You sat in the maternity ward, half-listening as the other women traded quiet miseries.
My husband doesn’t touch me. My husband sleeps in another room. The nurses had to pull my nipples out with a syringe because my husband never puts his mouth on them.
Your gaze drifted down to your own breasts. They were full, heavy, nipples pressing beads through your padded bra and cotton shirt.
You had the opposite problem. You’d had to fight your husband off your breasts.
He licked, tugged, bit, and suckled until your knees weakened and your fingers found their way into your panties, pumping into your sopping heat as if to keep up with his hunger.
He loved to palm them, to pinch your nipples between thumb and forefinger...sometimes gentle, sometimes merciless...until you were arching back, searching for the hard length you knew was waiting for you.
If you dared to wear a thin shirt without a bra, you’d end up walking around with damp circles blooming over your chest--his mark, his claim.
Some days he’d bend you over the kitchen island, one hand gripping your hip, the other sliding over your breast to push it aside so he could latch on and drink from you while he rutted, spine arched like a cat about to cough up a furball.
He took you every way he could, even as your belly grew. Once, you sighed aloud about missing being fucked prone bone.
“Bet,” he'd said.
An hour later, he’d rigged something you could sink your tummy into, a nest that held you soft and steady. He parted your thighs, eased himself in. Fear kept him from slamming into you, so he moved in a slow, steady grind--until your toes curled and you felt your climax bubble up and spill from you, hot between your thighs.
He stayed inside you after, his hand digging into his foamy contraption to cup your breast, thumbing idly at your nipple until you whimpered. “You’re dripping,” he murmured, and you couldn’t tell if he meant your chest or the heat between your thighs. When he finally pulled away and pulled you off, lying you carefully on your side, he leaned down to kiss each nipple in parting, like a man promising to come back for seconds.
Someone tapped you, drawing your attention back from your lewd memory walk.
"You've been quiet. Care to share your pregnancy journey?"
You looked down at your breast, your long nipples poking through your shirt indicating your arousal, and smiled politely at her. You shook your head and she clicked her tongue in sympathy and turned to someone else.
You pulled out your phone and sent a text. I need you. Now.
