Fat Boy Ch. 02

Bryan's POV:

The bathroom door was locked. I'd expected that, so I brought the little Allen wrench from my tool box to use as a key.

Diane never used to lock the door when she showered, but lately, since she'd come back from a conference in St. Louis, she'd taken to shutting herself inside alone. I remember how we'd grown used to seeing each other naked in the shower, in the bedroom, in various other places in the house. Hell, we'd been married for fourteen years. That had changed over the past couple of weeks. For some reason, I hadn't seen my wife undressed in several weeks, and I wanted to know why.

Of course, I already had my suspicions.

I didn't knock. I kept silent as possible as I continued to work on the lock from the outside. In fact, since the shower was still running I figured that the noise of the water would work in my favor, no matter how loudly I picked the lock.

Yesterday I had found that picture stashed away in her purse, hidden inside the secret compartment—a small flap which was tucked away in the lining of her handbag. It was a very innocent picture: she was standing in the hotel conference room next to James Kenton pleasantly smiling. But, she looked different. She'd never looked so content in any portrait taken with me. I swear to you the last time she'd looked that happy was in our wedding pictures.

Clink! The sound of the door lock reverberated in my ear. Did she hear it?

"Bryan?" her voice called out as I slipped the door open as silently as possible. "Is that you?"

"Sorry," I said. "Have to use the bathroom."

"How come you didn't use the one downstairs?" Water hit the side of her mouth and she sputtered a little bit while she spoke.

"This one's closer," I replied. Quickly I pulled my pants down and sat on the toilet.

"Huh," she muttered. "Thought I locked—" Diane didn't finish the sentence.

Our shower curtain is semi-transparent. You really can't see very much, but I could easily make out her pink form contrasted against the white bath tiles. Just a bit more than her silhouette, I thought. Just show Diane to me in a side profile.

She bent over to reach down and turn off the water. Then, as she stood up to reach for the towel, it all became so perfectly apparent to me. Her nipples had changed, darkening in color, her breasts were noticeably bigger than they'd been before, and, most importantly, Diane had all the signs of a distending tummy.

Instead of drying off, Diane wrapped the towel around her middle. She was trying to hide her condition from me. But it was too late.

"Oh, God," I whispered, as I stood up at the toilet and pulled my trousers back up. "It's true, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" She took a second towel and began to dry her hair.

"Fourteen years together and we couldn't have--" I paused. "You-you're pregnant."

Diane stopped drying herself. "I don't know for sure."

"Don't lie to me, Diane," I growled. "Fourteen years and the two of us never had a baby. Now look at you! You're putting on weight in all the wrong places. How long have you been sleeping with James?"

"J-James?"

"Damn it! We both know this is James Kenton's baby," I shouted. "Now how long have you been sleeping with him?"

She pleaded with me with her eyes for a second, and then she murmured an answer. "About seven months."

"Oh, Christ!" I responded.

"You shouldn't have asked the question, if you knew the--"

"Shut up, Diane," I cried out. Then I lowered my voice. "Please. Just shut up. I have to think."

Slowly, carefully she began to towel dry herself once more. "I won't say I'm sorry I'm pregnant, Bryan. But I am very sorry we never had any children."

The words blurted out of my mouth before I could stop them. "So you had to go out and got yourself knocked up by some n*gg*r?"

I heard her throat catch as she gulped in response. She took a deep breath and then spoke very calmly. "He's a decent, caring man."

I wanted to swing at her with my fist, but I held myself in check. "Oh yeah? Well, I'll bet he doesn't care enough to divorce his wife for you," I replied. I could tell I struck home with that one. She reddened and bit down hard on her lower lip. Better than a fist, I thought. No marks.

"I want this baby, Bryan. If you think a divorce will settle things between us--"

"I don't know what to think, Diane," I turned to look her in the eyes. "How are you going to explain this baby to both our families? How are we going to tell our friends? What am I supposed to do with a goddamned black baby in the house?"

"We could try loving it."

"Shit!"

"Then I suppose I'd better leave," she said quietly.

I wanted to leave it at that. I wanted to say That's a good idea, and leave it at that. But I couldn't. Instead, I asked her, "Where will you go?"

She shrugged. "I don't know yet?"

I shook my head. "Don't leave until you're certain you have a place."

Diane nodded. "I'm sorry, Bryan."

"I don't want to hear it," I said. I walked out of the bathroom and left her alone. "I don't want to hear it," I repeated to no one in particular. I really wanted to get drunk again, but I couldn't. I had to go to work.

Diane's POV:

It was all out in the open now, and, frankly, I was relieved. I heard Bryan stomp down the stairs and slam the front door on his way to the shop. Yeah, this would be tough on him.

I padded barefoot into the bedroom, and unwrapped the towel around me so that I might dry off the rest of way. What was that? Some pieces of paper were scattered on top of the dresser drawer. I let my shoulders slump. Bryan had taken the photograph of James and me taken at the conference in Detroit out from my purse and ripped it into several pieces. I picked up the pieces one by one and fit them together like one would assemble a jigsaw puzzle.

I sighed. "Damn. Why did it have to be this one?"

The picture didn't look particularly special, but it was—to me. For one thing, it was the first time I had ever tried real cognac. James taught me to appreciate fine cognac.

The first day of the Detroit conference had gone extra long. Speeches rambled on and on, while workshops went over time. By the time the evening wound down, it was well past eleven. I was hungry, thirsty, and more than anything else I was tired.

At eleven twenty-five there was a knock at my door.

"Mrs. Taylor?" the room service guy asked.

I nodded. He began to roll in a cart with a bucket of ice and a bottle of warm amber glowing, caramel colored liquor sitting next to two ellipsoidal glasses mounted on stems.

"Your Courvoisier cognac," he said. "Where do you want me to put it?"

Suddenly a tall, dark figure in a black suit with a gray dress shirt came to my door. His head was shaved closely to the scalp, and he looked as if he worked out quite regularly. "Oh, good, it's arrived."

"James, what is this?" I queried.

"It's great stuff. Just like I told you this morning," James Kenton, Ed.D, said. "One of the finest drinks in the world."

He grabbed a bill from his wallet and tipped the young man.

"James, honestly," I smiled. "I wouldn't know good cognac from root beer."

"Well to begin with cognac is a brandy," James began to pour two exquisitely shaped glasses. "This glass is called a snifter, by the way. Cognac is aged brandy and brandy is the distilled vapor of white wine."

"What?" I must have smiled.

"Simple, you heat white wine, catch the vapors and let them cool." He lifted his snifter and pinged it with his forefinger so the glass rang out like a bell. "The finest brandy is then allowed to age into cognac."

I sniffed at my drink. "Whew! Strong."

"You're what, thirty years old?"

I grimaced as I tasted it. "Thirty-six."

"Well, the contents of this bottle began to age when you were in kindergarten," he said. "Now sip it very, very slowly, at first."

"Thanks for the warning, but you're too late."

"No wonder you made a face," James laughed.

I put it back up to my lips.

"Go easy on that stuff, Diane, it's got quite a punch."

I was starting to feel the heat of the alcohol flow through my body. I sat down on my bed. "What's your first workshop tomorrow?" I asked.

"Staff development. Ten o'clock."

"Oh good," I replied. "Mine too." I half hiccupped and half burped that last syllable.

"Diane, I warned you not to drink it too fast."

"I know. I know." I put several drops on my tongue. "It doesn't seem quite so strong to me now. Half the time I can't figure out whether this reminds me of chocolate, nuts, or orange," I added, drinking another few sips very quickly.

"So tell me about Diane," James said. "Do you have any children?"

"No." I sobered up a bit as I answered. "Bryan and I lost a baby a few years back."

"I'm sorry. Did you try again?"

I snorted. "Shit!" I quickly put my hand up to my mouth. "Whoops! I'm so sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for," he replied. "What's he do?"

"Tool and die maker. Pretty good, too, I understand. Shop foreman and all that?"

"You meet in high school?"

I laughed again. "You must be psychic. How did you know?"

"Well," he started. "Here's a woman attending a meeting where the minimum requirement is a master's degree married to self-made man who's good with his hands. You don't really have to be psychic, y'know."

I nodded. At that second I closed my eyes, and, for just a moment, my head was spinning. "I better slow down on this stuff."

"Told you so."

I grinned and looked at James. "Tastes good, though. Thank you for introducing us."

"My pleasure," he said.

"What about you?" I asked. "Any kids?"

He nodded. "We have four."

"Four! Say, you don't suppose you could spare one for a childless couple?"

He laughed. "Well, it's almost midnight. I suppose I should be going back to my room."

"No! Please don't go yet," I said. "It's been so long since I've talked to anyone about anything important in my life. I want it to last all night."

"All night?"

"Well," I whispered, looking pleadingly into his eyes. "Almost all night."

James leaned forward to kiss me. I let my lips touch his, and then my mouth opened under his gentle ministrations, and the next thing I knew my tongue was tasting cognac which had been lingering in the recesses of his mouth for several minutes.

"Please, James," I whispered urgently. "Please stay with me."

We kissed again, only this time he took command of the kiss and slowly pushed me down on the bed. My blouse was the first to go. Then he slowly, cautiously removed my skirt, slip, pantyhose and bra. His dark fingers made a startling contrast against my white skin.

Fourteen years of marriage and I had never cheated on Bryan, ever. Could I say the same for my husband? I didn't know. It didn't matter, not in the least, because tonight I wanted someone special, someone different, someone who seemed to respect me the same way I longed to be respected. Totally naked on the bed, I laid my head back against the pillow and waited for him.

Carefully hanging his suit on hangers in my hotel room closet, James Kenton slowly got out of his clothes. All of his clothes were neatly folded and laid upon the end table.

Oh, God, I thought. He's so damn black. Black all the way down!

"You can always back out you know," he murmured, as his knees hit the bottom end of the bed.

I shook my head. "I don't want to back out," I answered quietly.

James lay down on the bed next to me. He brought his mouth down to kiss me one more time. This time we were all lips and tongues, all hands and arms, all torsos and hips.

"Are you sure?" he asked one more time.

"Yes."

There was no room between us anymore. I tended to be a bit on the dry side, sexually, but I was drunk enough, and James was knowledgeable enough to gradually stoke the natural fires within me, to magically cause my own juices to bubble and flow deep inside my slick, moistening pussy.

"Oooo!" That was all I said as his thick black erection broached the sensitive tissues down at the junction of both thighs.

He too let out a long, moaning "Ooohh," as his entire length pushed forward taking me several millimeters at a time.

God, his dick was so much thicker, so much more incredible than Bryan's had ever been. The terrible firmness of his erection took me by surprise. It took us several minutes of concentrated effort just to fit his large penis inside my cunt.

"Jesus, are you ever tight."

"I'm sorry," I said.

He laughed. "That's all right. This is something we can learn to deal with."

"James," I said, as I began to pant under his movements. "Please, tell me you're glad to be with me tonight."

"Honey, I wouldn't miss this for the world." Now James was thrusting in and out of me, picking up speed. His movements were faster and less gentle. His wants and needs had overcome the caution in his technique.

James?" I gasped.

"Hmm?" He was gasping and panting as well.

"Did you order the cognac so you could get me drunk?"

"Diane!" His voice rasped with the effort of his exertion.

"Did you get me drunk tonight, just so you could fuck me?"

Suddenly, James body stiffened and small beads of perspiration popped out all over his head, his neck, his stomach, arms and back. "Aaurrghh!" he grunted. "Daammmn!"

And then James Kenton, a black man I hardly even knew, climaxed inside of me. He dropped his weight down against me like a gymnast collapsing atop a mat after a very strenuous workout.

There was a pause. All I could hear was James's panting and my own heavy breathing. I could feel the wet spot soaking the bedclothes underneath my hips as an enormous amount of semen backflowed from my pussy to dribble down my ass cheeks onto the bed.

Then I whispered, "Well, did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you get me drunk in order to fuck me?"

He let out a huge sigh. "Let's just say it had occurred to me."

I giggled. "I'm glad."

"You're what?"

"I discovered two things I'm really crazy about tonight," I murmured. "One is cognac, and the other is fucking you. It doesn't make any sense, but then I guess it doesn't have to."

I scraped all the pieces of the picture into the palm of my hand. Three times, I thought. Three wonderful, glorious times that first week we made love. Sweating and dripping perspiration, sharing spit and exchanging bodily fluids—the pieces of this ripped picture meant the start of seven months of intimate carnal excitement between a black man and a white woman. We weren't from the same district—hell, we weren't even from the same side of the state. That didn't matter to either of us.

At least it didn't matter until things radically changed. Should I throw the pieces of the photograph away? No. I couldn't do that just yet, but Bryan was right. James wasn't about to leave his wife and four children for me or for baby that was only half black. As much as I loved the romantic fantasy of the idea, it wasn't about to happen.

I placed my hand on the abdomen just below the belly-button. I could feel the fundus—the hardness just below the surface of the skin that protected my baby.

The worst thing is that I can't seem to wear my own clothes any more.

James's POV:

I couldn't help myself. I pulled Diane's picture out of my desk and held it in my hand. Thank goodness the office door was closed. Funny, I thought, looking at this picture. Here was a parallel I hadn't expected. This was one of the most recent shots of Diane I'd taken and if you didn't even have to look closely any more. You could see she was three months pregnant in this shot.

Marguerite had been three months pregnant when I married her nineteen years ago. Her parents were furious. How could their baby girl throw away her life without even finishing college? But somehow we both graduated. Somehow we stayed married. Somehow we made it. Now we had four kids from the ages of eighteen down to thirteen. In those first years, it seemed like every time we turned around she was pregnant again. I didn't mind, not really. She looked so damn beautiful knocked up. The births had been bunched pretty close together until Marguerite decided to get her tubes tied. Marguerite told me she didn't ask me to get a vasectomy because she didn't trust me to do it.

She was right. Psychologically I couldn't handle the thought of a vasectomy. I couldn't handle the thought of being less than a man.

I looked down at my picture of Diane once again, and I breathed out a heavy sigh. She and her husband had gone fourteen years without kids. Diane told me that she thought she couldn't get pregnant. Surprise!

Now she was carrying a baby, very obviously my baby. I should be gratified. Diane's a beautiful woman, a healthy, vigorous woman with the fullness of life ahead of her. It shouldn't matter to us that the father is a black man and the mother is a white woman. It shouldn't matter, but it did.

The picture was partially in profile, and I could see the telltale bulge pushing out from behind her light summer dress. She wore mostly business suits at work, she told me. At home she'd taken to wearing loose garments and sweat clothes. But for me in this picture and in a couple of other pictures we had taken, Diane wore this clingy summer cotton dress. Quite simply, Diane had told me that she wanted to look pregnant when we went out on the town together. Even on the west side of the state where she lived, though bigotry was far more rife over there than on my side of the state.

I ached because deep down I knew I couldn't divorce Marguerite. Yet the same emotional aching demanded that I spend quality time with Diane. There was no doubt about it; her belly was becoming rounder, and she was growing ever larger every day.

Both of our districts sent us to an educational conference in St. Louis at the end of August. That was the time of year when things were at their hottest and most humid. Of course, this was a godsend for two sexually active lovers. We each left a day early. She waited to meet me at the airport. One look at her and I literally melted. Diane had grown quite large quite quickly.

"Let me look at you," I said admiringly. "You look beautiful."

"More like bountiful," she replied, stepping into my arms. "Wait a second. Kiss me first."

You should have seen the looks we got in the airport, but, strangely enough, neither of us cared.

"Let's grab a taxi check in," she said. Translation: Let's get the hell back to the hotel and fuck. Which was just fine with me.

As I was unpacking at the hotel, I pulled out an African style shirt to go with my jeans. "What do you think?" I asked modeling the shirt up against my chest.

"It's stunning!" she reached over and ran her fingers along the material.

"Do you like the pattern?"

She smiled. "It's so authentic. So—I dunno—expressive. I love the pattern."

"Good." I reached into my suitcase and pulled out a carefully wrapped package. "Open it."

Diane quickly ripped of the wrapping paper. I'd given Diane a long silken dress, much like a caftan, with the exact same pattern as my shirt. We'd match. I'd purposefully wanted us to look like a couple. However, the minute she tried on her dress, we both discovered what I'd suspected already--Diane's caftan outfit totally accented her pregnancy.

She walked to the full length mirror in our room. "Oh my Lord," she whispered. "I look like a hot air balloon."

"You look gorgeous," I told her. "Try it without a bra."

"James," she whined. "I'll look bloated and stupid."

"Just do it in here," I said, pulling my digital camera out of my briefcase. "Do it for me."

I took a candid shot of Diane removing her bra from under the silken dress, and a couple of good shots of her modeling the dress. I wanted to make sure that she was wearing nothing under the dress. After a cursory examination, and the removal of her panties, I was satisfied that she'd worn nothing else under the caftan.