Mara’s pregnant belly was so very smooth, yet firm; and I leaned over and kissed it, savoring as I did the warmth of her young flesh, and the tiny pale hairs that caught the light from the bedside table lamp that covered it. I also breathed in the special smell Mara’s skin always had—her bodies natural aroma, and as I breathed it in, my cock was stiff and erect, and pushing against my undershorts.
Mara, noticing this, smiled up into my face.
“Your excited,” she said.
“Yes I am,” I replied truthfully, and a big part of my excited state was knowing that the baby inside Mara wasn’t mine, but Omar’s…the older African man from Zambia with whom Mara and I had met in Nairobi nearly nine months earlier.
I ran my hands, palms down, over the curving expanse of my wife’s huge, pregnant belly, in slow, gentle circles, and as I did, I could feel the occasional thump of Omar’s baby against the inside of my wife’s womb; and it’s very aliveness, it’s vigor, it’s rambunctious energy, it’s health…filled me with a difficult to explain sensation of excitement and anticipation. This also made my cock stiffen. The offspring wasn’t mine, but Omar’s, but rather than leaving me feel jealous, or left-out, it made me feel such a powerful exhilaration.
I raised up, still kneeling on the bed next to Mara, and she smiled again, and said: “Masturbate. Or, don’t you want to?”
We both glanced down at my obvious erection, and when we made eye contact again, we both laughed at that. Mara wasn’t laughing AT my small cock, which, in contrast with that of Omar’s considerably bigger (much more massive!) cock, but at what my erection signified.
Without saying anything, I pulled my undershorts down to just above my knees, and while still kneeling on the mattress next to my wife, I took my cock in my hand and began stroking it, slowly at first, but soon I was stroking it much more urgently. As I knelt there doing this, I thought back to the last time she and I had had intercourse. That had been several months before we went to Kenya to meet Omar; and so, and since I hadn’t had intercourse with her since we were in Kenya, that was nearly an entire year since she and I had intercourse. A long time, in some ways, but in others, those months had gone by extremely fast!
Mara watched me as I stayed kneeling there beside her as I masturbated. Neither of us said anything. It felt good to masturbate, and though I was very, very much in love with Mara, it was curious that sex played so little a role in our daily relationship as husband and wife. I wasn’t complaining. Though odd to some, this sort of sex-less (as far as intercourse went) relationship didn’t seem odd to either of us! Not at all. In fact, from the very start of our marriage, we’d both agreed that Mara wanted to have African-fathered babies, not Caucasian ones, like mine would have been. This mainly had to do with a mutual aversion we both shared of the ugliness of racism, and of the v******e and intolerance of so-called ‘White Nationalism’, and ‘White Supremacy;’ which Mara and I both saw as a shameful part of our countries social history, even down to the present day—and so, for us, the only truly effective way to fight against that was for us to NOT have a family of our own (or rather, not with my genes), but with African genes instead; and that is exactly what we had done, and the fruit of those two weeks she and I had spent in Kenya with Omar was about to ‘bear fruit’ quite literally!