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You never forget that your wife is stunning, but sometimes she knocks the air right out of you.
Tonight is one of those times.
Your nervous fiddling halts for a moment as she enters your shared quarters. Her dress, a deep black velvet, hugs her beautifully, folding and accentuating her figure as if she were a statue, a creature of grace and elegance. Her favourite cape rests upon her shoulders, a heavy-knit purple fabric that falls all the way to the floor, and you’re glad—the nights have been so awfully cold this winter.
“Darling, you look… resplendent,” you breathe out.
“I asked Elise to pick my outfit for the evening—she’s come quite far in the wardrobe department, hasn’t she? The dress and the cape—elegant and practical, and the jewellry!” She stalks over to you, resting her hand on your shoulder and bending in for a kiss. “Xander’s dinner for some of Corrin’s new friends ran a little later than I expected. You were missed, dear heart.”
“My apologies, darling… it’s just… my stomach—”
“It’s no concern, dearest, other than I wish I could have stayed to hold you through it.” Her eyes search you thoroughly for any hint of discomfort. “Has there been any word from the healers as to what it could be?”
“...of a sort.” Her hand tightens almost imperceptibly on your shoulder, but you notice it. You can’t help but notice everything she does. You wonder if your answer, vague as it was, had worried her unnecessarily—your illness being fatal would break her.
“What did they say?”
“It is not a stomach bug,” you say firmly, though your voice wavers through your next words. “I… I am with child. We’re going to have a baby, Camilla.”
Your wife wastes no time, picking you up, her hands supporting your behind as she spins you around with glee. “A baby! Our baby…” She kneels before you, priceless dress meeting the cold flagstone with no hesitation. Her hand is warm and large and strong against your stomach as she tries her best to feel the smallest of changes there—though both of you know it’s much too early. “Hello in there, little one. I’m going to spoil you rotten .”
Your second trimester is nearing its end when you conclude that the mirror in the corner is evil. It had long lived in the room you shared with your wife, but you had never noticed quite how malicious it was until now. It stood tall and broad, taunting you with glimpses of gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, or the intricate detailing of it’s frame. Though evil, it could still capture undeniable beauty.
But when you looked into it, you did not see beauty. Your breasts had grown so quickly that they had stretched the skin too thin, leaving stretch marks and veins in their wake. And your nipples, sensitive as they had always been, now ached almost always. Not to mention your stomach—you could barely recognise it. It was so incredibly alien to look down and see not your feet, but the curve of your stomach, and the pale lines that now marked it. Looking straight at it in the mirror was just as unsettling.
And feeling out of control of your body wasn’t where it ended. Your mood swung from one extreme to the other, and the guilt of it all was taking a toll on you. You were sure Sakura would be forever afraid of you after you snapped at her for asking just one innocent question—and that, after she’d come so far to visit you during your pregnancy. None of your loved ones deserved the screaming or crying, but you had no power over it. It felt as though you had no power over anything, anymore.
You couldn’t bear yourself these days.
Camilla, though, could not keep her hands off of you, and somehow that made things worse. She doted on you before, but now it was as though it hurt to be apart from you. You could barely use the bathroom alone, and goddess knows you needed it more than ever these days. All you wanted was to be alone.
It’s half of why you choose to stay in bed instead of attending your appointment with the seamstress who was to measure you for your third trimester wardrobe. Somehow, you thought you’d get away with it; but news has the nasty habit of travelling fast through the walls of Castle Krakenburg.
Hours before you expect her, deep in the middle of your wallowing, a harried Camilla enters your chambers. Immediately, she’s stroking your head, checking for a fever, trying to soothe whatever ailment she imagines you have. “Darling, are you feeling quite alright? I caught the tailor earlier, and she said you didn’t show up for your fitting. Was it the morning sickness?”
“No,” you murmur. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Talk to me, dear heart. Whatever troubles you, let me fight it for you.”
She’s so sincere, so desperate to fix what’s hurting you, and your volatile emotions just can’t take it. The tears are falling before you even realise, and between them you manage to breathe out in desperate sobs, “I’m hideous! Every time I catch a glimpse of myself in that goddess-forsaken mirror, I despise myself more! I can’t live like this, Camilla, I can’t...”
You’re not sure you’ve ever seen Camilla look so startled—it’s almost impossible to catch her on the back foot. But you have managed it. For a while, she’s gormless, mouth not quite sure what words to try and form. She settles for silence, for moving to sit fully beside you on the bed, and pulls your head into her lap.
“My poor, tormented darling… I am so, so sorry that your mind is lying to you. Your body… I’ve taken so much from this body. Joy, passion, comfort—your body has offered it all, freely given it to me when I asked. And I adore it. Not only because you were perfect when we met, but because this body carries you. Every change I see, every fluctuation, just a reminder that it’s keeping you safe. And now it changes for our little one, creating a home especially for them. How remarkable, how much love your body can hold...
“Darling, did you think that I’d tire of you when we aged? That I would see a wrinkle or a grey hair and find my way into the arms of another? When we married, I had plans to love your body come what may, just as you have always loved mine. My scars—you kiss them, tell me that they’re the sign of the warrior I am. My muscles, which others berate me for, tell me make me unwomanly—you adore the way they help me hold you. I… have never loved my body as much as I do with you. Allow me to return the favour.”
She kisses the point where your hands intertwine. You hadn’t realised they’d joined while she was talking, but it makes sense. Unconsciously, you always seem to seek her body for support.
“Do you trust me, my love?” You nod, words even further from your ability after her monologue. “Do you trust me to undress you? To touch you, as you deserve to be touched?”
With your nod of consent, she begins her work. She pulls away the covers that you’d been hiding under, unties the robe you’d thrown on—the only garment you could deal with wearing that day. You’re bare underneath it. The way Camilla looks at you, it would be easy to think yourself a work of art.
Her fingers follow careful, ticklish lines around your stomach, tracing the stretch marks they find with reverence. “Your stomach… it holds our child. This skin has stretched, but not broken, just so that our baby may have a comfortable home. What a generous mother you are already!”
She moves her hands upwards to cup your tits, making sure not to touch the painful swelling of your nipples, only palming the flesh she knows is safe to touch. “Your breasts, oh , your breasts! Well, if I did not adore them before, now they swell, plump and ready and waiting to nourish our little one. If they didn’t ache, I’d say they were perfect. Only I am allowed to hurt you.” She takes a playful nip at the flesh of your breast, and you giggle through tears.
“There’s my favourite sound. Are you feeling any better, beloved?”
“Honestly, I don’t know how much my opinion on my body has changed, but… I feel so loved , Camilla. You love me so well.”
“And that is my life's greatest desire.”
All of this touching, so intimate and so loving, has you feeling too warm in your own skin. One of her hands that had been cupping your tits drops its hold and slides down the swell of your stomach, down and around to stroke the sensitive skin at the crease of your hips.
“Do you need me, darling? Say the word, and I’ll be at your service.”
“I do. Make… make love to me, Camilla, make me feel beautiful.”
Your darling pushes herself up the length of the bed, all the way to the top. She hangs over you with besotted eyes and a loving smile, and then her lips are on yours, in a kiss that’s just like the first you ever shared. Your tongues dance together, two forces that know each other's movements in a way that’s almost choreographed. When they escape your throat, you’re glad that your desperate whining is smothered by the mouth of your lover.
“I adore you,” she whispers against your lips, dipping down for another peck between her statements. “I’d trade the kingdom for a kiss from your lips if I had to.”
“Cam…”
“Sh, darling. I’ll take care of you.”
She disappears almost completely behind your bump, and you cannot let that continue. You push yourself up until the lavish headboard is supporting most of your back, and you can see most of Camilla’s eyes.
While you cannot see all of what she’s up to, you feel it. She kisses trails around your inner thighs, patterns that make sense to no one but her, and the ends of her hair tickle your skin as they tail her. She rubs the spots on your hips that never stop aching. The goddess gave her healing hands, you know it—she pushes in just enough to massage the pain away, and just hard enough that it sends jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your clit.
“Goddess, Camilla, that’s perfect…”
“Mmh, these hips have taken on quite the job, hm? Better now?”
“So much better, thank you, baby.”
She doesn’t respond, but the kiss she places on your mons lets you know your thanks are welcome. Then, her kisses move south, one placed on your clit, and another on your slit: almost as if in gratitude for the meal.
As riled up as you are, your cunt is already wet and waiting for her. Her eyes flutter closed as she digs in, lapping at your slick like she’s desperate to drink it all down. You’ve become so sensitive during your pregnancy, almost embarrassingly so—you worry if she shows your clit any attention you’ll cum too fast. But she doesn’t, instead focusing on opening you up for her, tongue pushing into you as far as it can, the breath of her nose fanning over your clit in a sensation that’s the good side of weird.
Warm from your skin, her index finger prods at your hole, testing how much you can take. She finds you open and ready for her, and doesn’t hesitate adding a second, then a third finger, all searching for one of those special spots that curl your toes with every thrust. The pad of her middle finger finds it, and then it takes all your focus not to clench down on her so hard that you trap her fingers.
“My eager princess…”
She fucks into you with those three fingers, so quick that the room echoes with the lewd sounds of your slick being fucked out of you. You keen, fingers a vice grip on the fabric of your pillows, though you can’t arch your back quite the way you used to. Your breath catches deep within your lungs, as though they can’t quite keep up with how much noise you want to make.
“You’re so perfect,” she praises you. She doesn’t miss how you squeeze her fingers at the praise.
You beg for her to make you cum. You’re so, so, desperately close, edging ever nearer to the release you crave until you can taste your orgasm as something tangible, but just out of reach, and it’s so cruel but you need more, more —
And then she brings her tongue to your clit, lavishing it with long licks from top to bottom, with little licks from side to side, and it undoes you. You come with a shout, your muscles tensing impossibly tight only to go totally lax a few moments later.
“Goddess, that’s a noise I’ll never tire of.” She kisses your clit, and giggles at the little aftershock it raises from you. She gives you a few moments to recover, her dry hand moving in soothing motions over your stomach and trembling thighs. She praises you all the while, telling you how good you are, how much she adores the way you come, how she could watch you for years and never tire of the sight of you. And then, when you seem to be mostly recovered, she asks, “are you ready for me?”
“If you don’t get in me right now I think I might die.”
She chuckles. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?”
She reaches behind her to unzip her dress and pulls it over her head with little care. Somewhere inside you, envy at her flawless figure raises its head. Her stomach, with it’s lightly defined muscle and slight softness, had changed so little in comparison to yours—only a small widening of her hips from her sharing in some of your late-night cravings. But then you remember that even this beautiful woman can feel self-concious, and that she was so, so close to fucking you, and envy dissolves to make way for lust.
Camilla doesn’t bother to divest herself of her lingerie. She pulls her lacy underwear down just enough to free her cock, then closes in on you again.
“The mother of my child… let me show you how beautiful I find you.”
Gently, Camilla nestles herself between your legs. She’s careful not to force them apart too much, not wanting to put any excess pressure on your body. For a moment, she looks down to line herself up with your slit, but then her eyes fix themselves on yours once again.
She sinks home in one swift motion, and breathes out a satisfied sigh as she nestles herself within you. She fills you so well, like the pair of you were carved from a single piece of flesh, meant to slot together. You’re still sensitive, but she knows how much you can take. Her cock moves slowly within you, shallow thrusts that tease you back into that frenzy of lust you’d been in previously. And through it, her eyes never leave yours, warm pools that bathe you in unadulterated love.
“Faster, Camilla, please,” you beg. Your arms, tired from gripping the pillow cases, come to hook lazily around her neck.
She takes your request like an order, ramping up how fast and hard she fucks you—though never quite as hard as before you were pregnant.
“I miss when you could get rough with me,” you groan.
“Well, once this once is born,” she says, her pace never waning, “we’ll have to make another. I’ll fuck you however you want, darling, whenever you need it, I’ll give you what you want.”
Her promise brings back memories of your past exploits, of her hand on your throat as she fucked into you faster than you thought possible, of your nails in the skin of her back, clinging on for dear life, of screams that echoed far, far beyond the walls of your bedroom…
“Just the thought of it has you even tighter around me, wife of mine—”
“Yes, my love, please, just a little more, just—”
Her fingers slip between you to play with your clit, and you fall apart for her again. She cums deep within you, warm and comfortable and perfect, and she stays there until both of your breathing evens out.
She barely pulls out of you before she tries to pull you into her side, as sweaty and gross as you feel. As sweet as the afterglow is, you cringe, and try to shuffle yourself to the edge of the bed. “There’s a wet spot…”
She laughs, unbridled and open and you adore it. “Perhaps you should go and rest in the spring while I call for a maid to change our sheets, darling. Let me help you up, I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
“My knees are weak,” you say in an accusatory tone.
“Then I’ll carry you to the springs, princess. Let’s get those joints of yours working again, hm?”
You watch her as she stands, in all her glory, and it brings you near tears. “Thank you, Camilla. For… for everything.”
“Anything for you. Everything , for you.”