Fertility

By Linda Maclennan

I was a bit of a mouse. Not a dormouse, a field mouse, or a harvest mouse. I was mousey, quiet and retiring, certainly not seductive. The thought of a garter left me cold.

“No, definitely not…” I said, pushing the box containing the offending garter away. “I’ll show you one, anyway,” Shirley said, ignoring my protests, being overly persistent as usual.

All Shirley wanted me to do was reproduce. Tests confirmed I was fertile, that much was true. I didn’t want to go with a man, though, even though Shirley said we would die out completely if I didn’t co-operate.

Shirley was infertile. The trouble lay with her fallopian tubes. Ironic as it was, she could not have children despite the fact she was one of those sexy siren type women. Voluptuous in the first degree. Large bosoms spilling over a white bodice, saucer nipples – a Nell Gwynn look about her.

I had a vole look about me.

When I took it out of the box in private, however, I was struck by how pretty it was. It had a silk rosebud in pink, an ivory ribbon, and ruched lace in cerise. Shirley had thought that if I slipped it onto my leg I’d have instant sex appeal and one of the men at the park would finally seduce me.

What was so sexy about a band on a leg? I really didn’t see the point. Closing the lid I paced about the room. No. I would not give in. I walked past the box, opened the door to the hall, and went out. I turned abruptly and went back into the room, hating my lack of willpower.

I opened the lid and slid the garter over my hand.

Shirley had left a bright red lipstick on the dressing table. “Just in case…” she’d said.

I sat down and stared at myself in the mirror. Silly little mouse, I told myself. You will never be like Shirley. Applying the lipstick nonchalantly so that it smudged down my chin and went wonky at the corner of my mouth, I couldn’t help but notice how it brought my face alive. Wiping away the mistakes I leaned in closer painting a perfect cupid’s bow.

Silly little vole, I told myself, laughing when I saw lipstick on my teeth. I let down my hair, true secretary style, ringlets falling down around my shoulders. Who the hell do you think you are, a slut? A slut, eh? I really don’t think so.

I walked to the bed and slid the garter from my hand. I lay on the bed and stuck one leg in the air, bending it to slip the garter over my foot. I shivered as the silky material caressed my leg, up, up, to the knee, onward to the thigh. It gave me a thrill. “Silly little strumpet,” I said.

At the park I see him striding through the snow. I’m covered in furs. The garter is tight on my leg. Shirley told me to wait by the forked tree. The red lipstick tastes perfumed. I imagine leaving lip prints over his face. On the smooth skin of his chest. Shirley has already told me how well-endowed this stranger is. Not a stranger to her. She fucks many men.

The stranger grabs my shoulder and pulls me down in the snow. It is soft and powder light, not like snow at all. I think it’s the adrenalin making me feel warm. Hot. So hot as he rips open my furs as though I’m a bear, grabbing the garter and twisting it up, so that my leg splays outwards into the snow. He fumbles with his zip and stabs at my vagina with his cock, just like Shirley said he would.

I think of babies as our teeth clash, mouths filling with the taste of lipstick, tongues doing battle. I feel as though he’s entering my womb, so hard are his thrusts.

As he orgasms I feel babies swimming into me in torrents.

I am fertile.

We have created an army together.

Afterwards I scurry off into the snow without my fur, small as a mouse, leaving tracks along the path.

 

Linda Maclennan originates from the Isle of Wight, in southern England. She graduated with a First Class BA (Hons) in Writing Contemporary Fiction at Southampton Solent University, and a Distinction on the MA in Creative Writing at Southampton University. She has been successful in local, national and international writing competitions

.@MrsLindaMaclen1

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