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Yes, she’s coming, and that’s all I need.
My balls scrunch up, and the contractions begin at the base of my cock. And I—
I pull out. I pull out of her, and my come shoots onto her thighs.
Not what I wanted, not what I was planning, but old habits die hard.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
Does she? She’s not smiling, but she’s also coming down from an orgasm.
“We’ll think of something,” I say.
“I don’t like the idea of the pill. I don’t like putting hormones into my body that aren’t meant to be there.”
“I get it. Maybe an IUD?”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t want a foreign object in me either. And before you say it, no shots and no messy jellies.”
“All right, sweetheart. Diaphragm?”
She nods finally. “Yeah. You have to use spermicide, but only a little. I’ll see my doctor.”
A diaphragm isn’t my weapon of choice, but really, it’s no worse than a condom. It won’t hinder either of our enjoyment of the act except she’ll have to stop and insert it. Same as me stopping to put on a condom.
“Brock…”
“I know. You might be pregnant. When will you know?”
“My period is due in about a week.”
I nod.
And part of me—that part of me that I try to ignore most of the time—almost hopes sheispregnant.
“Bathroom?” I ask.
She nods to the door on the opposite wall.
It, like the rest of the place, is tiny. Just a sink, toilet, and a small shower. She doesn’t have any washcloths, only paper towels.
I moisten one as best I can, bring it back out, and wipe my come from her thighs.
She gets dressed quietly.
“Dinner tonight?” I say.
She nods. “That would be nice.”
“My place?”
“Actually…”
“What?”
“How about my place?”
