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Oh, my breasts are so heavy in my hands, the skin soft, smooth and warm. I hold each breast in each hand, cupping them, the pale skin and the bead of brown that erupts from the middle of them like sugary drops of raisins that have been rolled in brown sugar. Such sweetness makes me wish that I were not me, but someone else, standing in front of this creamy offering. Of course, as I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I am standing in front of myself in one way or another. Neither way real. The curve of my belly, swelling up like a wave on the ocean, betrays the vision of lust, replacing it with something like vanilla pudding still warm on the tongue. Motherhood, I think, running my eyes over my self. A woman with child. Madonna. That could be my name. If only this was an immaculate conception, then I would not be here, standing for hours in front of a full-length mirror that is nailed to the door of my closet. The world loves immaculate conception and would welcome a new Mary. Instead, I am Dora, a name that means gift. Only I am unwrapped and used and no longer novel.

It began one morning in May, sun hot, air full of spring, windows open, and somewhere the sound of someone mowing a lawn. In my half-sleep the sound reminds me of a mosquito, hungry, circling my bed. I am always the last to leave my bed in the morning. My sleep is impervious to interruption. I do not know if this is truly the first time my door has opened quickly and closed. I do know that this is the first time that I feel the weight of someone else on my bed.

"Dora, wake up, honey."

The voice is as soothing as the heat from the sun that lies across my blankets and keeps me from waking. The weight on the bed makes my body float on its little boat in the middle of an ocean on a bright day. I do not mind the palm that rubs the small of my back. It only lulls me back into the peaceful world of my dreams.

"Dora."

The voice is teasing. It suits the hand, palm down that rubs my skin, making tiny goosebumps stand up on my arms and sides. I do not mind that the palm finds other places as provocative as the small of my back and I even open my legs generously as it slips down between my thighs. I have been touched before. My panties around my knees in the movie theater or in the last pew at church. My blouse untucked so that the hand might rove up around my belly and over the swollen buds that are my breasts. This will be different today. In my dream state I cannot know that my mother has gone far enough away or that my sister has been given money and the keys to the car and that the phone has been turned off and that there is a bottle of oil next to my bed.

The difference between what I know and what I don’t know is the thing that keeps me sane as he rubs boldly between my thighs, parting my labia, and caressing diligently until I am sobbing for him to stop just as I careen into a landslide of quivering muscles and raw groans. The oil is for him and for me to ensure that he completes this act today and brings me out of the world of children and into his world with the push and the shove and the rush that is his body.

"Daddy," I cannot help but cry as he holds the little plastic machine against my clitoris until I cannot help but smile and ache and grind my hips like some kind of dancer in a chorus line.

With this he kisses my cheek and whispers, "That feels good, doesn’t it, Dora."

I whisper, "Yes."

"You like it when I touch you, don’t you," he says, "I can tell…"

Does he like me now I wonder as I have become his Rapunzel and I hide more than my hair up in my tower day in and day out. I have letters from my sister tied in a neat pink ribbon on my dresser, a bag full of videos, and my full-length mirror. I rub my belly, the skin tight and warm. Somewhere deep inside, something rubs back. I wonder if it is a boy or girl and what difference that will make in the world. My mother used to tell everyone as if it was a joke, "You know, Dora was supposed to be his little boy." But if I had been his little boy, where would he rest his hand? Whose skirt would he pull up during church? Who would spread their legs as he constricts and spasms and sends his army flooding? Surely not my sister. Someone should tell my mother that my father is perfectly happy with this little girl. Girl being the operative word in the relationship.

I can hear his footsteps on the staircase that leads up to my room. I turn in anticipation. These days he is the only one who comes to see me. My sister is far away now in college and my mother denies that I am with child. Therefore, the sight of my fully-grown belly is a direct assault on her reality and something to be avoided at all costs. I can hear her saying, "It is my arthritis, David, I just can’t take those stairs."

I half expect that he will call to me and ask me to lower my hair. Instead, the door flies open, closing just as quickly, as he rushes across the room and drops to his knees in front of me.

I look down into his eyes and study his mouth. He kisses my belly, not like a child, but like a man who loves a woman.

"You are so beautiful," he says.

I do not answer for his palms already play between my thighs as he rubs my belly. I think that one time he might have read a book or asked me about the weather.

"Come sit on my lap, Dora," he says, standing…his eyes not on my face but on my breasts.

He sits on my bed and I sit on his lap, awkwardly at first, but he is determined and pulls me onto him and rests his face against my breasts.

I can feel his penis, hard, beneath his pants, already wanting me. He takes one of my breasts into his mouth and begins to nurse, his mouth open wide, caressing my breast and nipple as he drinks…and as my milk lets down and flows from my body into his, my cunt begins to clench, its little nursing dance, and I know that he will soon leave me gasping as I claw at the air with the pain of orgasm.

I stroke his cheek gently as his mouth moves, suckling, his hand between my legs, gently rubbing. He pauses and beads of blue milk glisten on my nipple, his lips white.

"It won’t be long," he says, "You’re almost ready."

Ready…ready for what? Love? A baby? Him?

I love the way my breasts feel as the milk begins to rush into his mouth, making me want to stroke his hair and kiss his lips. He gently sets me down on the bed and takes off his clothes. His penis stands against his belly and I study it, wondering how it feels to bury it inside me. He pushes his penis over my breasts, rubbing the head of his cock against my nipples. I reach up and take one nipple between my finger and thumb and squeeze the warm liquid onto the head of his cock. When his cock glistens with my breast milk, I roll over and get on my hands and knees so that he can slide his milk-covered cock up inside of me. My pussy is swollen and almost numb as he begins to thrust…and as he does, his hands find my belly. He strokes my belly as he thrusts and I wonder if my baby can tell that his or her father is near. I grunt, my body aching, but he will shove his cock in and out of my vagina for a long time. He says that I am so wet and swollen now that it is harder for him to reach a climax. He says my body is getting ready to deliver the baby.

He has so many ideas that I sometimes lose track. He wants to have the baby at home. Years ago, he says, no one went to the hospital…he says it will make me more relaxed…but I know he has other reasons. He has told me at night when he lies next to me, stroking my hair from my face, that he wants to make love to me while I deliver his child…caressing my belly, moving his cock in and out of me, drinking from my breasts. Like a scientist, he explains that I will be so distracted that I won’t notice the pain of childbirth. I don’t know if he is right, but I do know that whenever I am in his arms, I feel safe and loved.

We rock together until he is ready to ejaculate. He pulls out and I quickly fall to the bed and roll onto my back so that he can cum on my belly and rub his cum into my skin. This is a bath, he says, bathing me with his cream. Only cream is sweet and his cum is salty.

Sometimes they come together into my room. She is very quiet and he speaks more as if to use up her voice and spare us all any awkward moment.

She likes to hold me when he rocks his body with mine, stroking my hair, kissing my cheeks. She likes to purr, "That’s a good girl." Her lips rub against my ear and tickle. She has always wanted more than two children, she says, and this new one, will be like her third. Sometimes I wonder if she wants to claw my eyes or bite my neck bitterly. I can see in her eyes that she wants my father to wash her body with his tongue and give her a baby.

I sometimes dream that I have no mother. It is just my father and I, riding together in his green van, our fingers laced together, my belly round. I know in my dream that we will always be together. I feel so much love that I wake crying. Tears of joy or tears aching as I realize that I am only dreaming?

Now we are tangled together. We are just skin and bones and sweat. There are really three of us, I realize, as he rubs my belly. Then remember it will be four. He says I am young and will be glad for my mother when the baby comes. I know I will be glad to be able to move. He whispers in my ear that he will always keep me pregnant. He drinks from my breast until he falls asleep, my nipple caught between his lips.

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