I walk into my husband's study, gently closing the antique pocket doors behind me. He looks up from his spreadsheet-laden computer and takes in my outfit. For a brief moment he grins like a little boy, but then a frown turns his eyes cold.
"Five o'clock already?" he asks, glancing at the clock on his computer screen. He tries to appear nonchalant, but I hear the pain creeping into his face and voice.
"I've been waiting for five o'clock all day," I say, giving him my most seductive smile. I reach down to adjust the top of my sheer black stockings, drawing his attention to them. I'm wearing them especially for Marc, along with high black leather heels, a loose black wrap skirt that falls just below my ass, and a sheer white blouse over a sheer bra. I plan to let him discover what I've left out - panties. I don't expect the outfit to make him forget what day it is, but I hope it takes some of the sting out.
"Never thought I'd hate ovulation day this much," Marc mumbles, petulantly kicking the side of his desk. But he's eyeing the tops of my stockings and subconsciously licking his lips. I walk over and perch on the edge of his desk, spreading my knees just enough to give him a glimpse up my skirt. I lean down and cup his rough cheek, running my thumb along his stubble.
"I know, my love, its hard for me too." He stacks his hand on mine.
"Do you blame me if I don't like sharing you?"
I sigh at the well-worn ground, "No, but it's what we need to do to..."
"... have a baby, " he finishes, scrubbing a hand through his shaggy brown hair. "I know, I know. This ... arrangement will just feel like a distant bad dream once our family is complete."
He forces a smile but doesn't look me in the eye. "I guess we need to get started so you can make it to the hotel on time."
"You could always come with me."
"Huh! And watch a couple meatheads stick it to my wife. Um, no. I think if I ever had to see that ..." he trails off.
"Hey," I tip his chin up until his grey eyes meet my brown ones. "It will be worth it when we're holding our daughter or son. Every couple who wants to start a family goes through this. We'll be just fine."
Five years ago, the Steriliores virus swept rapidly through most of the world's population centers. At first it seemed like nothing more than a particularly nasty flu, but then the diagnoses of infertility in men began to roll in by the hundreds of thousands. The panic was immediate and widespread. The conspiracy theories soon followed.
People claimed Steriliores was a heavenly punishment, a government lab-created solution to overpopulation, the result of GMO corn, biological warfare from China, or an alien species using humans as hosts. Five years later with neither cause nor cure, the theories keep growing.
But a year into the epidemic, a 25-year-old dental hygienist from Pittsburgh named Bethany Bloom turned up pregnant. After hours of CIA interrogation, she finally admitted to cheating on her husband with not one, but two men she met on Craigslist.
The men were located and tested, and Alpha, Beta, and Gamma sperm were discovered. Steriliores, or "the Stir" as most people had come to call it by then, had mutated as it passed through the populous, affecting men differently. When men infected with the Alpha, Beta, and Gamma strands of the virus mixed their sperm together (in a petri dish or a uterus) within a narrow window (three hours, give or take a few minutes) the virus becomes dormant, and pregnancy can occur.
That's why Bethany Bloom had gotten pregnant during her menage-a-dultery. It's how women are still having babies while the frantic search for a cure for the Stir continues. And it's why I have plans to meet Malik, my Beta, and Eric, my Gamma, at a hotel across town to supplement what I'm about to get from Marc.
Marc is still stressing, pushing his hair back from his forehead. I spin his desk chair around and sit on his lap, straddling him. I slowly unbutton and unzip his jeans, sliding my hand inside, my eyes locked on his. He is already hard, and I smiled a little triumphantly at having chosen my outfit well. I start to rub his cock and he leans his head back and lets out a low moan. I decide that Marc has been a great sport about an arrangement he finds less than ideal, and he deserves a reward. So I slide down his legs until I am kneeling between them. Then I hook my fingers into his waistband and pull down his pants and boxers.
I kiss little teasing bites up along his inner thighs until Marc's moans start to get impatient. Then I touch my tongue to the base of his thick shaft and lick a slow, long upward stroke. I circle the head, flicking the tip with my tongue, earning a thrust of Marc's hips. His breath is coming heavy, so I wrap my lips around his cock and take him all the way into my mouth
"Oh ... love ... oh," Marc grabs my head with one hand and reaches down to rub my hard, aching nipples through my thin blouse and translucent bra with the other. With his whole cock deep in my throat, I stroke my tongue all along his thick shaft. I alternate stroking with soft sucking. It feels so good, I give a breathy moan around his cock and Marc thrusts his hips up again. When I gently drag my teeth along his shaft he starts to shake, and I feel immensely powerful.
Suddenly, he reaches down and pulls me up, dragging me back on his lap. He spreads my legs so I'm straddling him. He slides a hand under my skirt and lets out a deep moan to find me pantiless and wet for him. I lift up on my toes, spreading my legs wide, and slowly impale myself on him. I cry out at the sudden feeling of fullness and clutch his shoulder.
He peppers my face and neck with tender kisses and wraps his arms tightly around me. Marc loves it when I ride him, so I start pushing up onto my toes and sliding back down again, pumping up and down on his iron cock. I cup his cheek again and kiss him deeply as I ride him. He grabs my ass and pushes me down harder, forcing himself deeper inside me, forcing us even closer.
"Gonna ... make you ... feel me ... think of me ... the ... whole ... time ..." he grinds out the words in time with the strokes. .
"Yes," my words come in gasps "Only you ... Marc ... my love."
He slips a hand in between us and starts rubbing frantic circles on my clit, pressing hard on the swollen and slippery nub. The pleasure is exquisite, almost to the point of pain, and my orgasm crashes over me quickly. I clench my muscles tightly around his cock, and Marc follows soon after.
He collapses back against his chair, and I lean forward to rest my head against his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me and we sit like that for several long minutes, our breathing slowing, stealing this moment of intimacy before reality sets in.
I break the silence. "I love you."
"But you need to go." he finishes for me.
"Yes."
"I love you too. Drive safe."
He rubs my shoulder as he releases me, but doesn't look me in the eye. Maybe he's afraid my eyes don't hold the same quiet resignation as his. Or worse, that they sparkle with excitement. I don't know what he'll see in them, so I look away too.
I leave him alone in the study. I don't bother to change, but I do fix my hair and and lipstick in the hallway mirror.
Then I pause to listen, and after hearing Marc's steady typing from the study, I dive a hand into our large umbrella stand and pull out a crumpled brown paper bag. Marc was inexplicably rearranging the umbrellas the previous day, and I'm not ready to take any chances, so I tuck it under my arm. Then I grab my purse and keys and climb into the car, tossing the bag on the backseat. I stare at it for several long moments in the driveway, but soon realize that I can't deal with it just now. My three hour window has begun. So I start the car and head for the hotel.
As I drive, I remember the pain in Marc's voice and how tightly he held me. I wonder what will happen if they find a cure for the Stir. Will people return to monogamy? Or will this disease have changed society so much that monogamy will seem passe?
Sweet, traditional Marc would return to monogamy. We pledged our fidelity to each other in an apple orchard under the autumn sun six months before The Stir hit. We both wanted kids, and when I turned thirty-five, we decided waiting for a cure that might never happen was no longer a viable option. So we planned on in-vitro, but the sky-high price tag and low success rate made me muster up the nerve to suggest (over several glasses of whiskey) that we consider using "direct donors," as euphemism-lovers like us refer to multiple partners. I showed him all the apps for finding supplemental sperm and explained that ABGFind did the most robust health screenings. I thought my thorough research would ease his concerns, but looking back I think it actually made it worse for him.
We fought. We tried long, painful, expensive in-vitro and watched it fail. We fought some more. We tried and failed again. Finally, after a year, Marc agreed.
It wasn't until he gave in and suggested I download the ABGFind app that I realized how much resentment had crept into my thoughts. Why was he stalling and wasting precious time when we knew this step was inevitable? Is me having sex with someone else so terrible, if it gets us the child we both want? What if all the theories about the Stir are wrong, and its really some cosmic feminist karma. For millennia men have told women who to sleep with and when and how. Now, the continuation of the human race hinges on women sleeping around. Is the Stir karmic justice?
Even as I think these things, I realize how unfair I am being to Marc. He doesn't deserve the blame for generations of oppression, even as I feel the effects of it. He's just a man in an unexpected situation, trying to protect his marriage. Sure, we could have had a child years ago if he'd just been a little more open-minded. But this world isn't one he signed up for. Then again, its not one any of us signed up for.
As I pull into the hotel where I usually meet Malik and Eric and a pavlovian response triggers a dampness between my legs. I would never have imagined myself the type of women to lust after multiple men, but I've discovered that I am. Because of the Stir, I am not just a woman sleeping around on her husband. I am a mother-to-be, creating life. I am righteous in my lust.
2 hours, 10 minutes left in the window. I park and and consider taking the brown paper bag in the backseat with me, but I can't deal with its contents just yet. So instead I head up to Room 142 and knock on the door. It swings open, and behind it stands Malik, smiling.
"Hey, beautiful," he says in his deep baritone, raking me up and down with his eyes.
"Hey yourself," I say with a shy smile.
Malik is wearing dark jeans, a grey cashmere sweater, and his ever-present Dodgers hat. He stands back to let me through the door, but not quite far enough. I take the hint and rub my ass against him as I slide by. The room is clearly Malik's idea of a love nest - rose petals, cold chardonnay and several crossword puzzles, only one of which he's waited for me to complete.
"Eric texted, by the way, and said traffic on 95 is a parking lot," he says as he hangs a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.
I throw up my hands in exaggerated exasperation, "He never leaves work in time! There's always traffic on 95 right now."
Malik comes up behind me and starts rubbing my shoulders. His strong hands melt away the tension from the drive and send little bolts of desire into my stomach. "Don't stress, beautiful. He'll be here."
