obsessed with the thought of my husband holding me while i’m giving birth. i’m in between his legs and he’s gently prying my legs open every once in a while to dip a finger in my slit and check if the baby’s head is there. when he isn’t checking me, one of his hands is always on my areola, the other on my belly. his voice is gentle and soft, encouraging me to birth our baby the way i want to.
the baby is so, so low. at some point i feel it close and put a finger inside me to check. it’s right there. my husband is still carressing my skin and kissing my neck. “it’s right there,” i murmur, moaning as another contraction comes.
i feel my husband’s hand over my vagina. he dips his middle finger in, but it doesn’t take long before he feels our baby’s head. i can feel him getting excited—his finger stays inside me. i’ve been pushing little by little, grunting the baby out slowly, focusing on how its head is stretching me inside.
it takes an hour before i can get the head to a full crown. by that time my husband has been rubbing my clit, distracting me from the pain by pleasuring me. it’s working. one particular contraction takes my breath away and i’m forced to push hard, moaning, flinching against my husband—“hey,” he whispers, “hey. you’re almost there.”
he presses his lips down my neck, kissing me gently, breath ghosting across my skin. i push with every kiss, slowly getting our baby out of me, my hands poised to catch them. it’s another thirty minutes of pushing, of focusing on my husband’s touch, before our baby is finally born.
“he’s here,” he whispers. “you did so well, my love.”
