Moments Of Possibility

This is my first story ever. I spent time trying to develop the characters and their love while playing with their impregnation fantasy.

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Rose stirred awake to the soft glow of dawn filtering through the linen curtains, her body still humming with the quiet thrill of anticipation. Today was the day Luke would return. Four days apart had felt like an eternity, but his texts the night before--"One more sleep, love"--had left her pulse fluttering.

She stretched lazily, the thin straps of her sundress slipping slightly over her shoulders as she sat up. The dress, a faded sunflower print, was one of Luke's favorites, and she'd worn it to bed in lieu of his arms. As she stood, her breasts brushed against the fabric, free without a bra, and a small, secretive smile played on her lips. He'd notice that, she thought.

In the bathroom, Rose began her morning ritual. Hands washed, knees pressed to the cool tile, she reached for the small mirror she used for this intimate check. Her breath hitched as her fingers found her cervix--soft as a ripe peach, open and welcoming, with a strand of clear, stretchy mucus clinging to her skin. She exhaled sharply, warmth pooling low in her belly. This was her body's signal, unmistakable and urgent: peak fertility.

The familiar rush of excitement swept through her, mingling with a flicker of frustration. They'd agreed to wait another cycle--to save a little more, to plan--but the fantasy, the risk, was a game they both craved. Rose traced her lower lip, imagining Luke's hands on her hips later, his voice rough with longing as he whispered about how close they were to making their dream real. They'd never call it "breeding" or reduce their desire to something crude; this was about connection, about the sacred thrill of creation.

By afternoon, the sun had climbed high, and Rose stood before the bedroom mirror, diaphragm in hand. Her cotton panties--pale lavender, practical yet pretty--lay discarded on the bed. She'd showered, her skin still damp, and now hesitated, the small silicone cup poised at her entrance. With practiced care, she squeezed a dollop of spermicidal gel onto the rim, spreading it in smooth circles with her fingertip. The gel clung cool and slick, its faint clinical tang mingling with the soap-clean scent of her skin--a necessary contrast to the day's illusion.

This was the compromise, she reminded herself. Protection hidden, fantasy preserved.

She slid the diaphragm into place, its rim coated with the chilling gel, and pressed firmly until it nestled over her cervix. For a moment, the spermicide's coolness startled her, a fleeting gasp caught in her throat before her body's warmth seeped into both shield and chemical sentinel. By tonight, it would be undetectable, a silent dual guardian against the consequence they dared not name. Rose smoothed her sundress over her hips, admiring the way it hugged her curves. Luke would come home to this version of her--flushed, fertile, his--and they'd dance their careful dance of pretend, savoring the danger while layers of science and silicone stood watch.

She glanced at the clock. Three hours until his flight landed. Three hours until his hands would skim her waist, until he'd murmur into her neck about how perfect she felt. Her cheeks flushed as she padded to the kitchen, the diaphragm a faint, forgotten pressure. For now, a house to tidy, and the sweet, secret knowledge that tonight, their game would feel almost real.

Rose sipped her chamomile tea, the porcelain cup warm in her palms, her gaze drifting to the window where sunlight dappled the oak tree in the yard. Luke's flight would land soon. Her mind hummed with a quiet intensity, like the low thrum of a plucked guitar string. He'll ask about protection, she thought. He always does. Their ritual was steadfast: a shared acknowledgment of the risk, a condom procured, the fantasy of "what if" simmering beneath every touch. But today--today she wanted to stoke that fantasy into something vivid.

Setting down her cup, Rose traced a finger along the rim absently. The diaphragm was secure, invisible even to her now, but Luke's resolve was another matter. He was disciplined, principled, hers--and she knew his weaknesses. The way his breath hitched when she described her body's readiness. The way his fingers trembled when she guided them to the slick evidence of her fertility.

She wandered to the bedroom, shedding her sundress to stand in nothing but the lavender cotton panties. The mirror reflected her bare torso, her breasts full and sensitive, nipples pebbled in the afternoon chill. Her hands slid down her stomach, fingertips skimming the soft swell below her navel. This is where life begins, she mused, her pulse quickening. Tonight, she would show him. Not just tell him about the stretchy mucus or the open cervix, but let him feel it--the warmth, the wetness, the primal invitation her body offered.

In the closet, she chose a silk robe, sheer and the color of crushed raspberries. It clung to her hips, the fabric whispering against her skin as she moved. No bra, of course. Let him see the outline of her nipples, the faint shadow of her arousal dampening the silk. She rehearsed lines in her head, fragments of past nights: "Touch me, Luke. I'm so... ready for you." Words that skirted the edge of their agreement, respectful but undeniable.

By the vanity, she opened her fertility journal, the pages filled with her meticulous notes. Today's entry glowed with promise: Cervix soft, high, open. Cervical mucus egg-white, abundant. She traced the words, imagining Luke's reaction if she showed him--the way his jaw would tighten, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. He'd call her "perfect" in that reverent tone, his hands already reaching for her.

But she wouldn't show him the journal. Not tonight. Instead, she'd guide his fingers to her core, let him discover the truth for himself. "Feel how wet I am," she'd murmur, arching into his touch. "My body's been waiting for you." And when he inevitably hesitated--"Should we... the condom..."--she'd kiss him deeply, her tongue sweeping against his, and whisper, "Just this once. Let's pretend."

A shiver ran through her. They'd danced this dance before, but never with such deliberate intent. The diaphragm was her safety net, but the game was their shared addiction. Rose knew Luke's willpower would crumble--not because she manipulated him, but because he wanted to crumble. They both did. The thrill was in the mutual surrender.

She glanced at the clock. Two hours. Enough time to light candles, to set the scene. To ensure her robe fell open just so when he walked in. Her cheeks flushed as she pictured his face--the darkening of his eyes, the hunger he never bothered to hide.

Rose pressed a hand to her diaphragm, a silent vow. Tonight, we play with fire. The secret nestled inside her wasn't betrayal; it was a gift, a way to offer him the rawness they both craved, free from the fear of consequence. He would likely insist on using a condom, showing his resolve to wait, and that would be okay with her. In the heat of the moment, if he forgot to ask--if he lost himself in the fantasy--she'd carry that victory quietly, feeling the thrill of their shared desire swell between them, knowing they'd both won.

Luke's flight landed precisely at 6:03 p.m., the hum of the engines fading as he powered on his phone. A notification bloomed immediately--Rose's name, her message simple but electric:

"Welcome back, my love. The bed's too cold without you... and my body's been aching for yours 🌹."

He smiled, thumb brushing the rose emoji she'd added--a subtle flourish that sent heat prickling down his spine. Rose never used that symbol lightly. Aching. The word lingered as he navigated the airport's fluorescent-lit corridors, his suitcase trailing behind him. Outside, the humid evening air clung to his skin like a lover's embrace as he strode toward the long-term parking lot, where his car sat waiting.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Luke sent a reply:

"Missed you more. Be home soon. Keep the bed warm 🥀."

Her response was swift and playful:

"Oh, it's very warm here. You'll see 🌹💦."

The droplet emoji made his breath catch. Was she--?

He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, hands tight on the wheel as he merged onto the highway. The math began almost reflexively. Her last period started two weeks ago. Mid-cycle. Peak fertility. His throat went dry. Rose's charting was meticulous; she'd texted him daily updates during his trip--clinical yet charged with their shared longing. "Cervix high today," she'd written yesterday. "Like it's waiting for you."

Now, his mind replayed her words: very warm. The emojis. The ache. His pulse thrummed as he imagined her in their bedroom--sundress hiked up, fingers tracing the swollen wetness she'd described so vividly in the past. "I'm so open right now," she'd whispered once, guiding his hand to her cervix. "Can you feel how ready I am?"

Condoms waited in their nightstand, of course. They'd agreed: protection during her fertile window, no exceptions. But Rose's messages today felt like a dare, a tantalizing invitation to abandon their carefully constructed boundaries. A shimmer of sweat bloomed at his temples as he turned onto their tree-lined street, the house glowing ahead like a beacon. The porch light was on, curtains parted just enough to tease a glimpse of movement inside. Her silhouette?

Luke parked, killed the engine, and sat for a moment, his knuckles pale on the keys. The condoms were steps away, but so was Rose--warm, fertile, and hungry for the game they played. He closed his eyes, inhaling sharply. Rules kept them safe. Rules let them pretend. But with each heartbeat, those rules felt more fragile, a delicate thread ready to snap.

What if tonight was different? What if he let go? The thought sent a shiver through him, a heady mix of excitement and trepidation. He opened his eyes, determined. It was time to face the fire.

Luke's key turned in the lock, the click echoing like a struck match. The door swung open, and there she stood--backlit by the golden haze of the living room lamps, her silhouette swathed in the raspberry silk robe that clung to every curve. The fabric whispered with her slightest movement, translucent enough to betray the shadow of her nipples and the dip of her waist. Her hair fell in loose waves, smelling of jasmine and warmth, and her smile--that smile--seared through him.

"Luke," she breathed, the word a sigh of relief.

He dropped his suitcase, and she was in his arms before it hit the floor. Her body melted against him, soft and urgent, fingers tangling in his hair as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. They swayed slightly, a wordless reunion; his hands splayed across the small of her back, pulling her closer until not even air could slip between them.

"God, I missed you," he murmured into her skin, voice rough with longing.

"Missed doesn't cover it," she laughed, but it cracked into a gasp as his lips found hers.

The first kiss was slow, a reacquaintance--a brush of lips, then another, deeper, hungrier. Her mouth opened to him, sweet and familiar, and his hands slid lower, gripping her hips through the silk. She moaned softly, arching into him, and he felt the heat of her through the robe, the way her body trembled as his thumb grazed the underside of her breast.

"Luke," she whispered, nipping his lower lip. Her hands roamed his shoulders, down his chest, skimming the waistband of his jeans before settling on his belt. Not tugging, not yet--just claiming.

He groaned, his other hand slipping beneath the robe to cup her ass, the bare skin there like a brand. She was naked underneath. Of course she was. The realization tore a ragged sound from his throat. "You've been planning this," he accused, kissing her jaw, her earlobe.

"Maybe." Her breath hitched as he nipped her neck. "Or maybe I just... needed you to know how ready I am."

The words hung between them, deliberate, dangerous. His fingers flexed against her hip, and she pressed herself into his palm, her arousal dampening the silk where his thigh pushed between hers. He could feel himself hardening, straining against his jeans, while her leg hitched around his waist, grinding against him.

"Rose--" he started, but she silenced him with another kiss, her tongue sweeping against his, slow and filthy.

Her hands slid up his chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. It fell, forgotten, as she undid the top button of his shirt, her nails scraping lightly over his collarbone. "Tell me you thought about this," she murmured, her lips trailing down his throat. "Tell me you imagined me... like this... every night."

"Every goddamn second," he admitted, his voice fraying with desire.

Her laugh was low, triumphant. She guided his hand back to her breast, her nipple pebbling under his touch. "Feel how sensitive I am," she whispered, her voice a velvet threat. "All day, just... waiting."

He did. Her skin was feverish, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird beneath his fingers. She gasped when he pinched gently, her hips rolling against his thigh, the silk sliding to reveal a sliver of her stomach. His resolve splintered--condoms be damned, rules be damned--but then she pulled back, just enough to meet his gaze.

Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, but her smile was tender. "I love you," she said, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

"I love you," he echoed, voice raw with emotion.

For a heartbeat, they lingered there--foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between their bodies. Then her hands were in his hair, his on her waist, and they were kissing again, slower now, savoring the ache and the promise of what was to come.

Outside, the night held its breath.

Rose broke the kiss, her lips hovering just shy of his. "There's something I need," she whispered, her voice honeyed and deliberate. "Something only you can give me."

Luke's breath hitched. The double entendre coiled between them like smoke. Seed. Inside. His mind raced, but before he could dissect it, she took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "Come with me," she said, tugging him toward the hallway.

He followed, eyes raking over her as they walked--the robe slipping off one shoulder, the hint of her bare hip flashing with each step. Even after a decade, the sight of her body undid him. She glanced back, catching him staring, and smirked.

"Like what you see?"

"Always," he growled, desire pooling low in his gut.

In their bedroom, she spun to face him, her back to the nightstand. Her hands framed his jaw, pulling him into a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, her hips pinning him against the edge of the bed. Luke's fingers fumbled blindly for the drawer, his other hand tangled in her hair. When his fingers closed around the foil packet, she bit his lip--hard--and he groaned, the condom clenched in his palm, a secret burden he wasn't sure he wanted to hold anymore.

Rose didn't pause. Her hands dropped to his belt, deftly unbuckling it as she kissed him, her tongue mapping his mouth with practiced hunger. His jeans slid to the floor, followed by his shirt, her nails scraping his chest as she pushed the fabric off. Against his bare skin, the silk of her robe felt like a taunt, a reminder of what lay beneath.

"Rose," he warned, his resolve thinning as she pressed against him, her thigh slotting between his legs.

"Shhh," she murmured, grinding down slowly, the damp heat of her through the fabric searing his leg. "Just feel me."

His hands roamed her back, her ribs, the swell of her breasts--everywhere but there. She arched into his touch, her breath stuttering when his thumb grazed her nipple. "Tease," she accused, her own hands skimming his waist, his hips, his ass, avoiding the one place he ached for her to touch.

"You started it," he muttered, nipping her earlobe, already lost in the heat of the moment.

She laughed, low and throaty, her fingers tightening on his shoulders. "Maybe I want to finish it." Her hips rolled again, the friction deliberate, and he hissed, his cock throbbing against her thigh.

They stayed like that--standing, tangled, teetering on the edge of every rule they'd set. The condom lay forgotten on the nightstand, its presence a silent referendum on their desires. Rose's robe gaped open, her skin slick with sweat and want, and Luke's hands trembled where they gripped her waist. Safe. Control. Risk. The words blurred into static, each one competing for dominance in his mind.

Her lips found his collarbone, her teeth marking him as hers. "Tell me you want it too," she breathed, her voice a blade against his resolve.

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The look in her eyes, the heat of their bodies pressed together--everything spoke volumes. And in that moment, he felt the rules crumbling, the weight of desire eclipsing the caution he'd held onto for so long.

Rose's back arched as Luke's fingers glided through the slick heat between her thighs, the fertile mucus clinging to his skin like liquid silk. She had timed this perfectly--every flutter of her cervix, every fevered pulse of her body, a performance honed to blur the line between danger and desire. The diaphragm nestled inside her, warm and unnoticed, a clandestine shield against the risk she wanted him to fear.

"Fill me," she breathed into his ear, the words a velvet command as she pulled him down onto the bed. Her thighs fell open, inviting, and his hand followed--drawn to the molten evidence of her arousal.

Luke froze for a heartbeat, his fingertips hovering at her entrance. The mucus stretched in gossamer strands, glinting in the lamplight. Too much, he thought. Too much even for her. His throat tightened. "Rose... are you--?"

"Shhh." She pressed his palm flat against her, her hips rolling to grind his fingers into her swollen folds. "Just touch me. Please."

He obeyed, sliding a finger through her slit, the moisture pooling so thickly it dripped onto the sheets. Her clit throbbed under his tentative circles, and she keened, head thrown back, her robe slipping to expose her breasts. "There," she gasped, "right there--yes--"

Luke watched her, mesmerized. Her wetness coated his hand, her body clenching as if to pull him deeper. Peak fertility. The charting app's alerts flashed in his mind--high chance of conception--but Rose's moans dissolved logic into static. She was a storm, and he was caught in her currents.

"Missed your hands," she panted, her own fingers knotting in the sheets. "Missed how you... ah... how you know me." Her hips jerked as he pressed harder, her climax hovering just out of reach. "No one else--ever--Luke, please--"

He bent to kiss her, swallowing her cries, his free hand cradling her jaw. "Yours," he murmured against her lips. "Always yours."

The promise hung between them, fragile and fervent. Rose's legs trembled, her body coiled like a spring, but she held back--not yet. Her plan demanded patience. Let him feel her fertility, let him drown in it, let the condom on the nightstand gather dust while she stoked his hunger.

His thumb circled her clit faster, her hips meeting each stroke. "So close," she whimpered, though it was a lie. She could endure this ache for hours if it meant breaking him. "Don't stop."

Luke didn't. His gaze locked on hers, dark with need, his own restraint fraying. The condom lay inches away, a silent reminder of the rules they had crafted. Rules keep her safe, he reminded himself, but the thought felt like a distant echo amidst the heat of the moment.

But Rose's whimpers, her nails scoring his shoulders, her whispered pleas--"I need you inside me"--were a siren song. And the diaphragm, hidden and humming, dared him to forget. Each thrust of her body against his fingers sent ripples of temptation through him, and he could feel the weight of his choices pressing down like a heavy shroud.