The last weeks of pregnancy were a heady mix of anticipation and desire. Ethan, ever cautious, had been gentle for months, worried about risking the pregnancy after the OB/GYN’s warnings. But as my due date came and went, something wild and urgent took hold of us both. With my body ready and craving release, I took control, riding Ethan with a hunger that had both of us gasping. He was hesitant at first, hands gripping my hips as if to steady me, but I could see the heat in his eyes-equal parts worry and raw need.
We lost ourselves in hours of tangled sheets and sweat, the
kind of marathon session only possible when you know everything is about to
change. Each wave of pleasure seemed to coax my body closer to the edge, and I
reveled in the freedom of letting go, even as Ethan’s hands and lips kept
reminding me to slow down, to be careful, to savor every last moment of just
us.
It was only a few days past my due date, and in the middle
of our wildest round yet, the first contraction hit-sharp, unmistakable. I
froze, breathless, and Ethan’s eyes widened in alarm. “Was that-?” he started,
but I was already nodding, a laugh bubbling up through the pain. “It’s time.”
We scrambled to dress, adrenaline and excitement making us
clumsy. The drive to the hospital was a blur of contractions, Ethan’s knuckles
white on the steering wheel, his voice soothing even as panic flickered in his
eyes. “If it comes down to it,” he said quietly, “I’ll always choose you. Your
health. That’s not even a question.”
The birth was long and difficult; a test of strength and
endurance I hadn’t known I possessed. Our daughter arrived in a rush of tears
and relief, her tiny body named for both our mothers-a living testament to love
and legacy. The delivery left me exhausted and battered, but Ethan never left
my side, holding my hand, brushing sweat from my brow, and making sure every
decision put my health first.
A New Kind of Commitment
Three days after our daughter’s arrival, Ethan surprised me
with a quiet determination in his eyes. “I’ve made an appointment,” he said,
voice steady. “A vasectomy. I know birth control isn’t just a woman’s
responsibility. You’ve done enough. It’s my turn.”
True to his word, he followed through, never wavering in his
resolve. The procedure was quick and straightforward-a small gesture, perhaps,
but one that spoke volumes about his love and respect for me. He wanted to
ensure that our family, as it was now, would be safe and complete, and that I
would never have to bear the risk again.
In those early days of parenthood, as we navigated sleepless nights and new routines, Ethan’s decision became another thread in the tapestry of our partnership. He believed, fiercely, that contraception should be a shared responsibility, and his actions proved it. Our bodies had been through enough. Now, together, we could focus on healing, loving, and raising our daughter-her name a daily reminder of where we came from, and the future we’d built together.
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