The World: According to Graham (19 page)

With that in mind, I shampoo my hair first and give it a good rinse. Next, I pour a dollop of conditioner into my hands and work it through the ends. While I let it set in my hair for a couple of minutes, I grab the body soap and pour some of the sweet lavender scent into my palm. I begin spreading it over my baby bump. It’s getting more prominent. I’m once again reminded how thankful I am that I don’t have to wear the constrictive hose any longer. As I massage the tight skin, I think about Graham rubbing his come over my bump. God, that was so hot.

I work my way up my abdomen, spreading the soap. When, I reach my chest, I feel something odd. My breath catches in my throat and my eyes grow wide. I press my fingers into the soft flesh, making sure that I’m not imagining them.
It can’t be. This isn’t happening.
There’s no way. I throw open the shower door and stand before the vanity mirror. I use the hand towel to wipe the condensation off the reflective glass. My fears are confirmed. Right there in front of me—no place to hide. I’m getting boobs at almost forty.

I haven’t wanted boobs since I was twenty-two and realized how great being flat-chested was. I can put on a padded bra and make my clothes fit right, but around the house, I don’t have to wear anything. There have been plenty of days when I didn’t wear a bra to work. Here they are—two rounded mounds of flesh topped with pink perma-hard nipples.

I hate them.

Because I’m a hormonal mess, I step back in the shower as the tears slide down my cheeks. It’s time for another pity party. I let it all out before Graham arrives home and I have to be easy-going, perky Rachael again.

I don’t want boobs, and I don’t want to get fat. Graham will no longer want the Tinker Bell that looks like a bowling ball. I cry harder at the uncertainty of my future. Even though things seem to be going better with Graham, we haven’t even begun discussing what a future will look like. Then I think about my book. It’s been my sanity, giving me a future and hope that I can have something that is still mine, but now Candace wants someone else to write my story.

The tears turn into wails. Rationally, I know that I’m being ridiculous. If I take my problems and put them all in a stack they barely register on the “who cares” scale. But, right now, they are my problems, and I can’t stop the waterworks.

I slide down the shower door and bury my face in my palms, letting the hot water beat on my back. My new breasts press against my knees, reminding me that they’re there, making me cry harder.

Suddenly, the bathroom and then the shower doors fly open. “What’s wrong?” Graham’s booming voice yells as he shuts off the water.

I swallow and try to get my breathing calmed down enough that I can respond, but he doesn’t give me a chance. I’m lifted from under my armpits and placed on the toilet lid like a ragdoll. He grabs a towel and begins drying my hair. “So help me God, Rachael. Tell me what’s wrong.” The towel pauses. “Look, if this is about the pictures, I can explain.”

Pictures? What pictures?

“Are you okay?” he demands. The bathroom is still steamy, but the worried wrinkles spidering from his eyes are clear as day.

Through sniffles, I manage to tell him, “I have boobs.”

The towel stays wrapped around me as he steps back and gives me a perplexed look. The worry lines are replaced with a twisted look of confusion as he reaches up and hangs his hands behind his neck. “You’re crumpled on the shower floor over boobs?”

I wipe my nose on the towel and look down at the floor, very ashamed of myself. “Well, when you say it like that I feel stupid.”

He starts laughing. It’s a howling, crazy laughter that shakes his whole body. He grips the doorjamb and rests his forehead against it as his laughter turns into hysterics.

It really annoys the hell out of me. I stand up, wrapping my towel tightly around my new boobs and squeeze past him. He can laugh at me all he wants, but I don’t have to sit there like a bump on a log and take it.

The sound of my stomping feet echoes throughout The Cougar, and I slam the bedroom door behind me, turning the lock. His laughter still fills the tin can as I reach for a clean set of clothes. Out of habit, I grab one of my gently padded bras. It’s a razor back that hooks in front. To my horror, it will no longer latch. I step in front of the full-length mirror that’s mounted on the back of the door and for the first time in a couple of days really look at my body.

It’s not just my chest that is changing. My baby bump is noticeably larger. Instead of being just above my pubic bone, it now extends halfway to my bellybutton. And my waist—it’s disappearing. I’ve never had curves per se, but I’ve always had a defined waist. I look fuller, thicker. I reach up and use my three middle fingers to massage the new bumps on my chest. What used to be rib bones under my nipples is lumpy tissue. It would be fascinating to see these changes if they were happening to someone else’s body. Instead, I feel as some body-snatching alien from one of the horror flicks that Graham and I have watched has hijacked me.

I slip on a pair of thong panties that feel too tight and choose one of Graham’s T-shirts. The bagginess hides my breast and the other changes to my abdomen, making me look more like I’m used to seeing myself. This gives me a sense of comfort, peace, knowing that I can still be the old Rachael.

Next, I grab my favorite pair of yoga pants and pull them up. The elastic band presses against my bump. Simultaneously, I feel both claustrophobic and nauseous. I begin gagging as I roll the pants off of my stomach and down below my hips. As soon as the elastic is gone, the feeling subsides and I’m able to lay back on the mattress to catch my breath.

Oh my God. This is awful. So awful. I can’t wear pants. Graham thinks that this is funny.
What am I going to wear for the next thirty weeks?

Before I can slip too far back into my pity party, Graham’s banging on the bedroom door. “Let me in, Rach. I’m sorry I laughed.” He knocks again, as if I didn’t hear him the first time. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just so relieved that you and the baby were okay.” He pauses for a moment and tries the doorknob. “I think your body is gorgeous. Come on, babe. Open the door.”

I’m still thinking about his picture comment earlier. Even in all of my body-morphing drama, I didn’t miss that he’s anxious about some pictures. My phone and laptop are in the other room so I can’t do a quick Google search. I decide to play it cool, even though I’m anything but. “We still need to discuss the pictures. I want us to look at them together.” That’s a good answer—vague, yet still authoritative.

“We can do that, baby, but please let me in. I’ve flown all night to get here as soon as I could. I’ve missed you. Open the door.” He’s pleading with me now. “I was an asshole for laughing at your tears. I was just so relieved that you were okay. I mean, the thoughts that raced through my head . . .”

I don’t respond.

“And you know that those pictures don’t mean anything. My life is taken out of context. Come on, Rach. Please. Let me in.”

I can’t stay mad at him forever. And I’ve missed him too. These pictures that he brought up seem bothersome, but I decide to assume they’re innocent and table the thought until we can Google. This was not the homecoming that I had planned, but it doesn’t matter. He’s here right now with me instead of traveling with the Sons of Liberty tour to the next city. This is a huge sacrifice that he’s making, and I need to not be difficult.
I’m Agreeable Rachael.

Standing up, I unlock the door. He fills the doorway, looking a bit sheepish, but he’s the most beautiful thing that I’ve ever seen. I tell myself to play it cool. He’s just a stupid boy, and I’m a dignified, sophisticated woman who’s writing a book about my time in Washington politics. I’ve accomplished something that no one else in the world has. I’m a badass, kick-ass, fantastic female. So what do I do? I run and jump into his arms like a lovesick teenager. He kisses my hair and forehead, not saying a word, just showing me his affection. When he steps back, he has an examining look in his sparkly eyes. He brushes the wet strands of hair out of my face. “You sure look sexy in my clothes.”

I sigh and look at the floor. “I have a problem, Graham.”

He grabs my hand and leads me to the bench seating around the dining table. He sits down first and pulls me on to his lap. His nose nuzzles my neck as he kisses along my shoulder blade. “I solve problems.”

His unshaven, prickly beard tickles, and I wiggle in his lap, feeling the hard bulge in his pants. Ignoring it for now, I continue, “None of my clothes fit any longer.”

“So we buy new clothes,” he replies as he works his way up to my ear, leaving a trail of tiny nibbles behind.

“It’s not that simple,” I moan as his denim-clad erection rubs along the top of my behind. “I need maternity things.”

He grasps my hair and throws it over my left shoulder. As his arm reaches between my legs, he slides two fingers inside of me.

“Hmmmm . . .” he replies, as he scissors his fingers back and forth while the other hand moves to my chest. He whispers in my ear, “We’ll find a maternity-clothing store and purchase whatever you need.”

His hand grabs my new flesh and he says, much louder, “Oh my God. You do have tits.” His fingers leave me and I’m placed on my feet in front of him. With careful consideration, he removes my pants first and the T-shirt next. I stand before him nude, except for my barely there panties.

He gasps, and a huge smile raises his apple cheeks. With wonder, he says, “Your body. It’s changed in two short days.” I go from minutes earlier feeling unattractive and depressed to all of a sudden feeling beautiful. He reflects his admiration for my new curves in his heavy-lidded eyes.

His hand brushes over my larger bump. “This wasn’t here before.” I shake my head and smile. “Gorgeous. You are so damn sexy.”

He stands before me and removes his shirt and pants. His body is every girl’s wet dream—defined abs, sculpted pecs, and perfect V-cut hips. I’ve seen it all before, but it still amazes me that this beautiful man wants me.

Sliding his boxer briefs over his erection, I let them fall to the ground. He sits back on the bench and fists his dick in his hand, and he strokes it up and down. “Come wrap your legs around my waist and ride me, baby, while I play with those new tits of yours.”

I obey him because that sounds about as close to perfection as it comes. The space is tight between the back of the bench and the table, but as always with Graham and I we make it work.

My knees squeeze his ribs as I sink down on his very firm cock. He holds me in position until I have a rhythm and feel secure on his lap.

It’s awkward, and I wrap my arms around his neck more to hang on than to hug him. Finally, he places one arm under my behind and, without breaking our contact, carries me into the bedroom. I kiss his chest, his neck and along his jawline in appreciation.

“Still on top,” he instructs me as we tumble to the mattress. Underneath me, he spreads out horizontally on the bed. I mount his hips again, sliding him back inside of me.

“God, that feels fantastic,” I groan as he fills me completely. I relax my thighs, letting my body fully accept him.

He reaches for my pillow and tucks it under his head. The dominant Graham that I’ve come to know and like is gone. The man under me has a soft smile on his face with relaxed features. He looks happy and content. Although I like Graham when he takes charge, this is nice, too.

I find a slow, lazy rhythm of rocking back and forth and up and down. His gasps and moans spur me on. I’m enjoying controlling his pleasure.

“That’s it, Rach. Come for me,” he instructs, when I lean back and place my hands on his rock-hard quads. My finger travels southward as I play with my clit. My body floods with warmth and liquid at the fantastic sensation.

I close my eyes and move, letting my body dictate my passion. My orgasm builds slowly as I succumb to the euphoric sensation.

“I want to watch you come all over me. Use me,” Graham repeats. Then, he turns up the dirty talk. “Your pussy is so hot, baby. So fucking wet. I love how tight you get right before you come for me.”

As I feel myself building to the release that I crave, my finger massages my clit with more intensity, and then Graham does something unexpected. He leans up and sucks my breast into his mouth.

My slow, lazy orgasm that I was building towards turns into an explosion. I grip his back and shove my breast deeper into his mouth. Oh my God! Is that what I’ve been missing out on all my life?

As I slowly, mentally return to the bedroom, he’s holding me to his chest while he still fills me. “That’s it, angel,” he coos. “I love your new, beautiful sex toys.”

I giggle and grip him tightly. “I guess they can hang around for a while.”

With such tender care, he moves me off of him and tucks me against his side. “What about you?” I ask as I reach for his still very hard penis.

“What about me?”

“You didn’t come?” I catch a drip of pre-come and spread it over the head of his penis.

He moans. “Hmmm . . .”

I spend countless minutes stroking and sucking his cock. It’s not enough pleasure to bring him to orgasm—more of a fact-finding mission. I discovered an area under his balls that makes him gasp every time I push on it. I also found out sucking and licking the head of his penis at the same time makes him yell dirty things about what he wants to do to my mouth.

Finally, I give him the release that I’ve been denying. The thought of swallowing come makes me sick to my stomach so I run to the sink to spit it out.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize when I come back from the kitchen. “I just couldn’t swallow it.”

He pulls me to him. “Baby, you never have to apologize for that.”

This feels too good to be true.

We got a bit of a late start on Sunday. I didn’t complain one bit. In Knoxville, Tennessee Rachael found a maternity store. Between Target and the specialty shop, she now has enough things that fit her new body and she’s happy. If she’s happy then I’m ecstatic. Bra shopping was traumatic, more so for me than her. I felt like a pervert in Victoria’s Secret, standing outside of the dressing room while two women brought her different bras to try. Thanks goodness she didn’t ask for my opinion.