Readers Note: All of the âCathyâ story is true. All of it. Iâm going to do my best to start at the beginning, and follow through to the storyâs wild conclusion. Comments? Etc? Please forward to the link below.
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In the early â80s, I moved to Dana Point, California to pursue my career as a writer. Anyone familiar with the writing trade knows that it doesnât pay too well â especially for an entry-level position. But Iâd landed a job at a small magazine, which paid even worse. Still, it would prove a start to my career.
I made just enough to afford a modest apartment about a mile from the coast. A six-unit building, where, the week that I moved in, my next-door neighbors Bill and Cathy were in the process of celebrating the birth of their first child. I lived alone, thanks for a recently failed relationship, and enjoyed their company. We all became fast friends, drinking and partying in the finest of Southern California Beach Town tradition.
Less than a year had passed when, one winter afternoon Bill knocked and poked his head in my front door. I was busy at the typewriter, but never too busy for a worthwhile distraction. âJim olâ Buddy⌠Iâve done it again! Cathyâs preggers with number two! Have a cigar!â With six-pack and cigars at the ready, how could I refuse? Cathy joined us an hour or so later, blushing profoundly over the clear evidence of her sexuality.
While Bill and I pounded down the beers and filled the room with smoke, I couldnât help but notice that Cathy would ⌠more than once ⌠fix her gaze on my crotch. Daydreaming? Perhaps. But then more than once, I watched has she rubbed her pregnant belly, stroking it slowly as her gaze settled on my lap. And, in spite of the beer, I found myself responding. It made for awkward moments: any man thatâs worn Levisâ 501 button-fly jeans knows theyâre not the most comfortable casing for a growing hard-on.
Months passed, and Billâs work schedule changed: swing shift, 3pm to midnight. Not only that, but he fell into the habit of closing the local bars with work buddies, putting him home in the wee-small hours of the morning, with just enough time to pass out, sleep it off, and get up again just in time to leave for work.
Predictably, Cathy became lonely. She started dropping by my apartment in the afternoons, almost as soon as Bill would leave for work. Sheâd usually bring her infant son. One day when he cried, Cathy turned to me with an anxious look: âJim, Iâm really enjoying our visit, but heâs hungry⌠I hope you donât mindâŚâ And simple as that, she pulled one strap down over her shoulder, pulling her dress down to expose a naked breast. And cradled her son to suckle it. Right there on my couch, in my living room.
Now I realize that this was a completely innocent and natural act: mother feeding son. But Iâm not the least bit ashamed to admit: that same night, I masturbated myself to sleep over the vision of Cathyâs ample breasts. And thinking of how sheâd been looking me straight in the eye as she pulled her breast free from the confines of her dress. A moment that I replayed over-and-over in my mind, as my aching cock found frustrated release into the bedsheets.
Once I established myself at the magazine, my hours became somewhat flexible. Proven writers were offered a wide latitude for âworking at homeâ, and I began to shift my office hours earlier and earlier in the morning⌠ultimately, to arrive home just after Bill would leave for work. The time when Cathy would most likely come to knock on the door.
It was the middle of June when Cathy was nearly 6-months pregnant with her second child. I hadnât known Bill and Cathy during her first pregnancy, and theyâd taken no pictures of her âwhen she was showing.â But Iâll be the first to admit two things: first, Iâve had a lifelong attraction to pregnant women. I could bullshit about that âmotherly glowâ and on and on, but the fact is: pregnant women flat out turn me on. And the second thing is⌠Cathy looked magnificent at this stage of her pregnancy.
The middle of June: the third trimester. To most, the changes would be imperceptible. For me, it became a daily thrill. A change in the way sheâd walk⌠a more pronounced âwaddleâ to offset her swelling belly. The way sheâd bend to pick things up from the floor. The way her familiar clothes became tighter by the day. You have to understand: either the look of a pregnant woman does something for you or it doesnât. For me: it does. Profoundly.
And it was the same middle of June when Dana Point was experiencing a true Southern California heat wave; weâd gone for nine straight days where the daytime temperature was over 105 degrees. Nearly record-setting. Still, I left the comforts of my air-conditioned office every day, promptly at 3pm, to streak straight home.
Straight home to my writing work, right? No; at this point, I couldnât even fool myself. I was going home, hoping for a visit from Cathy. Hoping for an innocent glimpse of her swelling motherhood: a glimpse that would, once again, etched in my mindâs eye, provide fuel for my soiling my bedsheets before I drifted off to sleep.
Now thereâs a particular afternoon during this time; one that will forever be etched in my erotically-twisted mind. And this particular afternoon measured 106 degrees at 4pm. Maybe a record. Doesnât matter.
In my small apartment, I had the front door open, as my desk was right next to the door. Iâd also opened the window in the small kitchen, to get some breeze through the room. For whatever reason, the breeze flowed through the kitchen window, and out the front door. Quite a good breeze, actually. Still, the heat was stifling.
As I did my writing work, Iâd occasionally look out the door to the small balcony beyond the front door, which, in turn, overlooked the courtyard of the other apartments. Writers know about this: from time to time, you just have to look away and daydream while you compose your thoughts.
So it was during one of those look-away-and-think moments that⌠my gaze followed out the door to find⌠a very pregnant Cathy, leaning over the balcony railing, and watching the setting sun.
Cathy was wearing a light summer-dress that was very short. And, with the brilliant light of the setting sun behind her⌠it was nearly transparent. As she shifted against the railing, balancing on her elbows, I could clearly see the shadowed outlines of her pregnant form.
With the wind blowing out the door, the back of her dress was pressed firm against her backside. It only took two long inspections of same to determine: no panties. A short summer dress, and no panties.
I remember that I actually stopped breathing at some point. And I remember gulping for air as I dropped my hands from the keyboard, slack-jawed, to marvel at this unintentional display of her charms.
And it must have been that Iâd stopped typing, that caused her to whirl about, looking straight at me: âJim, Iâm sorry⌠Iâm not disturbing you, am I? I mean, your writing. Do you mind if I stand here? Itâs just so hot inside.â
âCathyâŚâ I stammered. âOf course youâre not bothering me. I just⌠I justâŚâ as my voice trailed. Cathy was now facing me, and thanks to the angle of the sun, it was clear that she was also not wearing a bra.
The shadows from the sun defined the form and shape of her swelling breasts. And the wind through the door pressed the clearly defined points of her nipples through the flimsy fabric of her dress.
âMay I come in and join you?â she asked. I nodded numbly in reply, as my cock stirred in my shorts.
As she walked through the door, it was clear that this summer dress was from her old wardrobe: pre-pregnancy. Clear, because her breasts were more than tight against the fabric. Also clear because this was a very short summer dress. Her swollen belly caused the hem to ride high on her thighs⌠pulled up high, exposing her legs to the very top.
Owing to her third-trimester form, she awkwardly walked the few steps to my living-room couch, and then dropped heavily; leaning back into the couch.
A moment passed. Finally; âWow. Iâm so big. I donât think my tummy was so big last timeâŚâ Her eyes locked with mine, as she continued: ââŚbut you didnât get to see this, the last time I was pregnant, did you?â
The air grew heavy as I contemplated my reply. Sheâs clearly fishing for something⌠but I didnât dare risk our friendship. What should I say? What could I say?
Lamely, while shifting my gaze to my feet, I responded softly with: âNo, Cathy, I didnât get to see you last time. You know that.â I remember shifting in my chair, struggling to keep my swelling cock bent into my pants, and away from her view.
