Afterward, we sat out on the picnic table, me playing, her singing.
Suddenly she squealed, a high-pitched sound like you might hear around a schoolyard, jumped up, and ran to the couple who had just walked around the tree.
I watched, fascinated, as she threw her arms around the man. He was age-appropriate for her, say not quite a Medicare card but not far from it either. The woman standing, watching the tableau, would probably get carded if she ordered a beer. And she looked to be about eleven months pregnant.
Ashley took one of them in each hand and led them to me.
"David," she said, very formally, "this is my oldest friend in the world, Steve. We've known each other since grade school. Steve, meet David."
I stood and shook hands, formally.
"And this," she went on, taking the pregnant woman by the arm and dragging her forward, "Is my cradle-robbing friend's child-bride, LuAnn. LuAnn, David, David, LuAnn."
She offered her hand and we shook.
Introductions complete, Ashley kissed me, firmly, and said, "Steve and I have a LOT of catching up to do. Entertain the lovely LuAnn please."
And they were off, her literally hanging onto his arm with both hands, leaning into him. Smiling up at him. Shit, she was simpering like a schoolgirl in the presence of a member of whichever Boy Band was current.
LuAnn smiled at me, a very pretty smile. She was a VERY pretty girl, and the word "girl" is used advisedly from my, well, "mature" point of view. She was a round-faced brunette with a button nose, a very generous mouth, big brown puppy dog eyes, and a light dusting across her nose increasing the "waif" image.
From the neck down, though, she was all woman. The T-Shirt she wore had "Coming Soon" emblazoned across the front, and was so tight you could see not only her protruding belly button but the stretch marks across her belly through it. The Daisy Duke shorts showed heavy thighs, swollen ankles, and cellulite dimples.
She had the posture of a near-term woman, leaning back against the weight and center of gravity changes.
And she was sweating. She wasn't "glistening," as I had heard it described when we were in the south, or "perspiring" like girls do in the Midwest. She was sweating. Her hair was wet and stuck to her head. Her forehead had little beads of sweat. And that tight T-shirt looked like she was in a wet T-shirt contest.
She stood, patiently, while I looked and then smiled and said, "do I meet your approval?"
"You're lovely," I said.
Her smile was infectious and I returned it.
"Then can we go inside so I can sit and stop sweating?" she asked.
I laughed and said, "where are my manners," and took her hand to steady her while she climbed the steps into the travel trailer.
She looked around, spotted the air conditioner vent in the ceiling, and went and stood under it, her face turned up, the cold air blowing on her face. Her eyes were closed. She looked happy. Hell, she looked ecstatic.
Christ, she looked good.
I moved up behind her and covered her fingers where they had started playing with the bottom hem of her T-shirt.
"Allow me," I said.
She smiled and said, "please."
The shirt was so wet with her sweat that it clung, making it difficult. She giggled as I tugged it past the roundness of her belly, but then lifted her arms straight up over her head, helping.
She was magnificent.
Her belly was immense, a mass of dark stretchmarks. The stretchmarks formed a wide belt circling where she once had a waist. Her bra was a heavy-duty thing, basic white cotton, with six hooks in the back across a four-inch wide band. There were two more little clips at the top of the cups and I realized it was a nursing bra. She overflowed what I guessed was a D cup.
And it was sweated through like the T-shirt so I started undoing the hooks.
As I stood close I caught the first faint whiff of healthy girlsweat but tinged with something else. I assumed it was the result of the hormones raging through her body as delivery loomed. And it obviously loomed.
The bra dropped to the floor with a sodden plop and I caught another womanscent, this one warm milk.
She wasn't about to move so I walked around her.
Her pre-delivery breasts were big, lying on her huge belly. They were marked, like her belly, with stretch marks but it was her areolas that I couldn't look away from. They were huge, covering the front third of her breast. They were very dark, chocolate brown, and with the cold air blowing on her there were distinct love bumps. Her nipples were in proportion, looking like inch-long bratwursts, centered in the areolas. As I watched a drop of thick white milk formed on the left one.
When my eyes wandered back up to hers she was smiling.
"Approve?" she asked.
"You are gorgeous," I said, and I meant it.
She giggled and said, "thank you."
I reached down and touched the cut-off jeans she wore.
"May I?" I asked.
"Oh, please," she said, her eyes closed again as she stood in the refrigerated blast from the air conditioner.
I had to laugh when I tried to make deed match promise.
I got to my knees and tried to find the button of the Daisy Dukes. It was a chore since it was hidden under the belly. Then I got distracted as I watched distinct bulges move around her belly from her ribs to her belly button.
She giggled and squirmed a little and said, "the twins are dancing."
I touched one of those moving bumps and thought it might be the most erotic thing I had ever done.
Once everything settled down I went back to searching for the button. I found it, eventually, by feel, getting a bit of a case of the giggles as I got it unbuttoned and unzipped. I worked the cutoffs and panties down as a single unit.
Like the rest of her, her pubic mound was distorted by her pregnancy. It was big and round, looking almost like a half cantaloupe had been slipped under the skin. She was one of those women with very sparse pubic hair, just a little halo around her nether lips.
Her legs were heavy and cellulite dimpled with little rolls at her knees. Her calves were heavy with fat pads around her ankles making them cankles (calves to feet with no discernable ankle) as someone from some sitcom or other had labeled them. Her feet were badly swollen.
I kissed her belly while I was there, sucking her belly button gently, making her giggle.
I stood and put my hands on her shoulders.
"You are beautiful," I said, and she smiled.
She smiled again and said, "thank you."
When I reached for her she got her hands between us.
"David, fair warning," she said, very serious now.
"Okay," I said, waiting.
She smiled, a very sweet smile I thought, reminding me of Catherine Zeta-Jones the way the corners of her mouth turned up.
"David," she said, "I'm 44 weeks into a normal human gestation of 40 weeks. I'm literally entering my 10th month of pregnancy and these twins are READY."
She paused and I said something witty like, "mmhmmm."
She giggled.
"What I'm telling you is that if you want me, and God knows I'm willing, an orgasm may well trigger labor. So we'd better stop unless you're ready to help me deliver," she said, holding my eyes.
The rush in my belly was powerful at the image she gave me.
It was awkward, trying to kiss her. Her belly was SO big I had to kind of arch my way around it.
She smiled and threw her arms around me.
"Thank you," she said.
"No," I said, leaning back far enough to meet her eyes, "thank you. This will be a new experience for me."
