... Reagan Wilcox, post #2

If you missed part 1 of this, start reading with this post, first.

6

Leah never believed that money was more important than education, despite the fading wails of her mother, but though mama had always wanted a doctor for a daughter, Leah knew that the doctor in the family could never have been her. 'I want to get married and raise a family, mama, like you did,' she'd told her, but only half of that had come true.

They'd tried almost everything medical science could offer, but after fifteen years of marriage and ten years of trying, Leah and Reagan had resigned themselves to the fact that they were not going to have any children. Adoption, as far as Reagan was concerned, was out of the question, so after all the tests, and the surgeries, and the inseminations, and the indignities suffered at the hands of nearly every fertility specialist in the United States, Leah had to satisfy herself only by being able to say: 'Well, at least we tried.'

Maybe the twenty-five pounds came from that. Who knows?

What an ego crusher it was, though. Leah's sister, Ellen, could drop them (babies) like puppies. She'd had seven in only ten years, and when asked whether they'd figured out where babies come from, could only smile sheepishly. They were good Catholics (unlike Leah, apparently—Reagan's family was Methodist) and only counted all their fecundity as a blessing from God. Surely God delivers common sense, too, but not, apparently, to the Ellen and Stanley Krynchik household.

Leah was usually successful at keeping thoughts of her sister Ellen out of her mind. She did her volunteer work, painted her landscapes (and the occasional seascape) and wove her macramé rugs, and tried to think of pleasant, non-baby things.

On Fridays, she thought of her wonderful husband, Reagan, coming home.

7

Reagan walked through the door only a few minutes behind schedule. Actually he came in from the garage, but even that had a door, so he did walk through the door only ten minutes later than he usually did. The lights were dim, only the fluorescent over the kitchen desk being on, as usual, so he set his two-suiter down next to the desk chair, looked briefly at the week's mail laying in a neatly stacked pile, then turned the light off.

No sense in stalling, Leah would be waiting upstairs. Leah was always waiting upstairs Friday nights, and Reagan knew how he'd find her.

She wasn't so bad, really. He felt it was his own singular pleasure to be able to come home to a woman in a sheer black negligée, lying in his bed. The fact that it was always the same sheer black negligée was an annoyance, but a minor one. It's the thought that counts. Maybe I should break with 'tradition' tonight, he thought, and rip the damn thing off her before we have sex. That way she'll have to buy something else for next Friday night. Actually, that seemed like a pretty good idea. A little roughness; a little harmless 'violence'; a little more excitement before plunging in. It couldn't hurt, and would very likely help.

After all, he was still pretty tired, even if she happened to be in the mood for a blowjob, tonight.

8

Reagan arrived at their bedroom door to find Leah in the bed (of course) but not wearing that tired old negligée. She was still in her bra and half-slip, and was propped up with the television on and reading a magazine.

He announced his arrival with the usual 'honey, I'm home' joke, but instead of going right to the bed, went directly to the bathroom. He was taking off his tie when she came in and put her arms around him from behind.

"How was your trip, sweetheart?"

"Same as always."

"You look tired."

"I am."

"Your mother called."

"What did she have to say?"

"She wants you to call her."

"OK."

Like that. It went on for some moments, but later neither would remember what they said to each other.

9

Leah studied herself in the mirror while Reagan relieved himself. Too much around the waist, she thought, too much Leah. She liked what the extra pounds did for her boobs, but only a relatively small portion of that excess ended up there. The rest, what wasn't wound around her waist, padded her behind.

"Do you think I'm fat?" she asked, removing her bra.

"I don't think you're fat," he replied without hesitation or inflection. He had taken off his pants and was hanging them up in the closet. "I've always liked well-padded women."

"I'm well-padded, all right." She held her boobs up with her hands, presumably weighing them.

"If it bothers you, why don't you do something about it?"

"I might." She weighed her boobs some more. "I like what it's done to my boobs, but of course most of it has ended up on my butt."

He smiled, "I like your butt."

"Do you, really?"

10

Reagan always wondered why Leah continually felt the need to 1) point out all the excess weight she was carrying, and 2) ask him if he still liked her that way. As far as he could remember her questions rarely varied, and his responses were always the same. She'd say she was fat; he'd have to tell her he liked her that way.

He threw his shirt in the dry-cleaning pile, she removed her panties, and he followed her back to the bed. Minutes later they consummated, and minutes after that he was asleep.

Only Leah remained awake. As she always did.