“What’s a twelve-letter word for men’s clothing store starting with an H?”, he said. 

“Haberdashery”, she responded absent-mindedly. She wasn’t paying attention to him or to anything, her mushy pregnancy mind wandering to places of which even she was not fully aware. She was seven months along and already it was the size of a large watermelon. She rubbed her hands around her belly. Bonus baby. This one was a surprise. 

Her feet up on the ottoman, wearing her at-home uniform of late – a men’s shirt, socks, panties, no pants - she felt good. Hungry and tired all the time but ripe – alive inside and out. 

She was hornier this time around. By a lot. Cunt aching all the time. On the street, she more likely to notice the lustful stares by some men at her verdant body and let them touch her if they asked. And she was looking at porn more often. Sordid stuff. Dirty.

She excused herself and went to the upstairs bathroom, the second time today. 

She was a face-down masturbater so not being able to lie on her belly or touch her own pussy had forced her to get creative. She locked the door and stripped off the panties already glistening with a pool of her cream. On her phone screen was her favorite video, a nasty MFM threesome. She propped it up at the end of the counter where she could see it, volume off. She rolled the towel and placed it carefully on the edge of the tub, straddling and lowering herself with her hands in front of her on the porcelain. She watched one of the guys grab a fistful of hair and guide the girls mouth to his cock, the other with two hands full of ass meat, pounding away. 

Now she was riding the edge of the tub like it was a skinny horse, her hips humping and grinding. Back arching to dig her clit into the towel, moaning as quietly as she could manage. Terrycloth conveniently soaking her juices. 

“Fuck”, she whispered to herself. Her sweaty face flushed. Her thighs gripped. And she shook.