My Friends the Allens -- Prenatal by Mark Aster = = = Note: this story contains graphic accounts of sexual relations between consenting adults. If you are a minor, a U.S. Senator, or anyone else whose brain implodes when exposed to such things, stop reading now, and go take a cold shower. = = = Pat was awakened, as usual, by the kicks and stretches of one or both of the babies in her womb, and by an increasingly urgent pressure in her bladder. She opened her eyes and lay still, the pale dawn-lit rectangle of the window floating uninterpreted before her, the warm sleeping arm of the twins' father a familiar pressure across her body. Then she got up, quietly and softly, and went to the bathroom. Returning, she stood briefly by the bed, naked, looking down at the man tangled in her sheets, and she grinned. Then she went out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her, and stood on the balcony, looking down into the apartment's livingroom, absently running her fingers over her belly, feeling the little lives inside. Her breasts were full and heavy, their wide nipples swollen and tender. She remembered his mouth on them last night, his fingers on her stomach and her lips, and she smiled again. Going down the stairs her thighs rubbed gently together, and she felt her labia moving against each other. Her vulva was heavy and damp, warm with sex and sleep, and swollen in anticipation of childbirth. In the kitchen, she peeled a grape with her teeth. Someone had left the grapes out last night, and this one was warm and just a little too soft. She crushed it between her lips; the juice ran thick and sweet down her throat, and a drop rolled down her chin. Quietly and efficiently, she straightened up the mess in the kitchen and the livingroom. She picked up a tube of K-Y jelly from an end-table, tossed it up and caught it, held it briefly to her mouth, the plastic cap between her teeth. Then she smiled and put it back on the table. She leaned against the doorframe, looking into the dim downstairs bedroom. Her sister Julie lay on the big bed, sound asleep, naked except for the sheer white stockings climbing her legs in flat vines of lace. Pat admired her sister's long legs, her ass slim and smoooth like a young boy's, the pale skin of her inner thighs curving gently up to the light curly hair at her crotch. The man sleeping beside her was also naked, only his shins still under the covers. Her right hand rested on his hip, not quite touching the base of his penis. The room smelled faintly of love. "See what he gave me?" Julie had asked the day before, in the kitchen, sitting at the table as Pat peeled an onion. Julie had held the stockings up to the light, put her hand into one, stretching it between her fingers, running it across her cheek. "A nice present." "I think he loves me," Julie said softly, touching her lips with her fingers through the white lace. Pat cut the onion in two. "Is that bad?" "No!" Julie considered, silent for awhile. "I might hurt him." "Do you think he'd mind?" Julie looked up. "Mind? If I hurt him?" She sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, one stocking dangling down into her lap. "Mind?" She watched Pat slice the onion; the knife made crisp wet sounds. Julie smiled suddenly, stood up, and walked to Pat. She put her arms around her sister's neck. "You're so damn wise." Her kiss was long and deep and hot and innocent. Pat stood for a long time, looking at them coiled together on the bed, imagining her sister's breath deep and rapid with sex, her body rising and falling over him, drawing his cock and his soul up into herself, the two of them rising into some clear blue inner sky, their bodies convulsing sweetly in orgasm. A sharp elbow poked at her from inside, and she stroked her abdomen, running her fingers up and down the dark line that led up from between her legs. She sat on the livingroom couch, her legs slightly apart to accommodate the bulge of her belly. Upstairs in the study a disk whirred: mail coming in, or someone surfing through the Web site. Someone snored somewhere, once, and turned over. Pat picked up the tube of jelly, undid the cap, squeezed a drop onto her finger. It sat there perfect and clear, magnifying the whorl of her fingerprint. She touched it to her left nipple and rubbed it in, pressing the tender flesh. Her other hand tweaked her right nipple, and she felt herself opening. She spread her legs wider and sat with her eyes closed, not moving. She's noticed lots of changes in herself as the weeks pass. Her labia seem thicker, rougher, her juices are richer and slower to flow. The opening of her vagina is less sensitive, her clitoris more. Her hormones wash over her with emotions she doesn't understand, and she is depressed or horny or manic by turns. Last night he'd teased her with it. "Which Pat are we tonight?" She'd opened the big brown robe and pressed herself against him. "Who's asking?" And before he could answer she slid her tongue between his lips, undid his pants, devoured his cock, and brought him off between her breasts, his semen coating her chest and belly. "That was nice," he'd said, still gasping, his hands moving over her hips and her ass. And later she'd taken him inside her, his penis coated with K-Y jelly, sliding in between the thick petals of her vulva, penetrating her and she came two, three times before he did, and the warm thrusting and spurting of his cock made her cry. Last night she'd been horny and weepy; this morning she was happy and sane. Her fingers slipped between her legs again, and she began to stroke herself. She touched herself with three fingers, sitting on the couch with her legs spread, her head back, a cushion behind her to support her back. Her forefinger and ring finger slid along the warm crevices at the tops of her thighs, and her middle finger stroked the slit between her labia, moving over the curly dark hairs and slowly slowly working its way between them. Buried in the folds of warm flesh, her clitoris began to throb and swell, and her mouth opened softly. She began to rock her hips against her hand. She imagined him on the balcony, watching her naked on the couch, his cock poking half-erect through the railing. He took it in his hand, squeezing and stroking himself erect, pushing it toward her, and she groaned softly, taking the warm head between her lips, her tongue sliding along the smooth slit in the tip. Her fingers touched and opened her vagina, teasing like a lover's tongue, rubbing the folded hood of her clit, not quite going in. ("Nothing with fingernails in there now, love," the midwife had said, "just nice blunt dongs until the babies are out.") She sank lower on the couch as her body began to shudder. Her fingers worked faster and slower at her cunt, and her other hand spread more jelly over her nipples, the tender skin of her breasts. She pressed her palm hard against her mons as her fingertips teased and fluttered over her clit, now swollen and extended. Her mouth opened wide and she came, came in a long gradual run of orgasms that arched her back and pulled her ass up off of the couch. In the bedroom, Julie came half-awake at the sound of Pat's coming, and smiled, curling her hand around the warm soft male penis and slowly stroking it erect. Pat relaxed with a deep happy sigh, slumped and wet on the couch, a warm flush creeping up her stomach from her hips, and little fists pushing at her insides. She opened her eyes, and found herself looking up into his face. He grinned, and blew a kiss to her from the balcony, and she smiled lazily back, and beckoned him down. My Friends the Allens -- Prenatal by Mark Aster http://users.aol.com/myfrthal/ The End