Me: How’s your day going?
Thatcher: Fantastic. How’s yours?
Fantastic? He was home alone on a Sunday with our four-year-old son, and his day hadn’t started off with the Supercock getting his normal, orgasmic release. Surely, he was joking, right?
Me: Fantastic? That’s honestly a little hard to believe… Are you okay? Is the Supercock okay??? Check to make sure he’s still there.
Thatcher: LOL. Everyone is fine, missing you like crazy, but fine. How’s the photo shoot going?
Me: Fine. I wish this guy’s dick wouldn’t be as soft as fluffing cotton candy, though. I mean, I don’t need a full-on erection, but Jesus, a half-chub, something. The women who read this mag don’t want to look at pictures of hot, muscular man meat without a hint of sausage.
Thatcher: Sometimes, I wonder if I should be concerned that my wife is texting me about other dudes’ dicks…
Fishing for compliments… Jesus. Didn’t he know I was busy working? I didn’t have all the time in the world to fluff his ego with comments about the gloriousness of his cock.
Obviously, I had time for this donut, but I didn’t have time for that.
But it was a certainty of life that my husband had a glorious cock. Long, thick, almost always hard, and subtle curves in all the right places. If I was being honest, if I hadn’t fallen in love with a giant ogre, I might’ve married him just for his penis.
Me: Awww, don’t be sad. You know your dick is my favorite dick in all the land!
His response buzzed my phone thirty seconds later.
Thatch: Keep going…
Me: What do I get in return for stroking your ego?
Thatch: Tonight, after we get home from Wes & Winnie’s, I’ll eat your sweet pussy until you’re begging for my cock.
Usually, I had principles and I didn’t give in to my husband’s demands, especially when it came to things I knew he wanted just for the ego stroke. But I was a fan of Thatch’s version of pussy pleasure. A big, big, big fan.
Me: I LOVE YOUR HUGE COCK. IT IS MY FAVORITE COCK. NO OTHER COCK HAS EVER/COULD EVER COMPARE. YOU’VE RUINED ME FOR ALL OTHER COCKS.
I hit send and added one more quick message to our chat box.
Me: Better?
Thatch: Just make sure that little cunt is wet and swollen for me tonight.
Me: Deal, Daddy.
For some reason, Thatch had a thing for me calling him Daddy. And when I say “a thing,” I mean he fudging loved it. It only took one Daddy and insta-boner for the Supercock.
And, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy giving him boners in the middle of the day without any hope for relief. I was a bit sadistic, I guess. But I knew Thatcher secretly loved it.
Thatch: Fuck, you know it makes me horny when you call me that…
Me: Sorry, Daddy… :(
Thatch: Fucking hell, Cass. Don’t switch to the innocent routine. You know that makes it worse.
Me: Okay, Daddy.
I forced my face to go soft and made big doe eyes as I took a selfie—making sure the top swells of my tits were nice and visible—and attached it to the message.
Thatch: Jesus Christ.
“Cassie!” my assistant, Amanda, called, and I looked up from my phone to meet her eyes. “Should I get the guys ready for the group shot?”
“Yeah, let’s start with only four, though. I don’t think the entire group is going to work at this location,” I said and then typed a quick message to Thatch.
Me: I gotta go, Daddy. See you tonight?
Thatch: I can’t fucking wait.
Me: Ditto, Daddy.
Thatch: You’re evil.
Me: I know, right? :)
Thatch: Tell Ace Daddio says hi. I hope he’s being good for you at work.
Wait…what?
Ace wasn’t with me.
Ace was supposed to be with Thatch.
I glanced down at my rounded, pregnant belly. Yep. That one is still there.
Where in the ever-loving marshmallow fluff was our other kid?
Me: WHAT? Ace isn’t with me!
Thatch: He’s not?
Oh. My. God. Where is my child!
My heart started to pound in my chest, and my breathing proceeded to come out in tight, short pants. I was literally five seconds away from hyperventilating.
Me: Call the pol—
Jesus. Why am I texting him? I thought to myself and switched to emergency response tactics and called his phone instead.
I mean, how in the motherfluffer did this happen? How had we lost our child?
I knew I hadn’t left the house with him. But where in the hell was he?
Thatch answered on the second ring.
“What in the fuck, T? Where is Ace? We need to call 9-1-1! When was the last time you saw him? Do you remember what he was wearing? I don’t—”
“Calm down, Cass,” Thatch said with a soft chuckle, and then I heard, “Hi, Mommy!” in the background.
The sound of that little, perfect voice brought so much relief a sagging exhale released from my lungs and nearly took me to the ground.
“Are you fucking with me right now, Thatcher?” I questioned through gritted teeth.
“It was just a joke, Cass,” he attempted to explain, but in my mind, there was no explanation for being a total asshole.
“Just a fucking joke?” I shouted, and everyone on set looked in my direction.
“Cass, calm down,” he reassured, and I wanted to reach into the phone and strangle him. “It was a joke. I honestly didn’t think it would get you that worked up. I thought you knew he was with me. I thought you would just laugh it off.”
“I’m seven months pregnant, Thatch!” I exclaimed. “My hormones force me to get worked up over every-fluffing-thing! I was two seconds away from sending out an Amber Alert on our child.”
“I’m sorry, Cass,” he said, but his voice still held a hint of amusement.
Fudging bastard.
“Fluff you, T!” I shouted and hung up the call.
My husband had just pranked me.
I was seven months pregnant, and we had agreed on no pranks during pregnancy. The last time, when I was pregnant with Ace, one simple prank by Thatch, and I had gone a little off the deep end and given his Range Rover to a homeless man.
Yes, I got the idea from an episode of The O.C. By the way, was anyone really sad when Marissa died? Honestly?
Needless to say, he hadn’t been too happy about it, and that was when the “No pranks during pregnancy” rule had been created.
But, in my defense, I was already ten shades of crazy without the pregnancy hormones. The addition of the hormones to my chemistry rocketed my level of crazy straight to the moon.
As I headed toward the four models waiting to be photographed, my phone buzzed in my hand. I stopped midstep and glanced down to find a text message from my idiot husband.
Thatch: Don’t be mad at Daddy? Please?
I thought long and hard about my response, and me being the good person that I am, decided to take the high road.
Me: Extra pussy pleasure and I’ll forgive you.
Thatch: Deal. I love you, Cass.
Me: Love you, too. Give Ace a kiss for me.
Should I mention here that the high road also included scheming for a revenge prank?
Get ready, Thatcher, the HCG is coming for you.
Convenient how close pregnancy hormones sound to the Russian Security Agency (KGB), huh?
I think so too.
Two hours into Cassie’s absence, and the day was already rolling. We’d had a quick cereal breakfast, played a game of You Jump, I Jump—which is exactly as it sounds, Ace doing something and me having to repeat it—watched what felt like every goddamn annoying episode of that little bastard Caillou, and were at the tail end of a mad dash to the bathroom.
Ace was just getting ready to show me how good he was at pointing his penis at the toilet—a highly advanced skill for a four-year-old boy—when the doorbell rang.
“Who the fluff is that?” I muttered to myself, peeking out of the bathroom to look toward the front door. It was barely ten.
“What the fluff?” Ace exclaimed, and I winced.
Cassie was going to put my balls in a vise if I didn’t figure out a way to bribe Ace into cleaning up his language. Substitute cursing or not, a kid screaming out “Motherfluffer!” in the middle of the grocery store had a way of garnering some negative attention. Which Cass didn’t actually give a fuck about. But if one more person came up to her with unsolicited advice because of it, I knew I’d be bailing her out of jail to await her arraignment on assault charges. And I didn’t think they offered conjugal visits in County.
“Language, son.”
“Hmph,” he scoffed. “Biscuits be trippin’.”
“Ace,” I warned. “Just finish up in here while I go get the door.”
Pulling the bathroom door closed behind me, I headed down the hall to our big, solid wood door and peeked out the window on the side of it.
Kline stood impatiently, one daughter on each hip, a diaper bag slung over his shoulder, a huge motherfucker of a dog sitting next to him on his leash, and a demonic cat—I knew from experience—clinging to the dog—his lover’s—back.
Holy hell. The gang’s all here, huh?
With one quick twist of the knob, I pulled the door open and greeted him with a smile. He rolled his eyes, a preemptive move.
“I’m assuming you need child care?” I asked.
Begrudgingly, he nodded.
“Aren’t you glad we moved just down the road now?”