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?
