Sharon was seven months pregnant and the house felt smaller every week. The extra heat sat on her skin. Her breasts had gone heavy and tender. The swell of her belly pulled her balance forward when she walked from the kitchen to the hall. Chad was twenty. He still lived in the room at the end of the upstairs hall because the rent in town was stupid and because Sharon had never once told him to leave.
She had married his father when Chad was sixteen. The marriage lasted four years and then the man was gone. What stayed was the quiet between her and the boy who was not her blood.
Wednesday afternoon the house was empty except for her. Chad had a late shift. Sharon locked the bathroom door out of habit and then unlocked it because the habit felt silly now. She started the shower hot. Steam climbed the glass. She stripped and stood in front of the mirror first.
The pregnancy had changed her. Full hips, a dark line down the center of her stomach, nipples darker and larger. She turned sideways. The belly sat high and round. She palmed it once, then stepped under the water.
White soap. The cheap bar that foamed like crazy if you worked it. She wet it and started at her throat. Circles. Down over her collarbones. She spent a long time on her breasts, lifting each one, soaping the undersides, dragging the bar across nipples that peaked immediately. Foam built fast. Thick white lather sheeted down the slope of her chest and caught on the upper curve of her belly.
She soaped the belly next. Slow. Both hands. The bar disappeared into the foam until her stomach was a slick white mound. She rubbed until the lather was dense enough to hide skin. Then lower. The crease where belly met pubic bone. The tops of her thighs. She worked the bar between her legs without rushing, spreading foam over her cunt, over the swollen lips, up into the cleft of her ass. When she stood straight again she was covered. Foam on her shoulders, sliding down her arms, piled on her tits, a thick white coat over the pregnancy, dripping in ropes down her legs.
She let the water hit her for a minute without rinsing. Just stood there breathing, hands resting on the soapy curve of her stomach.
Then she took the washcloth and started wiping. Not a full rinse. She dragged the cloth over her breasts first, clearing paths through the foam so her nipples showed dark and wet. She wiped her belly in long strokes until the skin gleamed again. Between her thighs she was more careful. The cloth came away slick. She dropped it over the faucet and put her hand where the cloth had been.
She was already wet under the soap. Two fingers parted her and she hissed at the first contact. The shower beat on her back. She braced her other hand on the tile and rubbed her clit in tight circles, the way she did when Chad was in the house and she had to stay quiet. Today she didn’t stay quiet. A low sound left her throat. She pushed two fingers inside herself and fucked them in short strokes, thumb on her clit, belly tight, foam still clinging in patches to her hips and the undersides of her breasts.
She came standing up, knees shaking, forehead against the tile. The orgasm was deep and unsatisfying in the way late-pregnancy orgasms sometimes were—strong, then gone, leaving her emptier than before.
She turned the water off. The bathroom went quiet except for the drip.
The door opened.
Chad stood in the frame with his work shirt still on, keys in his hand. He had come home early. His eyes went over her in one pass: wet hair, flushed face, foam still in the hollow of her throat and streaked down one thigh, the round hard belly, her hand still between her legs.
Sharon didn’t cover herself.
“You’re home,” she said.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. He didn’t look away. “I heard the water. Then I heard you.”
She reached for the towel on the hook and didn’t use it to hide. She dried her face, her arms, then held it loose at her side. Water ran off the shelf of her stomach.
“You going to stand there,” she said, “or are you coming in?”
He stepped in and shut the door. The lock clicked. The bathroom was small. Steam still hung in it. Chad’s gaze kept dropping to her belly and then lower.
Sharon took his wrist and put his hand on the underside of her stomach. His palm was warm. She moved it down. Over the wet thatch of hair. Between her legs. He made a sound like he’d been punched.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she said. “Longer than I should’ve. You’re not a kid. Don’t act like one now.”
He kissed her. Hard. No warmup. His mouth opened on hers and his other hand found her breast, squeezing, thumb dragging over the sensitive nipple until she gasped into his mouth. She yanked his shirt up. He got it off. Belt. Jeans. He was already hard, thick, the head wet. Sharon wrapped her soapy-slick hand around him and stroked once, twice.
“Fuck me,” she said. “Don’t be gentle. I don’t want gentle.”
He turned her toward the sink. She braced her hands on the counter and watched him in the mirror—her own flushed face, the hanging weight of her tits, the belly pushing out, Chad behind her lining up. He dragged the head of his cock through her folds, found her opening, and shoved in to the root in one thrust.
Sharon cried out. She was wet enough that he bottomed out immediately, but the stretch still knocked the air out of her. He didn’t wait. He gripped her hips—careful of the belly, firm everywhere else—and started fucking her raw and deep. Skin slapping. The wet sound of it filled the little room. Each thrust shoved her against the counter. Her breasts swung. He reached around and palmed one, then the other, then dropped his hand to her clit and rubbed in time with his hips.
“Look at you,” he said against her ear. “Pregnant and dripping on my cock. You were in here getting yourself off thinking about this.”
“Yes.” She pushed back onto him. “Harder.”
He gave it to her harder. The angle made her see stars. She came again with his fingers on her clit and his cock punching deep, a broken moan that fogged the mirror. He didn’t stop. He fucked her through it until her arms shook, then pulled out, spun her, and lifted her onto the counter. She had to lean back on her hands so the belly sat between them. He stepped in, hooked her knees over his elbows, and drove back inside.
This angle was worse and better. She could see everything—his cock disappearing into her, the way her stomach rose with each breath, the dark flush on his face. He pounded her. No rhythm except need. The counter edge bit her ass. She didn’t care. She grabbed the back of his neck and pulled his mouth to her breast. He sucked hard, teeth grazing the nipple, and she came a third time with a shout she didn’t try to swallow.
He pulled out, breathing hard.
“Bed,” she said. “Now.”
They didn’t make it far. Hallway carpet. He put her on her hands and knees and took her from behind again, one hand under her belly to support the weight, the other in her hair. The pregnancy made her feel filthy in a way she hadn’t expected—full, obvious, claimed. Chad fucked her like he wanted to leave a mark. When he got close he growled and she told him to come inside her. He did, burying himself and pulsing, heat flooding her.
They ended up on the bedroom floor because the bed felt too far. She rode him slow at first, belly resting against his stomach, then faster when he held her hips and thrust up. Soap residue still streaked her back. His come leaked out around his cock and made everything slicker. She came on him grinding down, then he rolled her carefully onto her side and took her like that, spooned, one hand on her tit, the other between her legs, fucking her in short hard strokes until he finished again.
After, the room smelled like sex and leftover steam. Sharon’s thighs were a mess. Chad’s hand stayed on her belly, thumb stroking absently.
“You’re not going to pretend this didn’t happen tomorrow,” she said.
“No.”
“Good. Because I’m still pregnant and I’m still going to want this. In the shower. On the counter. Wherever. Don’t make me ask twice.”
He kissed the back of her shoulder. His cock twitched against her ass, not done.
Sharon smiled at the wall.
“Again,” she said. “Raw. Don’t pull out.”
He didn’t.
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