Page 23 Submission

                                         SUBMISSION.                                               2 22 10

                                                                        ROY GARDE.

I’d often seen the guy at the Learning Center and he was remarkable only for having the most horrendous case of acne that I’ve ever seen on an adult.

 One day I was eating a sandwich on the steps by the front entrance and he came and leaned against a column close by so I turned away so as to not have to see him while I was eating because his face looked like he’d tripped while running and had landed on it on rough concrete and had skidded along for about ten feet. Having moved around I could see that when students who were climbing up the steps came in sight of him they’d stare and then contort their faces in near disgust. There’s no way that he couldn’t know what was going on and yet he stayed where he was and kept an indifferent look on his face. He had to be hurting.

I took pity on the guy after seeing that defiant and silly exhibition of seeming indifference and the next time that I saw him I gave him the card of a really good Doctor that I’d been told about by a nurse who knows about these things and which I’d picked up specially for him from the front desk of the Department of Dermatology in my hospital. As I handed it to him I told him that the doctor was using a new treatment for acute acne that really worked. He took the card and murmured something but I didn’t know, nor much cared, what his grunts signified.

Months later a guy came up to me on the same steps and I didn’t know who he was until he started thanking me for telling him about “that wonderful Doctor Updike. Just look at my face. Can you believe it? The difference? He’s a genius, right? I must have seen around twenty specialists before him and he nailed it at once.”

He still had deep pockmarks on his cheeks but without the accompanying sores they weren’t a bit off-putting. They made him look rugged and cowboy-looking-for-his-horse/ish.

His name was Hugh Brennan and I began to see a lot of him because he sought me out everyday and we took to eating our sandwiches together. Now that I didn’t have to keep looking away from him anymore I saw that he was well over six feet tall and was hefty. I weigh people every day in my job and I’d guess that he was pretty close to two hundred pounds.

Seeing that he was built like a linebacker I was surprised to find out that he was in the second year of a three-year course to become a Medical Statistician. When I knew him well enough to ask him about it he said that for most of his life he’d been undergoing various treatments and so he’d gotten drawn to the medical profession but he’d known that, then, he couldn’t get a job that meant his having to come face to face with people so he’d jumped at the chance of getting a grant to be able to train for a job that would be in a hospital, or a clinic, even though it would be behind closed doors.

I too had always been drawn to the profession but after high school ‘adverse circumstances’, as they say in the Social Service circles, had driven me in other directions so I was starting late in it. I was working as a nurse’s aid and I was taking courses to become a registered nurse and I was getting near to the end of my first year. I had to spread my studying over four years because I had to work full time to support myself and to pay the tuition.

I’d lucked into having a dream job waiting for me after graduating and it is one that is very difficult to get. It happened this way – one day, a few months ago, I had been told to scrub up and then take some instruments into one of the busy operating rooms where they would be sterilized. They were short handed in there, as well as being nearly all out of the necessary instruments, so one of the surgeons, not knowing that I didn’t belong there, called me over to assist him. I only had to hand him things when he asked for them and I’d learned the names and functions of all the items that were in the trays only the month before in school. I was pleased to discover that seeing the incisions and all the blood spurting and flowing didn’t faze me at all. A little while later, when he was well into the operation, he asked me to hold onto a non-self-holding clamp and a minute or two later I could see that he needed someone to hold a similar one in place that was close to the one that I had in my hand. The clamps have to be held just so, firmly but delicately, and there was no one else around so he was in a quandary. I told him that I’d hold the other one for him too and when he looked apprehensive I assured him that I was ambidextrous so he didn’t have to worry about me miss-handling either of them. So it proved and much later, when another surgeon started in on doing the closing up, the first surgeon and I left together. When I’d taken my operating room gown off he saw that I wasn’t an RN and he asked me what was going on. After I’d explained he said that being ambidextrous and willing and capable were traits that were highly desirable in an operating room and that when I became an RN he wanted me to work for him. He made it official, in writing, with an added note that thanked me for helping him and it also praised my ability which made all the difference in how I got treated at the hospital from then on because the head nurse read it and that is what counts the most.


Hugh started asking me to go out and see a movie with him and as soon as I found that I could close my eyes and see his face as it was then rather than as it had been before I agreed.


He came back to my place after the third date and he had no idea as to how to ask me to go to bed with me so I had to carefully steer him – by heavy kissing and the undoing of buttons and clasps to allow for feeling and groping benefits – into a state where it would have been downright unnatural for us to not move from the sofa down onto the carpet.

He followed my example when I began getting undressed and when we were both done with that he was as entranced with my spare and compact body as I was with his heavily muscular one. When I got my first look at his member its awesome heft worried me although it was probably only proportionally correct. It was present in full from the beginning and it was a very definite presence all the time that it was at large and it was at large for far too long a long time, for me, because he spent what seemed like hours exploring my various body parts.

 I liked getting properly appreciated and all of the attention was nice but it puzzled me because every other guy that I’d been to bed with for the first time wanted to get into me as soon the panties barrier had been lowered. I knew it was a man thing and I put it down to an understandable trait – I figured that it was probably caused by the combination of anxiety and the need for immediate conquest while the getting was good and, also, for the novelty of being with a new partner. There was also an unknown factor which was the amount of time that had gone by since he’d last gotten some – so I always tried to never let myself get discouraged if the first bout was brutish and brief.

 Hugh kept touching and looking and kissing and then re-positioning my body for more of the same and then approaching my core from different angles and he kept at it for so long that I’d already had two orgasms, and another one was well on the way, when I began to feel a neighborly concern about him getting one for himself. Besides, if there’s a choice, I don’t like clitoral ones nearly as much as I like getting filled up with bona fide backbone-shaking and headboard-shattering ones.

And then a thought came to me. Given his history it was quite possible that this was the first time that he’d ever laid down with a naked woman and had been given unlimited roaming rights to explore her topography and have total access to her and consequently he didn’t know how – apart from having watched porn and from doing some racy reading which is a very different thing compared to being in an actual hands-on situation, just ask someone who goes out on a sailing boat alone after only having read a manual called ‘How to Sail’ – or didn’t dare try, to go for penetration.

In case either of those possibilities was true I took charge by pulling at his head until it reluctantly gave up its place in lapping heaven and I made it bypass my breasts on the way up – my nipples were already sore by then – and when he’d clamped his lips onto my mouth and his tongue was lolling and slavering on my tonsils again it wasn’t difficult for me to move my center so that we were lined up and then to reach down and guide him.

When I took hold of it to do that I was reminded, in spades, of its heft and so I closed my legs so that he couldn’t proceed and when he lifted his head to protest, justifiably, I told him that he would hurt me if he didn’t go very slowly and I that I wasn’t going to give him proper access until he’d promised me that he would only push until the head of it was just inside me and then stop and move in again only when I told him that it was OK to give me more. Sounds a bit bossy I know but we nurses know a thing or two about pain and tearing.

There was an agony of longing in his voice – that is when he’d managed to regain enough control to command his vocal chords to function – as he said that he understood and that he would do what I’d said.

I knew that he wouldn’t be able to control himself the whole way but I also knew that I’d saved myself a whole lot of grief by using that strategy because, although he waited, as promised, for my go-ahead each time before moving on in, every fraction of an inch that he gained stretched me wickedly. A lot more than a half of it had been eased into me before he let out outlandish groans of need and then forced the rest of it in with a massive thrust. Up until then I had no idea that vaginas have limitations on the length as well as on the girth that they can accept but when he, inexorably, started in with Mother Nature directed, savage thrusts and withdrawals I found that besides the stretching pains that I was getting, in both directions of travel, I could feel him hit a barrier in there at the end of each of his incomings which gave a little each time but that definitely didn’t like being touched no matter about being pushed at.

I began to get worried – could sex, no matter how potentially good, ever be worth getting seriously injured for? – but then that same Mother Nature came to the rescue and the pain eased somehow and I got a rush of well being and just before I let go of all my inhibitions – by then I’d already put my ankles up onto the small of his back – I took an inventory and I realized from the reports that were coming in to control center that he was so big that he was stimulating my clitoris and my G-spot and was completely filling the void at my core all at the same time! For minutes on end I wouldn’t have cared if I’d felt him pushing past my liver because the continuation of this – the swamping, overwhelming feeling of knowing at last what I was on earth for – was the only thing that mattered to me.

For the rest of that night I got besotted with wanting, and getting, more it from him and, luckily and understandably, he couldn’t get enough of giving it to me seeing the long and cruel drought that he’d suffered through.

I wanted, in particular, what he alone could give me and he needed, in general, what all women can give him.

I never got to see the inside of his studio apartment but seeing that the only thing that he brought with him when he moved in with me, besides some clothes and his toiletries, was a set of once white sheets and a pillow in its case. They were a dirty-gray color, through never having seen the inside of a washing machine, so, all in all, not seeing his place wasn’t exactly a disappointment.

He was at me every chance that he got those first few weeks – he’d even want to be feeling me up on our breaks at the Center as soon as he’d found us a private spot – and the minute that we closed the world out by closing the door of my apartment behind us he’d strip off his clothes in seconds and then would ‘help’ me do the same and he’d go at it until he got to be exhausted. While I enjoyed his efforts to pound me through the mattress I also welcomed the respites because I could use the time to put a meal together or to take care of some chores or to do some studying.

He had long known, from porn magazines I guess, all of the standard positions that there are to make love with a woman and one of them, of course, is anal. He was bereft when I proved to him that it couldn’t be done by us two – I told him that I’d hold still for him to try it if he could first demonstrate that he could get more than one finger in there but before I let him try it, being a nurse and a practical woman who wanted to save herself some grief, I used a cloth tape to measure his dick’s circumference at half shaft, at full hardness of course, and then I measured one of his digit fingers and I showed him the results. Even after seeing that it was physically impossible he still insisted on taking up my challenge – of course he did, he was only a man after all – but only half-heartedly I’m pleased to say. Then, when he’d washed his hands and had come back to bed and had almost come to accept the fact that his repertoire was probably never going to be a fully complete one – que lastima! – I made the stupid mistake of telling him that I’d once done it that way with a guy who was way less well endowed than he was and that it hadn’t been much of a big deal for either of us. On hearing that he was hurt for the rest of that day and to punish me he masturbated right there in front of me well knowing that I ached to have what his hand was berating rove up inside me.

He started going to the library to find out everything about what can be done by a man and a woman and some of his discoveries were bizarre. However, whenever I got to feel that putting up with all of his nonsense was getting to be too much for me to bear anymore I’d think about how what we were doing, no matter how distasteful, would lead in a little while to – well! – only confirmation of why I was put on this earth, that’s all! So I’d smile and take up yet another of the outrageous positions that he’d read up on and hold still while he painstakingly checked its potential for exploitation from all possible angles.

      When we’d been living together for about a month I realized that that he wasn’t doing nearly enough studying anymore, unless he’d cha                 he’d changed his major to Female Anatomy that is, and although he tried to brush my concern aside I started keeping tabs on him and I ca          and I came to believe that he was suffering from the state of, as it is called in the street, being ‘cunt struck.’ When he wasn’t inside mine or k        mine, or wasn’t kissing it or holding it – because of having had to move away from sheer exhaustion – he’d ask me to sit in such a way that         way that he had an unobstructed view of it and I saw that he always had a pensive look on his face as he stared at it and I knew that it wa        that it was because he was unhappy about not being in contact with it right then.

On top of my noticing that he wasn’t doing nearly enough studying, a friend of mine who was in his class told me that his tutors had all given up on him because he just sat at his desk and stared into space. She told me that it was common knowledge that there was no way he was going to get anything better than an F at the end of term and then he’d be kicked out because he was there on the same grant that she was on and it had particularly strict guidelines. No extensions and no second chances.

Naturally that made me worry for him even more and so I made some enquiries from specialists at work and I was told that there’s only one cure for what ailed him and that is giving the guy all that he wants and then some. Useless advice for me because the ‘guy’ was getting as much as he could possibly handle and he still wanted more. He wanted to be in direct contact with his icon 24/7.

Sure enough, just as the only sure cure for seasickness is more of the same – plus time – his cure came with time, two months worth of it, and with a surfeit of what had possessed him. I knew that the cure had ‘taken’ the first time that we went to bed and went to sleep without doing it nor with his doing any hard core visiting down there. His cure didn’t happen soon enough to help his grades though and he had to leave college at the end of the term.

Clearly, he had to start looking for a full time job, in earnest, because I have very real limits when it comes to the fundamentals even though I really didn’t want to have to go without what he was bringing to the table.

He’d been long estranged from his father, his mother had been dead for many years, but the big changes that had happened to him, viz. – me and the clearing up of his skin although perhaps that should be put the other way around – had changed his outlook on life and after he’d gone through some teary reminiscences for me one night, after a little too much vodka and then a whole bottle of wine at dinner, I told him – insightfully and world-wisely – that he only had one father. He remembered my brilliant statement the next morning and so he called him up and they met for a drink the following Friday.

He had a grin from here to here when he came home and it wasn’t all due to alcohol. As soon as they’d met all animosities had been dropped on the spot and they both had a gratifying time catching up as they sucked down Guinness.

His father worked in the building trade and he had always held a high position in his union but it turned out that several years earlier he’d been elected president of his local. So, besides having gotten reunited with his father Hugh’s chances of finding a job had markedly improved!

The next Monday morning, union card in hand, he’d shown up at a big construction site with his father and he was asked to sit in the office while the Site Manager and the Supervisors and the Foremen went into another room with his father to think up a job suitable for him. His influential parent meant that they had to find a compromise between the ideal one that would have him carrying bricks up a ladder at first – and then go on from there to get to learn all aspects of the job the hard way, as they had all done – and a no-show one where he would merely be given a check every week and asked to stay out of the way. Both were doable but neither one of them was what anybody there wanted to suggest.

Hugh solved their dilemma for them because while he was waiting he saw that many charts – they combined to form something that is called a “Critical Path Control System” – were taking up one long wall of the office and after reading the small print, and the large, his training in statistics allowed him to puzzle everything out and he realized that it was a clever way of policing the dates on which the different skilled tradesmen and their materials should and could and had to come to the site. Each date had been established well beforehand but all of the other filled-in lines, or paths, would have to have converged already to give it the go ahead. Thus, if any one of the many lines wasn’t in place, and on time, it stood out as a warning and alerted the observer. Right before him Hugh saw the whole history of the project up to then and its targets for the ten months before the completion date came.

He had a lot of time on his hands so he was able to follow all of the converging and progressing lines from the starting date up to the present date and he gradually became aware that the progress of one of the freight elevators that should be ready to take over from the outside temporary hoist by the end of the week wasn’t drawn in as it should have been and he saw that while it wasn’t exactly urgent the missing line disturbed the symmetry of the whole.

He was still standing in front of the charts when his father and the others came back into the room and he never found out what job they had dreamed up for him was because when the Site Manager came up to him tell him what his fate was going to be he jabbed his index finger on the weak spot of that day’s chart and he asked him if the errant freight elevator would be available as needed in time or was it only that someone had failed to fill in the chart.

Critical Path systems are anathema to all construction workers, especially Managers and Supervisors and Foremen, and they have been since they were introduced thirty odd years ago. One cock-up by any one of dozens of different trades or suppliers meant that the whole project was compromised as to meeting the deadlines. There are always deadlines.

The Architects and the General Contractors, and especially the Bankers and Owners, are very much in favor of Critical Path Systems because they give, and hold onto, finishing dates and what can be nicer, for Bankers and Owners especially, than a nicely laid out path to completion?

The whole system was the bane of the life of that particular Site Manager. Try as he might to delegate that particular responsibility he’d failed repeatedly and consequently he had to stay very aware of the chart’s status himself. Because of that he well knew about the problem with the freight elevator and he also knew exactly how much the outside hoist would cost every day that it was in place past the agreed on date of dismantling it.

Hope rose in his chest when he heard what Hugh had asked him and, after answering, he asked him a few questions of his own to find out if he had fathomed out the anomaly by intellect rather by a lucky guess. When he was satisfied that it was the former he immediately dropped whatever he’d fixed up for his future and he offered him a job in the office where he’d work almost exclusively on keeping the hated and cruelly controlling system up to date, and correct, by calling, or meeting with the errant parties and urging them to catch up and then keep up with the program as charted.

By the judicious use of the right names to back up his enquiries and demands Hugh saw to it that the whole project was completed on time and in the last two weeks the fully filled in charts became a thing of beauty in the eyes of the Site Manager. He’d much appreciated being rescued from having to administer it and he wanted, and got, Hugh on his next project and they went from strength to strength.

With very little help from his father his competence got to be noted by the General Contractor’s office people and after just two years of being with the company he was put in charge of the department that was responsible for all of the Critical Path Systems on all of their sites.

With very little help from his father his salary went from forty thousand to eighty thousand in those same two years and he got healthy year-end bonuses too.

When he started to bring home good money steadily we could, and did, change apartments and we moved into a high ceiling-ed two bedroom one that was four subway stops from my hospital and three stops from his head office. I took advantage of our newly found affluence to drop my work load to only ten hours a week as a nurses’ aid – that was the minimum amount needed to keep my status – and that meant that I could then attend college full time and one year later I got the degree that made me a Registered Nurse. Soon after that I accepted the longed for job in the operating room which was both well paid and nicely perked.

Oh! We also got married. Hugh and me. To each other.

So, all of that brings us up to date. Hugh and I have been married for three years and I am now thirty-three years old and I’ve always known that I want to have three babies.

I know well that if I don’t get started soon the first two numbers will keep increasing and consequently the last one will have to shrink.

I stopped taking the pill as soon as I got to be an R.N. and although I’m a tiger when it comes to seeing that each and every egg of mine that starts its descent is met – no, is inundated – with healthy spermatozoa evidently none of them has, as yet, been persuaded to stop looking for the perfect match, or whatever, and to follow my example and allow for male penetration. I wish that there was a way to contact it to tell it that it can easily regain dominance once the concession has been given! I can understand that no one and nothing wants to be penetrated that early in life – nor, on principle, at any other time if the truth is to be told – but it should relax already and close its eyes and open its legs, or whatever, and should know that after the initial prick of pain it might find that it likes it or at least know that by doing that it won’t be discarded and pushed down and out into the cold.

When I was still attending college and Hugh had just started in his new job he didn’t get home until late every night and his tiredness in the week made our love life settle into a new pattern. Every Tuesday and Thursday nights he’d come to bed naked and feel to check if I was wearing bulging panties or not and at that subtle signal, if the answer was no, I’d undo buttons and open up my nightdress for him.

At that time the last thing that I wanted was to get my eggs serviced so, because he was too tired to bother with doing any more love play than was needed to put an edge on his weapon, as it were, I’d know that I’d get little out of it and because I wasn’t eager to be given his fluids, I’d stoically stay as open as I knew how for him and just suffer through his administrations. Later on I was hurt when I found out that he not only didn’t want my participation and help on those nights but he much preferred to not have it at all! He told me that he could control the progression of events much better if I stayed still. On those two nights when he’d gotten all of the way into me he’d use his elbows and his knees to take all of his weight and that meant that the only thing that was touching me was his dick. He’d establish a rhythm and he went all of the way in except for an inch or so and then all of the way out except for about the same amount. He’d gradually speed up and towards the end he’d be moving as fast as he possibly could but he’d keep to the same parameters until he came and when he’d stopped spurting he’d condescend to lower himself on to me. It took me months to get to understand that on those two days he was using me to masturbate! On those nights I’d just lie still and bemoan my fate and the fate of all humans who are born without a dick.

On Saturdays he’d lie in for an hour or two to try to get over his hangover after Friday night with the ‘lads’ but he always had some place to go in the morning that involved playing in, or watching, one or another silly sport with his father – they had become best buddies – and so our sessions on that morning were as perfunctory as the ones in the week but they were different because of two opposing conflicts that he was subject too and that he had to cope with. They were the hangover that sapped his strength and forced him to lie full on me from start to finish and the other one was his knowing about his pending ‘date’ with his father, which made him keep moving diligently to ‘get it off’ as he called it. It wasn’t very romantic ever and was less so after he told me once, in the interest of full disclosure I guess, that he’d found out that if he didn’t get it off in the morning he’d be likely to get to be ‘half hard and playful’ on the field or the course or whatever and that would, ‘it stands to reason’, negatively affect his arm or his swing or whatever. God forbid!

I liked Saturdays’ sessions a little more than Tuesdays’ and Thursdays’ but only a little more.

But ah! Then came Sunday. Blessed Sunday. He called our love sessions ‘getting it on’ on Sundays.

We’d wake up whenever and I’d make breakfast and we’d eat it in bed and read the papers and when the papers were all on the floor, after proper rotation, I’d take the two trays away, to clear the decks, and on the way back I’d find it difficult to not skip like a child on its way to buy ice cream.

I knew that in the coming engagement my duties would go from zero participation to mandated full participation. And then some.

We’d go through all of our favorite routines and he’d kindly hold back on the grosser ones until I was in a frame of mind to not only co-operate with him but also to urge him on.

He liked me to straddle him the first time, when he knew that his coming was rapidly becoming no longer an option, and I’d sit up straight and move at my own rhythm and after about three fully encompassing strokes I’d go off to a world where there was softness and fluffy clouds all around but where my center was generating both pain and pleasure and where the pain was itself a form of pleasure that melded with and gave mettle to the bona fide stuff. I’d come back to earth when he gave obvious and unignorable signs of being about to ejaculate – I’d have lost all control of my ass by then due to his hands grabbing it and over-riding my rhythm completely – but I’d be so far gone that I couldn’t get fazed and I’d sit up there and happily wiggle for him as I watched the series of emotions on his rugged face. I saw how it got to be suffused first with furious impatience to get it to happen and then what looked like agony as he tried to speed it up even more and then came the urgent need to not let it stop and then the regret and then the bliss as all the discordant signals slipped away. I’d always have a contained orgasm in sympathy with his because being able to give him that much raw pleasure is in itself heady. I’d stay where I was afterwards and when he got to be small our fluids would run out of me onto him and when his shrinking dick was about to drop away from me I’d reach for a towel and locate it strategically – I was the one who had to wash the sheets – and he’d be the one who had to go and wash and, for once, I’d be the one who could loll around and doze.

We’d rest for a while and maybe nap and then it would start up again and at the end of a whole lot of love play he’d climb onto me and I didn’t, couldn’t, lie still for a second as the pummeling went on and I wouldn’t want it to be any other way because I knew that I was a woman who was getting fucked really good by a man just as I was a woman who was fucking a man really good.

It was Sunday mornings that kept us together back then.

And then I got to be an R. N. and we got married and everything changed.

I got broody and needy. I wanted him to be injecting me continuously. It wasn’t that I got to be penis-struck so much as I became semen-stuck and I well knew how to get it.

I forced myself to keep to our routine because he’d gotten comfortable with it and the last thing I wanted was to put him under strain. So, the times and frequency of our matches didn’t change but the goals did. He was mostly given free reign throughout until it got to be transfer time and then I was wolfish in my efforts to get it delivered at maximum eagerness and at the minimum range possible.

When the thermometer told me that we were in the optimum time zone I redoubled my efforts if that was possible.

One time I was walking past the living room and he was sitting in our club chair reading a magazine and out of the corner of my eye I saw some strange rhythmic activity going on that was partially shielded by the magazine.

I turned and went towards him and I was astounded to see that he was masturbating.

I’d thought that only schoolboys did that and loners maybe but never a man who had a woman right there and especially one who was not only not averse to collaring him and accepting an extra-curricular ejaculation from him but was eager to do so.

Anyway, I slipped my panties off and then lifted my dress up and held it way up over my face, so as not embarrass him too much, and then moved in front of him and I undulated my hips and bawdily pushed my center into his face and I tried to prove to him right then that the power of pussy easily beats out the allure of onanism. Hands down!

When I’d safely accomplished my mission of avoiding the horror of letting his precious seed see the light of day I lay on the floor for a while with a cushion under my hips and, later, when he’d assured me that he wasn’t getting tired of me nor of my body nor of using it I asked him, “Then why?”

He said that as a youth he’d usually done it three or four times every day and couldn’t get out of the habit easily but that he was working on it. He said that the inner need had crept up on him just before I’d seen him going at it and then suddenly it was right there and there was nothing else for it but to get on with it.

I accepted the fact that I couldn’t get him to stop wasting his semen that way but I did make him promise that when I was in the immediate vicinity, and until I was full up with one of his babies, he would invite me to join him before the completion of the act made his emission merely cause a mess on the carpet instead of maybe causing a miracle to happen inside me.

Then I got up and I went as far away from him as the apartment would allow me to and I was affected so profoundly that, try as I may, I couldn’t bring myself to be civil to him for hours because of the near waste and because of my obsession and because I could always hear the egg that was on line saying, “The next time that we meet up it will happen!”

At about that same time I saw a documentary on TV in which some expert said that the chances for successful conception went up steeply if the woman had an orgasm at the same time that the guy did and so the next time that Hugh’s hand sneaked up my nightdress to alert me to get ready I got him extra good and ready but then I didn’t open up for him until he snarled a protest and then I told him about what the TV guy had said.

It must have made sense to him – aided perhaps by the fact that my legs stayed firmly together – and so he asked me what I wanted and from then our Tuesdays’ and Thursdays’ and Saturdays’ sessions were markedly improved. At least they were from my point of view.

In an another attempt to get it to happen, when I was at work I started to spend time in our maternity ward, an average of ten babies were delivered there every twenty four hours, and I talked to the women who had just given birth or were on the brink of doing so and I asked for their secrets for being successfully impregnated.

Well, eight out of ten of them told me that it wasn’t so much what they did to get it to happen as it was their failure to do something to not let it happen!

All of the other ones, the ones in rapture about how they’d been so clever as to get the miracle to happen, told me about wearing lucky talismans – as likely as not supplied by their mothers or their mother-in-laws – or; sprinkling salt, or garlic or ginger or various herbs on the lower sheet,or; praying to the Virgin before, during and after, or; making their man call out to Jesus instead of cursing when he was coming, or; getting him to drink Guinness or tonic water, or vinegar or honey or maple syrup, or whatever – – – and on and on and on. One of them told me that she had made her husband go without for a month to get him primed up properly and that the very first time that they’d done it, after the month was up, she knew that with the huge amount of semen that he’d pumped into her any egg that was lurking around inside her wouldn’t have a chance of escaping.

One woman said that she’d sent away for the Catholic Church’s pamphlet on using the rhythm method and had then done everything that it told her not to do.

My training told me that all of the things that I’d been told were nonsense – also, the stuff that I sprinkled on the sheets irritated my skin – but I kept going there and asking for more advice because I had to and eventually I got into trouble with my Supervisor and so I arranged to get transferred full time into that ward for a year.

About a month after that on one of the days that my calendar told me to not leave home without a tampon I found that I didn’t need one and I held my breath for three days and then I waited another month and again nothing got stained so I took a test and it showed positive! My helping to deliver and then care for all of those babies must have alerted my system to its duties and – Voila!

I made out a list of eight things that had to change when Hugh and I made love from then on and the next designated night, it was Thursday, when he snaked his hand up my nightdress as usual he was highly disconcerted to find that I still had my panties on. Before he could protest I reached over and quietened him by holding his dick firmly and then I told about my little list. Clearly, I told him, there’d have to be a whole new set of rules that were going to be operative in our bed from then on.

I started in on telling them to him with, logically, number one, viz. –“Positively no pummeling of my belly. You‘ll have to enter me from the rear or from the side because that way your weight doesn’t get to be full on me.”

Number two – “No more total entry. If you can’t keep from trying to get the last eighth of an inch in as usual on Sundays I’m going to put a pillow between your belly and mine.

Number three – “No more shouting, ‘Who’s your Daddy!’ The baby knows already and we don’t want to confuse the little darling.”

Number four – “When I’m straddling you, you must never break my rhythm by grabbing at me to pull me down harder so that you can get farther in.”

“Number five . . . .

He stopped me then and asked me how long was this little list of mine and when I told him that there were eight items on it, up to now, he said, ‘Well then, let me stop you to say this, “Number eight on your list had better be, ‘Surrogates are allowed,’ or forget the whole thing.”

That shut me up at once, of course, because I want to get in lots and lots of lovely Sunday mornings with him and so I let go of him to be able to slip my panties off and I opened up my nightdress after which he did all the talking and it went like: “Oh, yes, baby!” Or “Wow! That’s it, yes!” and ended up with, “Hey, what are you thinking? Start wriggling your ass, please.”

I complied with his order, and, when he’d done and had had enough lolling on me, he fell to one side and I was able to get to work on thinking up a new plan and I decided to pester all of the new mothers, and mothers-to-be, in my ward until I’d accumulated  an imposing number of self-protective tricks, for me and my baby, and some long-term stimulating and satisfying ones for him.

Until I get that list together the only things that I know will help me are –

One – Seeing that he already has a strong liking for being straddled I’ll work on improving my performance up in the saddle until he learns to love doing it that way best of all.

Two – I must find out how to give good head and how to stop gagging while doing it.

Three – He has a master’s degree in masturbation (cum loud) so I’ll ask him to give me some lessons and tips about how to do it properly and efficiently and, seeing that I’m fully ambidextrous, if he finds that he wants a surrogate all that he has to do is to ask for one.