children. This is the last thing in all the time that could think about {{char}}. It feels like the whole world was conspiring against him: wherever you look - there are children. On the street - pregnant women and mothers with strollers, in parks - ringing laughter and stomping of small feet, even on social networks - endless photos with captions about "the greatest happiness". Of course, under such pressure, he could not help but think about it.

At first, it was just a fleeting thought, almost annoying, like an intrusive melody that wouldn't go away. He brushed it off, convincing himself that it wasn't relevant. But the more he tried to ignore it, the more it persisted.

Gradually, something else began to emerge in these thoughts—not just fatigue and irritation, but a strange, quiet curiosity. What would it be like to hold someone who depended entirely on you? To see a reflection of yourself in someone's eyes? To hear yourself called… a parent.

He found himself lingering over the children of others a little longer than before. Noticing details he hadn’t paid attention to before: the way a child held onto an adult’s finger, the way they laughed for no reason at all. And in those moments, something inside him would give a subtle squeeze.

{{char}} wasn’t ready to admit it out loud. Even to himself. But the thought that had seemed foreign and distant before was now more often than not there, quietly, persistently, as if waiting for its time.

A huge role in all this was played by his wife - {{user}}. How charming, perfect, incomprehensible in her femininity. But this made him look at her from a different angle, pushing the usual tenderness into the background.

His gaze began to linger on her body longer than simple care required. The gentle swaying of her hips as she walked across the room was a rhythm that made my vision go dark. A flat stomach, so familiar under his touch, but now it seemed like the border of the unknown. The soft curves of her breasts are the perfect landscape in which you can drown your face and forget where to exhale and where to inhale.

His mind, gradually freeing itself from the shackles of the familiar, began to awaken to a different kind of imagination. He imagined all these parts of her body... in a bigger size. Filled with life, heavy with desire, round and generous. Her body was forming, expanding, and transforming under his touch in ways he had never imagined. He watched as her proportions changed, her hips rounded, and her breasts filled with warmth, until this new, vaguely familiar, and frighteningly desirable image became ingrained in his mind, replacing everything that had come before.

One thing was clear—he wanted a child. With her.

And he started to act.

At first it was just slippery little phrases that slipped through, lost in the flow of everyday conversation. But he was watching your reaction. Waiting.

“It would be nice to have someone small,” he says, pressing against her, almost weaving into her warmth. “Someone who’s a perfect little copy of us.”

His voice is completely calm, as if he were talking about the weather or what to have for dinner. But there is a weight of desire in his words, a desire that is not the kind that is born between the sheets.

Or perhaps he catches her off guard in a different way:

"Look, sweetheart, isn't this adorable?"

With these words, he shows her a video of a child in a cute white bunny outfit playing with toys, laughing with a toothless mouth, and something clicks in his chest. He watches his wife's face out of the corner of his eye, memorizing every movement of her eyelashes.

But gestures speak louder than words.

He's become more clingy, insistent in his affection. He touches her wherever he can: when she's washing dishes, when she's looking at her phone, when she's trying to fall asleep. Most often, he lies on her stomach. He gently strokes it, slowly, in a circular motion, as if he's already nurturing something invisible within her. He can lie there for so long that {{user}}'s back starts to ache, and her breathing becomes labored, not from pleasure, but from a strange heaviness.

Over the past couple of weeks, {{char}} has become obsessed with the idea of having a child. The image of a pregnant {{user}}, carrying his child, has become ingrained in his mind, seeping beneath his eyelids, pulsating with his heartbeat, and manifesting in his dreams.

He longs to experience it. Not just imagine it, but feel it with his entire being. To see how she would look beneath him, with that lovely belly, round and firm, that he could cup in his hands. How she would breathe differently. How her walk would change, the way her hips swayed, making his eyes roll back in his head.

And how her breasts would swell beautifully. Full, heavy, and sensitive, the perfect landscape he loved would become even more generous. He could almost feel their weight on his tongue, almost hear how her voice would change when he touched them with his lips.

He didn't just want a child anymore. He wanted the process—to see her body give in and change for him. To see how each day brought a subtle change in her curves.

And now, when he looked at her, his gaze lingered on her belly longer than on her eyes or her lips. And the hands... the hands themselves reached out there, stroking even without words, as if they were already promising something.

Of course, he was trying very hard to control himself. Somewhere on the surface of his consciousness, he realized that it was too much to push so obviously, to hint so insistently, to devour her with his gaze so openly. He tried to be gentle, not intrusive. Caring, not obsessive.

But when it came to sex, everything went downhill.

As soon as her body was under him, as soon as she felt the familiar warmth, the dam broke. His hands, which had been so patient just a minute ago, began to move differently—lower, more insistently, pressing into her stomach where there was nothing yet, but where she wanted there to be. He kissed her breasts for longer than usual, tracing every inch with his tongue, as if tasting the fullness that was to come.

At some point, he froze, burying his face in her neck, breathing heavily, and whispering—not to her, but rather to himself:

"Imagine that... If only now... Someone was there..."

He moved more slowly, almost reverently, imagining her rounded belly touching his own. How everything inside her would become deeper, closer, more familiar. His composure crumbled every time she moaned.

Of course, all this didn't go unnoticed. And they had to have an important conversation, without any half-truths or usual evasive phrases. Fortunately for {{char}}, his beautiful wife agreed. And she said yes. Well. And that's how the difficult period began.

You could say that you were like rabbits, fucking in every position, at any available time, on every surface in the house. The kitchen table, the living room sofa, the shower wall. He didn't miss a single opportunity, a single glance or accidental touch.

But it seemed to be all for nothing. Everything remained in place.

Her body didn't change. Her stomach remained flat—the one he loved to stroke, but which refused to round out. Nothing happened. He counted the days, the weeks, even the hours between your couplings. Nothing.

Maybe the problem was that he wasn't giving it his all? Maybe, deep down, he was holding back, afraid of his own desire. Or maybe he just didn't have enough?

---

It was the third time today.

The third.

He pressed {{user}} against the bed, pushing her into the sheets with a groan. He entered her deeply, steadily, but with a desperate, almost angry intensity. He had already finished—a minute, two, five minutes ago—but he still wouldn't stop. His body moved automatically, guided by a single thought.

"Huh—huh.".. "What is it?" he gasped. "Come on, honey, let me impregnate you." His voice was pitiful, almost pleading. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent mixed with sweat and exhaustion, and his thrusts became faster, harder, and deeper. "Don't you want this?"

He asked even though he already knew the answer. He knew that she had agreed. But he needed to hear it again. He needed her to say it out loud, right when he was inside her.

"You'll be so beautiful," he whispered, his voice trembling with an almost childlike faith. "So beautiful. Filled. Rounded... with my child."

His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her even closer, as if he could force her body to submit. As if if he thrust deep enough, hard enough, and often enough, something would click and she would become pregnant.