My wife wakes up from the couch after twelve. She’s distressed. Her stomach is in her hands. It’s hurting. I walk her to the bathroom and rub it for her while she pees. The stream is closer to my face than I’m comfortable with. I’m worried that I’ll have to wash my robe.

I lay my wife into bed and rub her stomach for less than five minutes more before standing up and making my way out onto the porch. My atomizer has gone bad. It tastes like burnt steel. The worry is that one, if not all three, of my batteries are going to blast out and implant themselves into my skull after blowing off my fingers.

I re enter the apartment and continue working on my website. Twenty minutes in and my wife is rocking around, moaning. I’ve got my headphones in, so it takes me a while to notice. Once I do, I go over to the bed, and she tells me that she is experiencing sharp pains.

It feels like I’m hungry, but I’m not hungry, she says.

She has me turn her over. I do it as slowly as I can, but I could go slower. I’m trying to avoid her pulling me into bed. I still haven’t masturbated. Masturbating in the bed is out of the question. Musette is too sensitive to movement right now. I need to escape. 


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