by Max Monroe
“Hey,” I coughed past the pain as she skirted around me and out the bathroom door to leave. “Fluffing little guy, my as—” God, some of these mock curse words were hard to come up with in the moment.
She turned back at the door to our room and waved, mischief and love swirling in her eyes like the perfect cocktail.
“See you later, T.”
“You bet your sweet titties, you will.” You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.
One hour into this photo shoot in Manhattan with seven hunky versions of Snow White’s dwarfs and my lower back screamed for relief. Taking pictures of half-naked muscly men wasn’t all it was cracked up to be when you were seven months pregnant and crabby from missing your daily orgasm quota.
“Cristiano, move a little to the left,” I instructed as I simultaneously moved myself—and my giant belly housing a fetus—a little to the right.
He took three steps, but his million-dollar model smirk never faltered. “Like this?” he asked once the perfect amount of sunlight started to beam across the smooth and firm muscles of his shoulder blades.
“Perfect.”
Well, he was perfect. I was just uncomfortable trying to navigate around my stomach and modify my normal shot positions. Before I got knocked up, it wasn’t abnormal for me to be lying on the ground and using my camera to snap amazing photos from below.
But now, if I lay on the ground, there was a chance I’d need one of those Life Alert bracelets. Help me, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.
Pregnancy was a motherfluffing bitch.
Well, I wouldn’t say it was always a bitch, but when you were seven months pregnant with the Jolly Green Giant’s baby and you had to run around on a set for a last-minute, but very important photo shoot, it really was a motherfluffing bitch.
I already know what you’re thinking.
You’re having another baby? Another baby with Thatcher?
Yes, I’m aware that procreating with a man that size is pushing the limit, and procreating with him more than once is downright crazy.
More crazy than me, to be honest.
Don’t worry, I’ve been forcing Georgia and Winnie to have prayer circles for my vagina every Tuesday night at eight p.m.
Seriously. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers?
Both of us would really appreciate it.
Did I mention I was a little crabby today?
No orgasms make Cassie an annoyed girl.
I adjusted my position on the ground, pulling my legs forward and up so that I could rest my camera on the tops of my knees. Instantly, I groaned, and my lower back screamed its disdain. The pain was sharp enough to steal the breath from my lungs, and I decided it would be better to take a quick break to regroup before I started getting bitchy with Cristiano.
“Let’s take five, guys,” I announced to the set and slowly—and with a lot of determination—I got myself off the ground and headed toward the snack table.
If there was one thing that could help ease my frustration, it was a motherfluffing donut. Plus, it wasn’t like anyone on this set would be eating the glazed and gooey goodness besides me. The majority of these models were on diets that had more don’ts than dos. No processed sugar, no simple carbs, no gluten, no dairy… I often wondered what it was they actually ate. Chia seeds, I decided. They must survive on nothing more than chia seeds.
With a donut in my hand and my back against the exposed brick wall of our quiet alleyway in Midtown, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent Thatch a quick text.
If there was one person on the planet who could pull me out of this funk, it was my husband.
The man knew when to push my buttons, but he also knew when I needed something soft and sweet around the edges. He was my rock in all things. Plus, considering how the morning went, I figured he’d be in a mood too. Misery loves company and all that.
Me: How’s your day going?
Thatcher: Fantastic. How’s yours?
Fantastic? He was home alone on a Sunday with our four-year-old son, and his day hadn’t started off with the Supercock getting his normal, orgasmic release. Surely, he was joking, right?
Me: Fantastic? That’s honestly a little hard to believe… Are you okay? Is the Supercock okay??? Check to make sure he’s still there.
Thatcher: LOL. Everyone is fine, missing you like crazy, but fine. How’s the photo shoot going?
Me: Fine. I wish this guy’s dick wouldn’t be as soft as fluffing cotton candy, though. I mean, I don’t need a full-on erection, but Jesus, a half-chub, something. The women who read this mag don’t want to look at pictures of hot, muscular man meat without a hint of sausage.
Thatcher: Sometimes, I wonder if I should be concerned that my wife is texting me about other dudes’ dicks…
Fishing for compliments… Jesus. Didn’t he know I was busy working? I didn’t have all the time in the world to fluff his ego with comments about the gloriousness of his cock.
Obviously, I had time for this donut, but I didn’t have time for that.
But it was a certainty of life that my husband had a glorious cock. Long, thick, almost always hard, and subtle curves in all the right places. If I was being honest, if I hadn’t fallen in love with a giant ogre, I might’ve married him just for his penis.
Me: Awww, don’t be sad. You know your dick is my favorite dick in all the land!
His response buzzed my phone thirty seconds later.
Thatch: Keep going…
Me: What do I get in return for stroking your ego?
Thatch: Tonight, after we get home from Wes & Winnie’s, I’ll eat your sweet pussy until you’re begging for my cock.
Usually, I had principles and I didn’t give in to my husband’s demands, especially when it came to things I knew he wanted just for the ego stroke. But I was a fan of Thatch’s version of pussy pleasure. A big, big, big fan.
Me: I LOVE YOUR HUGE COCK. IT IS MY FAVORITE COCK. NO OTHER COCK HAS EVER/COULD EVER COMPARE. YOU’VE RUINED ME FOR ALL OTHER COCKS.
I hit send and added one more quick message to our chat box.
Me: Better?
Thatch: Just make sure that little cunt is wet and swollen for me tonight.
Me: Deal, Daddy.
For some reason, Thatch had a thing for me calling him Daddy. And when I say “a thing,” I mean he fudging loved it. It only took one Daddy and insta-boner for the Supercock.
And, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy giving him boners in the middle of the day without any hope for relief. I was a bit sadistic, I guess. But I knew Thatcher secretly loved it.
Thatch: Fuck, you know it makes me horny when you call me that…
Me: Sorry, Daddy… :(
Thatch: Fucking hell, Cass. Don’t switch to the innocent routine. You know that makes it worse.
Me: Okay, Daddy.
I forced my face to go soft and made big doe eyes as I took a selfie—making sure the top swells of my tits were nice and visible—and attached it to the message.
Thatch: Jesus Christ.
“Cassie!” my assistant, Amanda, called, and I looked up from my phone to meet her eyes. “Should I get the guys ready for the group shot?”
“Yeah, let’s start with only four, though. I don’t think the entire group is going to work at this location,” I said and then typed a quick message to Thatch.
Me: I gotta go, Daddy. See you tonight?
Thatch: I can’t fucking wait.
Me: Ditto, Daddy.
Thatch: You’re evil.
Me: I know, right? :)
Thatch: Tell Ace Daddio says hi. I hope he’s being good for you at work.
Wait…what?
Ace wasn’t with me.
Ace was supposed to be with Thatch.
I glanced down at my rounded, pregnant belly. Yep. That one is still there.
Where in the ever-loving marshmallow fluff was our other kid?
Me: WHAT? Ace isn’t with me!
Thatch: He’s not?
Oh. My. God. Where is my child!
My heart started to pound in my chest, and my breathing proceeded to come out in tight, short pants. I was literally five seconds away from hyperventilating.
Me: Call the pol—
Jesus. Why am I texting him? I thought to myself and switched to emergency response tactics and called his phone instead.
I mean, how in the motherfluffer did this happen? How had we lost our child?
I knew I hadn’t left the house with him. But where in the hell was he?
Thatch answered on the second ring.
“What in the fuck, T? Where is Ace? We need to call 9-1-1! When was the last time you saw him? Do you remember what he was wearing? I don’t—”
“Calm down, Cass,” Thatch said with a soft chuckle, and then I heard, “Hi, Mommy!” in the background.
The sound of that little, perfect voice brought so much relief a sagging exhale released from my lungs and nearly took me to the ground.
“Are you fucking with me right now, Thatcher?” I questioned through gritted teeth.
“It was just a joke, Cass,” he attempted to explain, but in my mind, there was no explanation for being a total asshole.
“Just a fucking joke?” I shouted, and everyone on set looked in my direction.
“Cass, calm down,” he reassured, and I wanted to reach into the phone and strangle him. “It was a joke. I honestly didn’t think it would get you that worked up. I thought you knew he was with me. I thought you would just laugh it off.”
“I’m seven months pregnant, Thatch!” I exclaimed. “My hormones force me to get worked up over every-fluffing-thing! I was two seconds away from sending out an Amber Alert on our child.”
“I’m sorry, Cass,” he said, but his voice still held a hint of amusement.
Fudging bastard.
“Fluff you, T!” I shouted and hung up the call.
My husband had just pranked me.
I was seven months pregnant, and we had agreed on no pranks during pregnancy. The last time, when I was pregnant with Ace, one simple prank by Thatch, and I had gone a little off the deep end and given his Range Rover to a homeless man.
Yes, I got the idea from an episode of The O.C. By the way, was anyone really sad when Marissa died? Honestly?
Needless to say, he hadn’t been too happy about it, and that was when the “No pranks during pregnancy” rule had been created.
But, in my defense, I was already ten shades of crazy without the pregnancy hormones. The addition of the hormones to my chemistry rocketed my level of crazy straight to the moon.
As I headed toward the four models waiting to be photographed, my phone buzzed in my hand. I stopped midstep and glanced down to find a text message from my idiot husband.
Thatch: Don’t be mad at Daddy? Please?
I thought long and hard about my response, and me being the good person that I am, decided to take the high road.
Me: Extra pussy pleasure and I’ll forgive you.
Thatch: Deal. I love you, Cass.
Me: Love you, too. Give Ace a kiss for me.
Should I mention here that the high road also included scheming for a revenge prank?
Get ready, Thatcher, the HCG is coming for you.
Convenient how close pregnancy hormones sound to the Russian Security Agency (KGB), huh?
I think so too.
Two hours into Cassie’s absence, and the day was already rolling. We’d had a quick cereal breakfast, played a game of You Jump, I Jump—which is exactly as it sounds, Ace doing something and me having to repeat it—watched what felt like every goddamn annoying episode of that little bastard Caillou, and were at the tail end of a mad dash to the bathroom.
Ace was just getting ready to show me how good he was at pointing his penis at the toilet—a highly advanced skill for a four-year-old boy—when the doorbell rang.
“Who the fluff is that?” I muttered to myself, peeking out of the bathroom to look toward the front door. It was barely ten.
“What the fluff?” Ace exclaimed, and I winced.
Cassie was going to put my balls in a vise if I didn’t figure out a way to bribe Ace into cleaning up his language. Substitute cursing or not, a kid screaming out “Motherfluffer!” in the middle of the grocery store had a way of garnering some negative attention. Which Cass didn’t actually give a fuck about. But if one more person came up to her with unsolicited advice because of it, I knew I’d be bailing her out of jail to await her arraignment on assault charges. And I didn’t think they offered conjugal visits in County.
“Language, son.”
“Hmph,” he scoffed. “Biscuits be trippin’.”
“Ace,” I warned. “Just finish up in here while I go get the door.”
Pulling the bathroom door closed behind me, I headed down the hall to our big, solid wood door and peeked out the window on the side of it.
Kline stood impatiently, one daughter on each hip, a diaper bag slung over his shoulder, a huge motherfucker of a dog sitting next to him on his leash, and a demonic cat—I knew from experience—clinging to the dog—his lover’s—back.
Holy hell. The gang’s all here, huh?
With one quick twist of the knob, I pulled the door open and greeted him with a smile. He rolled his eyes, a preemptive move.
“I’m assuming you need child care?” I asked.
Begrudgingly, he nodded.
“Aren’t you glad we moved just down the road now?”
It’d taken us a couple of years to follow in the Brookses’ footsteps, but a few months ago, we’d finally made the decision to vacate our residence in the city and give suburbia a try. The locale wasn’t exactly hopping, but with Kline and Georgia just a few houses down—and their propensity to pretend to very much hate this fact—Cassie and I were in all our glory. We pranked them often, and they bitched when we did. It was just like old times.
Not to mention our “mini” pig, Phil, was now an astounding thirty-three pounds, and life with a monster inside of our apartment with no way to escape had been starting to get old.
Did I mention the life-span on these things can be up to thirty years? Yeah. We are more committed to this pig than we are to our children.
“No,” Kline denied, putting Julia, his three-year-old, down so that she could take off in search of my son. The two of them were nearly inseparable, a fact that Kline lamented fervently. “But I have to go into the office. All the servers are down, and it’s a fucking nightmare. Georgia, Wes, and Winnie had some work to do at the office this morning, Will’s on call, and Melody is busy at the clinic.”
“So I’m your last choice?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” I teased. “But you did choose me.”
“Can you watch them or not, Thatch?”
“Of course, son. I just need you to do me one little favor.”
“Thatch.”
“What? Is a skywriter scrolling Thatch is my king really too much to ask?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Just tell me verbally then.”
“No,” Kline refused. Not that I expected him to do anything else. He was the least prone to bullshit out of our group of friends, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to expose him to it all the time, just for fun.
“Well, at least tell me what the deal is with the animals,” I bartered.
He rolled his eyes. “I can’t leave Stan alone in the house without Evie—”
“And you obviously can’t leave Evie alone in the house for at least a couple more months,” I teased, pinching the cheek of his cherub-like nine-month-old until she giggled.
“Right,” he agreed, but also dismissed. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood to sit around and shoot the shit with me. “He’s so fucking attached to her, he tears the place apart.”
“And the demon cat?”
“He has a similar attachment to the dog.”
“Jesus fluffing Christ. You’re just as idyllic as the Waltons.”
“I’m on it,” I promised.
“I’m so screwed. My daughters are both going to marry your sons, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life crying.”
“Hey! We’ll be officially related.”
“Did I mention the crying?”
I shook my head and laughed before reaching out for the baby. “Come on, Evie. Daddy’s leaving you with fun Uncle T today. It’s a good thing, too. You have so much to learn.”
An angry finger shot out to point at me from Kline’s free hand as he tossed the diaper bag inside the door with the other. “Don’t teach her anything.”
“It’s almost like you don’t trust me, Klinehole.”
“I don’t.”
I lifted his baby up to blow a raspberry on her stomach and smiled into her skin. “Considering you’re leaving your little girls and pets with me for the day, you’ve got a funny way of showing it.”
He sighed.
“What’s the deal? How long are you going to be gone?”
“I’m really not sure, and I’m not sure when Georgie will be done either.”
“No worries,” I reassured. “I’ll just bring them with me to dinner tonight at Wes and Winnie’s place.”
Apparently, all of our women had teamed up to bring about their Mother’s Day wish: spending the night together, getting drunk—except for my pregnant wife, of course—while the rest of us were there to corral the kids. All of the extra people threw another little hitch into my big reveal, but Cassie would be home before we left for Wes and Winnie’s and I’d be able to execute it then. All was still on track.