Thursday, October 25, 2018


We were in bed the other night; she was sitting on the edge and I was behind her, rubbing lotion onto her as I did most nights. I was gentle on her sore breasts, tender on her swollen belly, felt our growing child.

Emily was naked, I was feminized, of course, my clit safely under lock and key where it had been since we found out.

"You're such a doll," she said as I massaged her breasts and I could hear her breathing quicken, a sign I should massage lower at some point, a sign I received with increasing frequency lately. It was my fingers she seemed to desire, oiled fingers between her legs.

"I miss it," she said.

"It?" I asked.

"You know," she said.

"You...you're not..."

"God no," she looked back at me. "Not like this, never."

"You miss him?" I asked.

"No," she said, "that's the thing. I mean, yes, but it, really, all of it. Less him than it. I mean him, some, but more it. The way it makes me feel, the way you respond to it. I don't know if after he and I will..."

"S...someone else?"

"Perhaps, love, perhaps. I just miss...the newness...the flirting...the teasing. I miss you wondering, fantasizing, playing. Don't you?"

"I...I do," I said.

"It will be awhile, I know...but I miss it."

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