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I’ve hit the snooze button three times already. My alarm is going off again. I shift myself over to the side of the bed and give the clock a whack. The alarm stops.

I pick up the clock and look at it. It’s 8:58. John’s leaving at 9, so I figure I should find him and say goodbye.

I heft myself upwards and sit on the side of the bed. Getting up is kind of difficult. Everything’s a little difficult these days.

This, I guess, is where I stop and tell you I’m 32 weeks pregnant. It’s our second baby. And our second girl. Hannah, our first, is 14 months. So, you do the math. We work quickly around here. It helps that John really loves me pregnant. It helps even more that I love being pregnant.

I’m about to get up when John comes in the bedroom.

“You’re up,” he says. “I was just coming to wake you before I left.”

“I’m up!”

He takes my hands and pulls me up, wrapping his arms around me. He’s a bit taller than me, 5’7″ to my 5’1″ so it’s not like he towers over me but it’s enough that when he puts his arms around me, I feel warm and enveloped. Mostly. At this point in my pregnancy I’m pretty big in the belly so I can’t really mush myself into him as much as I’d like. I look up at him. I haven’t yet put my glasses on so I squint a little. Yes, I’m that nearsighted. We smile at each other.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Mmm…I feel good. Slept well for once.”

“You passed out pretty quick last night.”

“What did I do?”

“You fell asleep.”

I look at my side of the bed. Seems I’d fallen asleep with my computer on. It’s still open, up against the headboard with my pillow next to it.

“Whoops!” I say. We both giggle.

“You’re pregnant. You’re allowed to be tired.”

“I sure am!”

He puts his hands on my belly.

“And how is she doing?” he asks.

“Well…you feel her.”

She…we haven’t arrived at a name for her yet…feels like a real fireball. She rarely calms down, always rolling around, kicking, punching, doing somersaults inside me. She’s at it again this morning. It can get a little painful sometimes now that she’s bigger and her movements are sharper. But don’t get me wrong. I absolutely love every second of this.

“She really doesn’t stop,” he says. “It’s crazy. Hannah was never this active, was she.”

“Hannah had her moments. You know, all those times after we’d make love, that would really set her off.”

“She didn’t like you getting jostled around like that.”

“No, no she did not!”

We laugh some more. He leans in and kisses me.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you too,” he replies.

He rubs my belly some more.

“I love you as well.” he says to my belly.

And he’s off.

***

You probably want to know a little more about my backstory-John has told you his side of things, particularly about how we met, but I have a little more to say in general. You might have noticed that of the two of us, I’m the chattier one. It’s usually the woman, isn’t it?

You know we’re both in Theater. He’s a Director. I’m a Stage Manager. Or at least I was before I became a mom. That was sort of my master plan in life. Be an actress, save the world, then be mommy. I wouldn’t say I’ve retired by any stretch, but you try to sit through a tech rehearsal with a small child. Or, worse, when you’re pregnant!

The actress thing didn’t last long. John’s probably given you a good physical picture of me and, well, he’s not wrong. I developed early and kinda looked awkward for most of my teens. I always had this awful image of myself, like I was something out of “Welcome to the Dollhouse” or something like that. Whether I looked that way or not, I constantly felt like the dorky fat chick and I got really, really self-conscious about it. Boys didn’t notice me, girls made fun of me…and, yeah. High school was kind of a disaster for me.

It was during that time that I sort of stumbled into this kink for pregnancy. It’s always been something I’ve had a hard time describing. I used to simply call it a healthy fascination. Mrs. Kendall was my English Teacher in the 10th grade and she was pregnant basically through the entire school year. And watching her grow was just mesmerizing to me. I knew about pregnancy already—I’d gone through a sex ed class and my parents gave me a book about it when I was little—and perhaps that’s where my wires got crossed—but it wasn’t until that year watching Mrs. Kendall that it sort of stuck with me. I was curious and on a couple of occasions asked her some innocent questions which she happily answered. One one occasion I’d gone to her office for some pointers on a project I’d been working on. She kept giving me some very pained looks and I asked if she was OK, and she told me that her baby was just kicking her a lot. She asked if I’d ever felt a pregnant woman’s belly before and I said I hadn’t. She excitedly told me I had to feel her, and she took my hand and pressed it on her belly. I felt that kayseri escort firmness, coupled with the gentle little pokes of her baby moving and…gosh, I was hooked. I wanted that feeling for myself so badly.

I was embarrassed about it at first…I was kind of embarrassed about everything about myself at that point and it wasn’t until I got to college that I started to pull out of it. I fell in with the Theater crowd-by this point I’d become much more comfortable working behind the scenes—and a group that was more compassionate and understanding, and accepting of me as I was. I also started getting a little more serious about fitness—I needed to get a little more in shape since I didn’t like feeling winded running around backstage—and I became a little more like the woman I am today. Curvy—I’m always going to be curvy, that’s never going to change (thanks, mom!)—but slightly more comfortable in my own skin. I met my first boyfriend my freshman year—and summarily lost my virginity to him—but that was destined to fail, as most college relationships can be. Neither of us were particularly sure what we’d wanted.

I moved to New York for Grad School and that was when I met Clem. Clem was really nice and handsome-he was on the Scenic Design track—and we fell for each other hard and quickly. He was the first guy I admitted my kink to, but he didn’t seem to be terribly interested in indulging it. He would get very caught up in his own things. We’d find ourselves working on shows and not seeing each other for days at a time. Eventually, our relationship stagnated. I broke it off and he got kind of pissy because in his mind, everything was OK, but that was part of the problem.

I tried going outside-the-box and with some prodding from my mother and my sister I did the online thing and met Rich. Rich worked in finance which was kind of dry when it came to discussions but he was sweet and kind and I liked him very much. We moved in together after a little over a year and I thought maybe he’d be the one. When I told him about my kink he didn’t dismiss it, though it also didn’t seem to excite him either. Still, I waited for him to come around and ask me to marry him. For a few years, I would have said yes. But the more time passed, the more I felt like it just wasn’t going to happen. Eventually, I asked him what the hell was going on. And I got socked with this whole story of “You’re wonderful, but…”

I was having none of it. Five years seemingly wasted. I was hurt and angry and I walked out and never looked back. I had my father collect my things when Rich was out at work.

At this point, I was 31, newly single and the only thing I was really certain of was I wanted to get married, and I wanted to have a baby, and I really wanted to have the experience of being pregnant, and if I dated a guy who wasn’t into that, forget it. That was the dealbreaker.

That year was probably the hardest year of my life. My sister, two years younger than me, was pregnant and had a baby, and I was SO JEALOUS of her. Particularly because she HATED everything about being pregnant. Like she just had no idea how lucky she was to have that happen for her, and so easily. And there was me, Miss Stage Manager supreme, busting my ass for weeks at a time on shows with no break. Work, at that point, was really all I had. My actors were my kids. The shows were my babies.

Then came that Summer on the Cape. My hostess—and now my dear friend—Danielle, who at the time was enormously pregnant and drop-dead gorgeous, fixed me up with this Director dude. The rest, as they say, is history!

***

John’s gone off to rehearsal. He’s in tech this week, then previews, and opening night is in two weeks. After that, he’s taking some time off so we can be together and enjoy those final few weeks of my pregnancy. I can’t wait. Neither can he.

I want to get a shower in before Hannah wakes up. She usually wakes up around 9:30 or 10. I step in the bathroom and put the water on, then I remove my clothes. I have a particular love for tight-fitting workout clothes. I’m wearing a top and some shorts. They’re just great all-purpose things to fart around in—although maybe not the best thing to wear at 8+ months pregnant. The top is a holdover from my first pregnancy and, well, we’ll just say its elasticity is not holding up well. The shorts just get buried in the crease underneath my belly. Yes, that means my belly is mostly exposed. But when you have a husband that finds your peeking baby belly to be totally sexy, you don’t feel quite so much urgency to cover it up.

There’s a wall-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and I pause for a moment and look at myself. I run my hand down over my breasts and hold it on my belly. The baby is still flopping around inside me so I shake my belly a little bit and talk to her some more.

“Hey…wanna calm down in there?” I say.

She doesn’t stop. This girl, I fear, is going to be a troublemaker.

My focus goes back kıbrıs escort to the mirror. My mind drifts for a second, back to those times when I hated the way I looked. Now, I feel so sexy and powerful, full of life and warmth. But the best part is that I don’t need to tell myself this in order to feel that way. It’s one thing to have this pregnancy kink and go through the experience. I’m going through it-and I’m so lucky to be going through it a second time-with a man who constantly tells me how beautiful I am and how sexy pregnancy has made me. I’m very fortunate in that regard.

I hold that thought in my head as I get in the shower. Not washing my hair this morning. I just rinse it out a bit. It helps it not be quite so unruly. Curly hair problems, y’know? Then I start to soap myself up. This task has become increasingly more and more difficult as I grow larger. Hannah was a pretty big girl—9lb, 9oz when she was born—and I measured 41 weeks. She stretched me out good and proper and now this girl is finishing the job of destroying my abdominal muscles. Doesn’t help that she’s been growing straight out ever since I started showing—short girl problems, y’know? Point is, showering is kind of hard for me right now. Sometimes, I wait for my husband to come home. It doesn’t take much convincing to get him to help me out.

So I’m scrubbing down my boobs and my belly, and fortunately our shower has a little bench in the corner so I can kind of maneuver myself to wash my legs. But this is kind of exhausting for me. And I really can’t do a good job of it. So I lean back against the wall to catch my breath for a second. I put my hands on my belly—still holding the washcloth. I look down and smile. Then I start thinking about John being in the shower and helping me.

John has always had this uncanny ability to touch me the right way. It goes all the way back to when we started dating. Like, he’d put his hand on my back and press in with one of his fingers in such a way that I’d absolutely get wet. Touch, for him, seems to be a nonverbal way of telling me he loves me. He still touches my back like that, or my neck. When he washes me, he starts by covering my arms, giving me a little extra scrub under my armpits. He covers my legs next. Then up over my back and my butt, which he always makes sure to squeeze. Then my breasts—often giving my nipples his “special” wash with his mouth. He saves my belly for last because that’s his favorite part. Even when I’m not pregnant, he loves my belly. I think it’s because he imagines what it would look like all swollen up with our baby. He’ll scrub it in circles, then up and down and all over. Usually he’ll punctuate it by holding me tight and kissing me on the mouth or, if he really wants to get me going, on the back of my neck.

Whew! Just thinking about this is making me kind of horny. That’s usually how this happens for me. This whole idea of my body growing and changing and swelling up so round…and I am soooo round…This is what I was meant to do. I know it and he knows it and we are totally primal with each other when I’m pregnant. That silent understanding between us…just gets me so fucking hot. I rub my belly a little more, inching my right hand lower and lower each time until I reach my vagina. Again, no easy task with this big belly in the way, but, you know, you always find a way. I think about John’s hands on me. His breath on my neck and his hand starting to scrub in between my legs…in my vagina. He knows where I like it. I do too, obviously, but, again, I’ve got an obstruction. Still, I manage. I slide two fingers in and out of my vagina slowly at first, then I increase my tempo. I grab my right nipple with my left hand and start to slowly tweak it in between my thumb and my index finger. I’m still lactating—little pearly white droplets of milk start to leak from me and I take my fingers and lick them off. Lactating isn’t really a kink for me, but then again it’s just another one of those fucking amazing things that pregnancy has done to me…like, I fucking make FOOD out of my body and OMG what an incredible sexy feeling oh fuck this would be so amazing if John were here right now he’d pin me up against the wall of the shower and finger me until I collapse in his arms and this one time he sat me down on the bench and put his hands on my belly and buried his face in my vagina fuck that was so fucking hot this is so fucking hot and OH MY FUCKING GOD IM GONNA CUM…FUUUUUCK…

…Oh fuck yeah.

I slump down on the bench, the shower still running, soap slowly dripping off me. I rub my belly some more. She hasn’t stopped bouncing around in there. I take a few minutes to catch my breath—again, it’s hard doing most any normal task these days—and then I heft myself up and finish rinsing off. And that’s how my morning shower goes on most days.

***

I’m not going to say my relationship with John has been perfect—no relationship ever is-but it has always been very easy for both of us. That’s probably konya escort why it’s worked, because it’s never truly felt like we had to force things or work on things—it always felt natural and correct for us to be together. We disagree, we argue, we talk and we figure things out. It helps, I think, that I’m very good at coaxing things out of him—I make him more relaxed and less taciturn. I think he dials me back a bit so I’m not quite so manic. But we have a rule, which is really important: We’re not allowed to go to bed mad at each other. And we never have.

But it was a struggle for the first couple of years we were together. We were both working, and working constantly because that’s just life in show business and we had to make ends meet. We were living together in a small apartment—hoping some day we’d be able to live someplace where we could actually have a family. Then John’s father died, suddenly. John and his father had a complicated relationship—I didn’t particularly get along with him—and John inherited a rather substantial amount of money. This was kind of a game-changer for us because it meant we’d be able to survive without burning our respective candles at both ends. We searched for—and bought—a nice, big apartment with enough space for a couple of kids, then we got married…and a few months later I found out I was pregnant!

Yes, our mutual fetish for pregnancy is a big part of our relationship. It’s hard for it not to be. I used to love to pretend I was pregnant for him, and that was really great, but nothing truly prepared us for the real thing.

I hadn’t really noticed that I was late—I was in the middle of the run of a show and one morning I was finishing up a prop run when I immediately felt nauseous, ran to the bathroom and puked my guts out. Then, I immediately felt better. The next day, it happened again twice, once during intermission. After it happened a third day, I called my doctor. She made an appointment for me to come in the next day but in the meantime, she asked if it was possible I might be pregnant. I paused, because I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had my period and when I checked…It turned out to be 36 days. Time flies when you’re working on a show. I took a test that night and when that plus sign came up I just started laughing until tears were streaming down my face. I was kind of stunned. It was finally true!

John was beyond overjoyed when I told him. He told me he couldn’t wait for me to have a real belly. That night when we had sex, everything felt different. Maybe it was psychological but just knowing that it was now finally my turn to experience being pregnant just make everything feel deeper. More passionate.

The first few months were hard. I was sick a lot and generally just felt very disoriented. John did what he could to help me but we kind of just had to wait it out and let my body adjust. I could feel changes happening already. My breasts—which were already a healthy DD—shot up a cup size in the first few weeks and were super, super sensitive. I had big, childbearing hips—John loved that about me—and they started to get a bit wider.

By about 14 weeks I started to get a bit rounder in the belly, and around the same time I got my bearings back, which was good because around the same time I got super duper horny. Like, constantly. Certain smells and touches would set me off. I started working on another show when I was 16 weeks—it was a 14-week gig—and I found out right away that Pregnancy—especially when you’re so into it like I am—and Stage Management are not quite a good mix. It’s hard to tape out a stage when you have a belly in the way, and when you’re working on a play with a big romantic kissing scene, well, let’s just say I found myself getting a little damp downstairs. And at around 28 weeks I started to have a serious growth spurt—my belly got really big—and when your job involves watching a show, calling cues and sitting behind a hot dimmer board, it gets more than just a bit uncomfortable.

By the time that show finished, I realized I was toast. John told me I needed to stop and just relax and prepare for the baby—slow down and work on being an actual mom. And he was right. I needed to take more time for myself. Those last ten weeks, I spent them doing things like furniture shopping, doing prenatal yoga, reading up on taking care of baby, and mostly admiring just how big I’d become. Needless to say, John loved it too and we were constantly touching each other in a variety of naughty ways, even if we were in public.

My belly was also a total hand magnet, which I loved. It never bothered me when people would ask to rub my belly, at least so long as it was a friend. Strangers not so much. John would sometimes pretend to act like one of those weird, glommy dads and stand directly in front of me so nobody could see I was pregnant. It was kind of funny. Maybe you had to be there.

In reality, though, that third trimester of pregnancy was easily the most beautiful and sexual time of my life. After spending so many years feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable with my body and my appearance, I would look at myself in the mirror and just marvel over how amazing my body looked—and how amazing my body is—and how sexy and feminine I felt.

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