Chapter Thirty-Five
The next two weeks simply flew by. Preparing for a prolonged absence from work took a great deal of my time, energy and attention, both of which, given my noticeably increasing size and constant tiredness, were already in short supply.
Putting the discovery of my daughter's video clips behind me was difficult. There was no way I could possibly let Pete know he had apparently fathered a cock-sucking slut, so I had to keep the knowledge very much to myself. Images of what I had seen flashed through my mind at inconvenient moments, bringing back even more inconvenient memories of myself with Darren and Will, the latter also having been recorded on video.
Interestingly, Tony did not feature in these memories at all.
Pete of course, suffered the consequences of having a wife in an even greater state of arousal than before.
I have to say that, with only the two of us at home, he looked after me like a Princess, spoiling me rotten, taking me to dinner and servicing my unreasonable sexual demands with considerable thoroughness. My gym visits had been curtailed, partly because of a fear of losing the baby at my age, but mostly because I had no desire to come face to face with either Darren or Will in my current condition.
As far as I knew, Darren had no idea I was even pregnant, let alone that he was about to become a father. Will's attempt at blackmail had been neutralised through Mutually Assured Destruction but if he ever guessed the truth about my baby's father, the recordings I held secretly and online might not be enough to keep him in a harmless position.
And of course, there was the deep, barely recognised fear that in my state of permanent sexual arousal, I might weaken, do something really stupid and end up being fucked by either or both of them again so for all of these reasons, the sports club was out of bounds for me.
It was a terrible waste of a subscription but I'm sure I'm not the first person to join a gym then not use it. Instead I went for runs and walks then, as my belly grew larger, for swims in the municipal pool.
Still, the increasingly vivid memories of being impregnated by Darren, my beautiful, olive-gold skinned seducer during the full night I spent in his horrible, dirty bed were put to good use. That and my growing collection of vibrators and other toys on the few occasions when Pete was either unable to assist me with my needs or when, despite his best efforts, I remained unsatisfied.
On the subject of size, by the end of August, it was clear to everyone that this time round, things were going to be different, belly-wise. Tall and skinny, with all my previous pregnancies my bump had remained small and almost unnoticeable until the last few weeks before the birth. For the first few months, it looked like this baby was going to follow a similar pattern but with a full twelve weeks to go, I suddenly began to 'show' more and more.
It started with a general feeling that my clothes were getting tight. Then the car's seat seemed too close to the steering wheel again. I put it back a bit more to find that my arms seemed to have grown shorter. In the shower too, it was becoming harder and harder to see my feet so one Saturday afternoon, with Pete and with a heavy heart, I accepted the inevitable and went clothes shopping.
To my delight, things had changed a lot over the last twenty-odd years. Rather than being an inconvenience, being pregnant was now considered a social event to be flaunted. A whole array of shops both in the high street and online now offered expectant mothers of any age, everything from loose, floaty dresses to dungarees and close-fitting cocktail dresses.
There was a host of underwear too from the expected huge knickers through swimming costumes for camels to sexy lingerie in case either the mother-to-be or her partner needed help in the arousal department.
In my case, this was the last thing I needed; Pete was becoming exhausted by my demands but so far had kept his end up (so to speak) admirably.
We returned home with my arms full of bags, changed over my wardrobe and my condition ceased to be a rumour. From the Monday onwards, there was no doubt in anyone's mind; Penny Barker was officially pregnant and getting more so every week.
Amongst all the problems caused by a swelling belly and shrinking bladder, there were some advantages in being seen as a Mum-to-be once again. Doors were held open for me more than before, colleagues were more polite and respectful and much more prepared to run errands at work.
In the street and in shops too, strangers let me pass in the crush more often, or reached things down from shelves for me, or let me into queues ahead of them; something that wouldn't have happened only a week before when my condition was much less obvious.
But what surprised and delighted me most was that my badly-neglected, secret writing became a joy once again.
Always an early riser, I had been used to enjoying an hour or two alone every morning while my husband slept the sleep of the just. I had used that time to maximum advantage, writing and publishing my erotic stories or responding to the steady stream of reader's messages that always followed the publication of a new story or a new episode.
My rapidly-shrinking bladder was now making its presence felt by waking me even earlier, driving me first to the bathroom then, with no hope of going back to sleep, downstairs to the kitchen and my laptop long before six o'clock.
A mug of tea alongside and in a constant state of arousal, the words simply flowed from me for at least an hour every day - much more at weekends. New stories came to me - many based on real life tales from my readers. I added chapters to some of my existing, longer works too.
But what surprised me most was the darkness of some of the more extreme ideas that forced themselves upon me; themes I had never dreamed would cross my mind, let alone make me feel inspired to write. Some were based on events in my past, others on things I had seen or read online.
Some seemed to come from a place deep in my psyche that I am reluctant even to explore.
Whatever their source, I began to create the outlines of stories based on these themes and to my surprise, found my own arousal soaring as I typed. The more detail I built into the narrative the more darkness appeared until I found myself rubbing my crotch against the towel on which I routinely sat when writing.
On one occasion I even reached orgasm through writing and rubbing alone, biting the thick part of my thumb hard as I came to prevent the noises waking my sleeping husband upstairs.
Some of these themes are too dark to detail here, but the excitement as I wrote them was intense and very satisfying. Some of these stories were eventually published under other pen names. One or two were placed on entirely different sites where more extreme ideas are considered acceptable and expected.
Sadly, the trolls continued to object even to the milder stories. For reasons I have never understood, they take particular exception to anything involving infidelity published under the heading of 'Loving Wives', even though the sites themselves insist this is where such stories belong.
Surely common sense would suggest that if a reader hates stories involving infidelity or cuckolding, a story announcing itself as precisely that should be avoided. Or am I being too simplistic?
And they say we women are hard to understand!
Still for a full two weeks, Pete and I were a couple again, in our own house, working on our own, slightly battered relationship, watching what would soon be our fourth child growing in my belly, and basically being happy.
Such times are precious but seldom last.
***
Isobel arrived home late on Saturday afternoon. Pete was playing golf with some friends from work when the shared taxi dropped her off then rolled out of our driveway to delivery its tired, no doubt hung-over and much more subdued contents to their various homes.
I watched it leave from the landing window then descended to the hall to greet my daughter, my heart thumping and my belly rumbling with nerves, not knowing what kind of reception I would receive but determined to get it out in the open straight away.
To that end, I had chosen the most obviously maternity dress I in my collection; a dress I was nowhere near bog enough to need yet but which would put my condition unavoidably in my judgemental daughter's face from the start.
As I descended the stairs and entered the hallway Izzy looked up to greet me and my heart missed a beat.
"Hi Mum!" she called out cheerfully.
I was taken aback. Where was the grumpy body language I had come to expect? Where was the emotional upset, overt anger, barely concealed resentment or more often, all three at once? Where was the acidic comment about my choice of clothing?
"Izzy! Are you okay?" I asked anxiously, puzzled.
"Of course, I'm okay," she grinned. "You're looking good Mum."
"I'm looking big," I frowned, perplexed. "But thanks. Did you have a good time?"
"I had an amazing time Mum," she beamed, running over and giving me a big hug and a kiss. "It was a great holiday - one of the very best!
"Want a cup of tea?"
"Please. Can you bring it up? I've got to go and unpack; we're meeting in town at nine. You don't mind giving me a lift in, do you?"
And with that whirlwind of arrival, Isobel and her luggage disappeared up the stairs to her bedroom. I heard the door close firmly.
Taking a deep breath and thanking whatever force of nature that had turned my spitting viper of a daughter into a human being again, I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle.
The first danger had passed; Izzy was too wrapped up in her own world to worry about me and mine. At least she was for the moment; if anything went wrong in that world of hers, she would be back in mine in an instant.
But for now, I could relax a little as I made the tea, feeling considerably relieved.
Izzy was crossing the landing towards the bathroom when I reached the top of the stairs, ten minutes later. She was naked apart from a rather too-small towel wrapped around her body. When she saw me she made to cover herself with the material but quickly realised it was far too small so gave up and wrapped the towel around her waist, leaving herself bare-chested.
She needn't have worried; with her tiny boobs, the need for support was negligible and besides, I had seen them many times before. If she was trying to hide herself from me, it must have been for another reason.
What I did notice was a complete absence of white lines in her upper body tan. She must have been sunbathing topless for most of the time. Her nipples had gone very dark too which would tend to support this theory.
Still, having done much the same myself in France, I had no cause to complain about that. What I had not done in France was acquire the clearly-defined and very visible bite mark alongside her left nipple. I tried hard not to stare, but Izzy must have seen my flitting eyes because she brought her arms close to her chest and half turned away from me.
"Here's your tea," I smiled, pretending not to have noticed.
"Can you put it in the bedroom please Mum? I'm going into the shower."
"Of course! You can tell me all the details when you're dressed."
I pushed open the bedroom door and entered my daughter's room. It was, as expected, a mess with dirty holiday clothes strewn all over the bed and the floor. I glanced guiltily at her laptop which appeared exactly as I had left it, then placed the hot mug on a coaster on the desk alongside.
Sounds of flowing water came through the half-open bathroom door. With Izzy temporarily occupied, the temptation to be nosy was too great and too short lived to be missed. As silently as I could, I quickly looked over the mayhem of clothing looking for anything new, interesting or incriminating.
It was an outrageous breach of my daughter's privacy but I told myself I had her best interests at heart. Most of what I found was predictable; plenty of dirty knickers, sun cream-infused T-shirts and wraps and one very short yellow dress that still smelled faintly of alcohol and vomit.
