Seven babies and counting.
There’s nothing sexier than watching you be heavy and round with my babies. Perfect, round, gravid belly. I love how shiny and tight it is. Like a massive beach ball or watermelon attached to your slight frame. You love fondling it, holding it, weighing it.
Your womb is full. Your brain is hazy. You’re growing two new lives, it’s okay to be slow. It’s okay to be content like this. Rubbing your bump while you drink your cup of tea. Smiling as I pick up our children, fool around with them, make them laugh, play with them.
This is why you want more. Always more.
Seeing me with the babies you pop out, how much I care for them, love them, make sure they are taken care of, it’s your own aphrodisiac. I spend every free minute of my day helping you with the five kids we already have. I hired a nanny too, for the twins you had a year ago. Now you’re almost ready to pop again. Seven months and counting.
Insatiable. Little. Breeder.
You’re so proud of how large you get when you’re pregnant. You’re carrying twin boys this time, and they are large and healthy. I can tell that this will be your biggest pregnancy yet. The weight of the babies pushes down between your legs, and sometimes, when you think no one is watching (but I am), you sit down, open your legs, hold your belly and grind against a pillow.
The sight of it drives me wild. The way your lips part, eyes close, grinding-grinding-grinding. You love being pregnant. When we met, I didn’t think we’d have seven kids by the age of 32. But here we are. Young, fertile, healthy, giving in to our most natural urge: procreation.
