there it was – that naughty glint was in her eyes again, that glint I had first seen on the side of the road, and again as she danced naked on a bed for some stranger in a hotel room. I smiled, pretty chuffed with myself indeed.

I went to get us more drinks, and she stood there, looking a little vulnerable in her yellow dress.

“When you’re finished this drink, we’ll do it, OK?”

She said nothing to this. She only stared at me long and hard, then proceeded to throw back half of her drink in one gulp, then wipe her wet lips with the back of her hand. I laughed. Why had we never done this before?

The music picked up, people peeled off in semi-secret groups of twos and threes to kiss and grope in corners. She was in her element. Almost ready, but I didn’t push it. The bed towered above us all, giving everyone a full view of its as yet unoccupied sheets. The last of the drink disappeared into her lovely throat and she looked at it and then me with a boozy expression.

“Ok, let’s go.”

I took her hand and we ascended the narrow staircase that led to the bed; I swear I could detect her heartbeat fluttering in her fingertips.

She had lowered her eyes and was walking slowly, deliberately on each step in her dainty heels, but the rest of her body was proud, fully on display. Her shoulders were back and her pert little behind waggled deliberately form side to side as we reached the top, the chattering in the room dying down a little as everyone turned to look.

The atmosphere was electrifying. Something like a trance fell over her, and her eyes seemed to dim down under heavy eye lids and an expression of deep concentration - the face you make when tasting something faint but delicious. She took two leggy steps towards the bed, planted her palms down onto it and made a show of tracing two big circles there, hips thrust out.

She was hot, and knew it. The people below knew it, too.

She spun around to face me and giggled, then all at once she was doing that same snaky dance with her hands held loosely above her head. She was teetering high on her heels, balanced up here for everyone to see her, from every angle. With a swift movement, she reached down and pulled the hem of her dress, turning it inside out over her head and letting it carelessly float down into the pool below. It was so brazen, so unlike her, I couldn’t help but laugh. Something stirred below us, and I became aware out the corner of my eye that a small, curious crowd had gathered around the pool below.

She twisted and turned a little now in her lingerie, a tipsy diva enjoying nothing but the music and the feel of the cool air on her hips, her breasts. I knew better though. I knew that inside she was steadily working herself into a frenzy, ready to explode at the first touch, like the ravenous little slut she was.

I flopped down on the bed and watched her, happily realizing that every eye was firmly glued on my wife and not me.

The bra and panties came off, to an indistinct cheer from below, which broke her reverie for a while and caused her to smile and hide her face, embarrassed. Even from the bed, I could tell her turned on how she was. She pounced onto the cushions next to me and drank up a deep, luscious kiss. Her hands were greedy, too, and rushed all over my body to unzip and unbutton me, and my dick sprang up to meet her, pleased that I had brought her here, and that now I would take her the rest of the way, too.

I had had enough of her toying and showing off anyway, so I lunged to grab her and fling her down flat on the bed, wild hair tossing out beside her.

For the next few minutes, my lips and tongue worked over her beautiful body as she lay back like I was worshipping her: I rolled my lips over her taut belly, nibbled and kissed the fullness around her breasts, and gave only the most fleeting licks to her slightly parted legs.

Now, my preferred style is just to pin her down and fuck her till she gets that zombie-look on her face and stops convulsing, but here, oh, she would want a little more teasing. I wanted her to be the star of the show. She parted her legs and lifted hungry hips to my tongue, but I pulled away. I knelt and gestured for her to suck me, and I imagined, not without a little vanity, that at least half of the people below envied me at that moment.

I gripped her head and forced her throat down onto me, loving the subduing effect this had on her. I pushed my full length into her mouth, admiring the perfect kiss her lips made at the hilt.

With each plunge, I grew harder, but she enveloped me completely with her skillful mouth, little tongue working inside. I brushed a lock of hair from her face, glowing and tightened in concentration, and was filled with nothing but bliss and love for her. I pulled back, reached forward and plucked her up, then lay her on the bed, her supple body waiting, buzzing with anticipation.

Here, she gave me a look that froze me in my tracks. It was a simple look. It had something of the past in it, some gentle yearning glance that spoke of so many years, so much water under so many bridges. It was like a momentary flicker of nostalgia, and it seemed to draw a brief curtain round us, creating a split second bubble of privacy in this vast, open club, this bedroom with no walls. My breathing stopped, my heart stopped, and every last atom of my attention went to her, and the fragile look on her beautiful face.

Look, I’m not a romantic, but something changed in me then. They say that women truly become mothers the moment they decide that they want children, or the very second they fall pregnant. Fathers, on the other hand, only become fathers once the baby is born and they’re in front of them. Me? I became a father the moment I stared down at my beautiful wife, purple light glowing all round her, her sweet, open face to mine, and I knew I wanted nothing more than to love her and fill her up with enough cum to make a million babies.

Until then, baby-making had seemed like something she was doing, something that only required me to stand by and do my bit when the time came. But now …something in her golden eyes made me want to really give it to her. I had been giving Tanya things my whole life, and now, here, I wanted to give her every last bit of me. My life. My heart. My soul. My body. My cock.

The curtain lifted again and without wasting any time, I dove in, parted her legs and rammed into her with one slick, brutal thrust. She cried out. I sunk deep into the wet folds of her, pressing away her body’s last fluttering resistance, stroking deep into her body; each stroke meeting a moan from her. She clutched desperately at my back to stabilize herself against what I was subjecting her to. Instead of easing up, I stabbed harder, each thrust lifting her hips off the bed. I felt wild. Her head hung limply off the edge of the bed, her long hair making a light brown fountain onto the platform below, shaking with each pump.

I felt bigger than I ever had in my life, enlarged somehow by my new purpose to immerse completely in her, to plunge my greedy cock right into the heart of her and fill with her with hot, sticky cum. She had a look of blissed out shock on her face, her little eyebrows quivering as my body dominated hers. And then, something strange happened: the lights in the club visibly dimmed, and this time the curtain wasn’t in my imagination. A soft spotlight hovering above us began to glow purple, while the lights in the rest of the club died down and darkened.

We were being put on display. If people hadn’t been watching us before, they certainly were now.

It was as though this sent tangible ripples through her body, and she arched her back, showing off her breasts and white throat. She loved it, being fucked in full view of everyone here, a literal spotlight on her body. I leaned in close, so close I could smell the moisture on her skin, and growled something in her ear, something I didn’t even comprehend, but could have only one meaning: I was going to come.

With all her might she wrapped her body tightly around mine, arms and legs coiled around me and her devouring pussy pressed up close to me as possible. I found a little nook of warmth nestled beside her head, and pressed my lips here, breathing in her smell. With a desperate, shuddering cry, she orgasmed hard around my cock and as she did, her voice distorted.

“Alan! Oh god. Put a baby in me…”

At any other time these words would have been ridiculous. Over the top. They would have ripped me right out of the moment. But now …there was nothing in the world I wanted to do more than put a baby in her, my baby, here in front of all these people.

All at once, a great pulsing wave tore through me and I burst inside her; her twitching body clung to mine, drawing me in as deep as I could go. It was my essence, the seed for something more to grow, everything I had.

I emptied out into her and she took it all, smiling.

I stared down at her amused face, something unspeakable forming in her eyes, and I knew. We both knew: it had happened.

We had conceived.

Like I said, I’m not a sappy guy. I think auras and ESP are bullshit, and I judge the hell out of people who believe in astrology.

I didn’t really think it was possible to “feel” that moment when conception actually happened. Somehow, in the next few days, Tanya and I enjoyed this new, weird secret we had. She had felt the same thing, too. The evening was a blur after that. We both remembered a playful cheer from some people down below, and drinks on the house for the good show we had given (although we hardly needed them); I remembered my wife beaming from ear to ear. I remembered the purple light, the yellow dress.

I was proud of her. I wanted to show her off to the whole world.

They had seen everything – her lithe, naked body drenched in sweat and cum, how her legs had been shaking when she stepped down from the platform, as though descending from heaven to look people in the eye again and find her clothes. They had seen her flustered and tying up her bedraggled hair, had seen her laughing as a young couple helped her fish her dress from the pool.

But even they hadn’t seen our secret, the way our bodies had agreed at just that moment to fuse, to make the living, flesh-and-blood proof of our love. Even at this outrageously exhibitionistic moment, there was still some deep, secret part inside her …a part that I and only I had access to.

It was cheesy, I know, but we loved it.

It was too soon to take a pregnancy test, but we both went on with life, excited, both tentative that what we had hoped – and felt – to be true actually might be.

It had never seemed hot to me before, any of this. But she seemed different to me in those days afterwards. She was overflowing, brim full of some new mischief and some improbable bit of magic: a new life was growing inside her.

A life I had put there.

It was two weeks later when we snuck into a café bathroom and she peed on a stick, and we both waited for those two lines that would legitimize everything. Two little lines… one for each of us.

They appeared.

She shoved the test back into the plastic Boots bag I brought for her and we sat in the café and looked at each other for a long time.

“Well now, you’ve only gone and knocked me up,” she said, teasing.

“Who me?” I said, teasing back.

We kissed.

“I can’t believe it, Alan. We did it. Maybe I should ring Doctor Melville and tell him how…”

“Yes, I’m sure he’d be very interested in hearing what a little slut you are.”

“Who, me?” she said, laughing.

I kissed her again.

“You’re sexy,” I said.

“You’re silly.”

“No, really. Pregnancy becomes you.”

“Oh…?”

“Yeah. I wonder if I’m imagining it or if you actually look different now.”

“You big idiot, it can’t be.”

“No, I think you do look different. Sexier.”

“Oh?”Her eyes sparkled. “You wanna…?”

God she was so naughty.

“What, here?”

“Mmm.”

“Here here?”

“Mmm.”

I finished my coffee and got up, then moved over to the bathrooms again, casual as can be. She followed a minute later, and we fucked in that tiny stall, while I held a hand over her screaming mouth.

We went back to that club many times in the next few months. And others. Tanya was seemingly in her final form, fully transformed, unfolding like some naughty flower that only blooms under the gaze of others.

We kept going, and eventually her soft belly domed outwards with the first signs of a pregnancy. The little secret we had gradually shared with the world around us became more and more obvious.

Pregnancy suited her well. She became even more golden, even naughtier, her sexual persona completely taking over. At home she was my sweet little wife in sweet little sundresses, but when we went out, she was a sexual superstar, someone who fed on the admiring gaze of others, seeming to turn on every male within a one-mile radius.

And sweet lord, if she wasn’t already pregnant I sure as hell would have done the job a thousand times over again. Just knowing how her body responded, how I had fertilized her, planted seed deep in her belly …it brought out something primal me. I wanted to drench her in cum; I relished the sight of her exhausted, dribbling body. We had found her sexual buttons, and finding all her new ones just happened to be my sexual button.

We were back in Doctor Melville’s office, and I was noticing with some consternation that Ovaria, queen of the vaginas was nowhere to be found. I had to lighten the mood some other way. I nodded towards a gestational poster, you know the kind, one with a cross section of some woman and a curled up baby rolled inside her like a pork chop.

“Oh my god, Tanya, so help me, you’d better not be growing us a baby that looks like that.”

She stroked her belly like an evil villain. “Hehe, just you watch, this little guy’s going to be on my side, and we’ll kick your butt together.”

The doctor walked in and we had our consultation, Tanya smiling throughout as thought she had personally proven him wrong and that she never needed a holiday after all, just a damn good seeing to. Personally, I kind of agreed.

We did the sonars and ticked all the boxes. Everything was perfect.

“Finding more time to relax these days?” he asked.

Tanya flashed a smile at me and replied that yes, she was, although I knew that these days her idea of relaxing would exhaust a less adventurous woman.

“So you’ll want to make some arrangements with the birth itself, like we spoke about. No rush, but bring your birth plan in next appointment and I’ll have you and the nurse go over it in detail.”

Tanya had ramped up her list-making ways in the last few weeks, and was deeply engrossed in plans for the nursery, buying clothing and knick knacks …she packed a little D-day hospital bag that seemed to contain different things every time I checked in.

If there’s anything she loved more than getting nailed in front of a crowd of strangers, it was making lists, and make them she did.

This was just another adventure, and one we were going on together.

“I tell this to all my patients, but think very carefully about who you want to be in the room with you,” he continued.

“The last thing you want is to have people there who you’re not comfortable with. It can feel very exposing, of course.”

“Exposing? Sounds horrible,” she said.

We laughed about that, all the way on the drive home. But not before a quick detour, of course.