I woke to the sound of her being sick.
As I had promised, I rolled out of bed and padded naked into the bathroom. She was in the classic position, worshipping at the porcelain bowl. On her knees, her forearms hung on the rim, and as I watched her back bowed and she threw up and farted.
I moved beside her and lifted her hair out of the way as she retched and gagged and threw up again.
I had no idea what would help so I lightly rubbed her back and started trotting out the sort of pablum you use in those kinds of situations.
"You're all right," I said softly, "I've got you," stuff like that.
"Don't," she started and threw up, loudly.
"It's okay," I said, my hand light on her back, my other hand holding her hair back and I was aware of the wet, slimy feel on my hand.
And no, that did not cause me to have second thoughts.
"Don't talk, please," she managed before another wave of sickness took her.
I don't have much of a sense of how long the morning sickness went on. Certainly no more than a half hour but it sure seemed like longer.
Finally, she pushed herself up so she was sitting on her feet with her back straight.
"Okay," she said, dragging her forearm across her mouth.
I caught her hands and then leaned forward and kissed her. The smell and taste of her vomit almost got to me, but I held myself together.
"Ewwwww," she said, "Pervert."
I chuckled and said, "I told you I'd kiss you afterward, and I always keep my promises."
She giggled weakly and repeated, "Pervert," before hanging onto my hand and slowly standing.
A thick string of mucus-laden saliva hung from her chin to her breasts. Her eyes were red and her nose was running. She looked gorgeous.
"Rinse your mouth and we'll shower, Honey," I said. "I'll get the mess out of your hair, wash your face, and then make love to you."
She managed a weak smile before she turned to the sink and rinsed her mouth.
"Hangover or morning sickness?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, pushing past me to get to the shower.
I laughed and followed.
The shower was, as it always is with my Nancy, enjoyable. I was careful with her face where last night's makeup was smeared and messy, especially around her eyes where the overdone eyeshadow seemed almost waterproof. I shampooed her hair twice before working the conditioner in. Her eyes were closed and she was humming softly, enjoying the attention.
When I started on her body it seemed that I could already see changes in her body. I know it was all in my head, but her skin looked, well, smoother. It seemed to be a little softer, maybe a little warmer. That soft, sexy postpartum belly with its overhang covering the top of her mons, the lightly wrinkled skin from being overstretched so often, drew my attention. She giggled as my finger disappeared into her belly button, making sure it was clean.
I did her pussy on my knees, lifting the belly apron and spending time where she dangled so beautifully, her pure womanness on full display.
Then I did her legs and feet, making her squeal as I did "piggies to market" on her toes.
I had her turn and then worked my way up. I washed her calves and the backs of her thighs. At her ass, her sexy, womanly ass, I parted her cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand while using my right with the soapy washcloth to make sure she was squeaky clean. She squirmed, as she always did, and I enjoyed it.
I finished with her back, paying special attention to that heavy roll at her shoulder blades, one of those special spots I found so damn sexy. She started to do me but I stopped her.
"You are a bit under the weather," I said and she giggled, "so I'll take care of myself."
I washed quickly as she watched, smiling.
Clean and dry, we went to the bedroom. Well, I went to the bedroom. She stayed in the bathroom for a minute, making me wonder what she was doing.
She came into the bedroom then, with a little notebook in her hand.
"What's this?" I asked.
"We need to track my temperature," she said, smiling, "to catch me at the best time for the implantation."
The way she said "implantation" so casually sent a little shiver up my spine.
"
That's putting a baby in there," I thought.
I watched as she shook a glass tube, each little shake ending with a sharp snap of her wrist.
"Do you want to do the honors?" she asked.
"You bet," I said and I knew I was grinning like an idiot.
I closed the distance between us, took the thermometer, and moved it toward her mouth.
"No," she said, giggling, "We need the most accurate temperature."
She rolled onto her belly.
I looked more closely at the thermometer, noted the blunt end, and understood.
So, I opened the little drawer on the nightstand and got out the small jar of Vaseline we kept there although the only time I ever used it was to soften the little cracks I get on the side of the first and second joint of my index finger in the winter sometimes, and dipped the end of the rectal thermometer into the thick lubricant.
I spread her cheeks with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, admired the pretty little balloon knot of her anus, and slipped the thermometer in.
When I released it she squeezed and the thermometer started to push out so I pressed it back in with the tip of my finger.
She giggled.
"This may be," I said, lightly rubbing her back as my fingertip held the thermometer in place with a tiny pressure, "one of the two or three most intimate things we've ever done."
She was lying with the side of her face on the pillow so she could see me.
She squeezed and I had to increase the pressure to hold the thermometer in place.
"We need to do this every two hours," she said.
And, yes, the surreal aspect of having this conversation, my fingertip holding a glass tube up my wife's ass, struck me.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"There will be a little spike," she said, each word translating to a tiny vibration at my fingertip, "when my body tries to ovulate, and that's when we will implant."
"Are you anxious?" I asked.
"God, yes," she said, "I miss being pregnant."
I chuckled and said, "Me too."
