parents house

Pt. 5 – In Keiji’s room; love and choice.

“Keiji, wait,” I said, stopping in my tracks just outside the train station. I wasn’t sure if it was nerves or “morning” sickness (which is conveniently available at any time of day for all of your vomiting needs), but I felt like I was going to toss my cookies. Keiji had gained a few steps on me as he headed toward a line of taxis snaking around the kiss-and-ride area, but he was back by my side in an instant.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Do you need some water? You look pale,” he fussed, his dark eyes filled with concern.

“I think I just. Need a second,” I replied, groping for and finding his hand. He did me one better and pulled me into a hug, rubbing my back. My body relaxed against his as I rested my head on his shoulder for half a minute or so, my face nuzzling against the warm skin of his neck. He smelled wonderful — not like cologne, just himself, clean and masculine. The hustle and noise of the busy station receded into a low hum. If I could just stay in this spot with him forever, I would be perfectly happy. My stomach settled. I thought of the Nakamuras waiting for us and sighed, pulling back from him with regret.

“Better?” he asked, searching my face. “Sure you don’t want something to drink?”

“No, no. I just had a moment. I had them with Evan, too. It’s okay. Let’s get the car,” I said, resettling my purse strap on my shoulder.

“Just a sec,” he said, striding to the nearest taxi. Once he had the driver’s attention he came back to collect me and our luggage. “It’s not a very long ride, maybe ten minutes. If we need to stop on the way there’s a shopping center between here and the house.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said, fighting off a rabble of butterflies in my stomach. I reminded myself to take deep breaths.

Keiji helped me into the back seat and then slid in next to me. I snuggled against him and he put his arm around me. Despite my crummy tummy, I couldn’t help but entertain a short fantasy of the two of us doing something seriously naughty in the back of a taxi. Why not? Train down, so many public transportation options to go. I hadn’t been able to rest on the train, but as Keiji began to direct the driver to his childhood home I felt myself slip into a light doze.

My power nap ended when the taxi stopped and I felt Keiji pat my shoulder.

“We’re here,” he whispered. In my sleep-addled state I must’ve let anxiety show on my face, because he added, “Don’t worry!”

I didn’t say anything until the cab was headed away from us down the quiet suburban street. The houses were modest 1960s split-levels set on mid-sized lots. Every lawn was raked clean of leaves, every car was parked straight in its driveway. The trees were large and would have been very green if we had been visiting in June instead of November. The Nakamura house was difficult to pick out from any of the others in this American slice of life; the only giveaway that this particular home might belong to Keiji’s family was a bumper sticker celebrating the 1998 Olympic Games on the back of a well-maintained Camry station wagon.

“Olympics fans, ey?” I said, gesturing at the sticker.

“Oh my god,” Keiji replied, shaking his head. “My dad taped every event for my mom. I don’t think she’s even been to Nagano but every chance she got she was talking about it. It was kind of a big deal. I was living at home at the time. Mistake.”

I laughed a little. He started up the front sidewalk with our bags. I hung back, feeling some foreboding as I looked at the quiet front door. If this had been my parents’ home they would’ve been out the door the second the car doors opened, talking over each other and anyone else in the general vicinity. Mom would offer us a sandwich four or five times, Dad would push a beer on Keiji whether or not he wanted it. Where was everyone?

Keiji turned around and for a second I thought I had asked the question out loud. He smiled, tilted his head at the front door, urging me forward.

“Takako, a.k.a. Okaasan. Homemaker. Kind of bitter and will probably think I’m a shiftless floozy. Stan. Retired purchasing specialist for a local office supply company. Likes The Late Show with David Letterman and builds birdhouses,” I recited under my breath as I walked toward him. I wasn’t sure if Keiji had been joking about the birdhouses. I hoped I was joking about her hating my guts.

We reached the front door and he set down my suitcase to open the door. It was unlocked and Keiji stepped inside the house without knocking or ringing the bell. I followed him into a small split foyer, my heart in my throat. I had never been this nervous meeting prior boyfriends’ parents. Although part of my anxiety was being in an unfamiliar environment, I realized that most of it was because I wished, very much, that they would like me.

As Keiji shut the door behind us I looked around the immediate area, trying to calm myself. The floor of the foyer was laid in spotless black marble tile; the walls were pale grey. There was a tidy shoe rack against one wall with several pairs of house slippers lined up underneath. A spare painting of sakura on a black background hung over the rack. Keiji stepped on the heels of his sneakers to get them off and tossed them on top of the rack. I was bending over, beginning to take off my boots, when I heard footsteps fall above us.

“KEIJI!” a voice boomed. I looked up to see a man about Keiji’s height, but darker-complected and balding, come around the corner of a hallway and then down the short stairway to the foyer. He embraced his son, laughing. I recognized Keiji in his smile and the laugh lines around his eyes.

“It’s been too long, too long,” Stanley Nakamura admonished, releasing his son from the hug but holding him at arm’s length for a better look. “Haha will say you’re too skinny.” He turned to look at me, his expression friendly and welcoming. He was discreet, but I saw his eyes flicker up and down as he assessed my shape. He raised his eyebrows and looked back at Keiji, then back at me. “Keiji, how do you always end up with one prettier than the last?”

“Dad,” Keiji said, a warning tone in his voice. I swallowed a nervous laugh at the implications of Keiji’s long line of conquests and put a polite smile on my face.

“I’m just saying, I’m just saying! It’s a compliment, to both of you. Relax. Hi, I’m Stan,” Stan said, sticking out his hand. I shook it, deciding on a firm grip.

“Nice to meet you, Stan. Cara Brennan.” My smile felt more genuine now.

Very nice to meet you, Cara,” he said, looking back at Keiji to see if he was pushing the right buttons. Keiji bit the inside of his cheek and looked away, reminding me of my teenager. Stan chuckled, beckoning us to follow him as he started up the stairs. “Well, come on. Haha is in the kitchen cooking up a storm. She’ll fetch us when dinner’s ready. No, no, leave the bags there. I’ll get them later.”

I hurried to get my boots off and placed them on the shoe rack. The looked like clown shoes next to a pair of women’s Keds that I assumed were Takako’s. At least Keiji’s feet were bigger than mine. I crammed my massive extremities into a pair of men’s leather house slippers and went upstairs. I noticed that Keiji just wore his socks.

Stan led us to what was obviously the “nice” living room; there was an overstuffed chair upholstered in light blue velvet and a matching couch. A glass-and-chrome coffee table held a few photo books and a tasteful vase with a few stems and flowers. A large family portrait in a silver frame hung above the couch (circa 1990 if I had the fashions dated right; Sachi looked dour despite her neon outfit while Keiji beamed, showing off a set of braces and a snowflake patterned ski sweater). I pointed at the picture and smiled. Keiji winced and shook his head. Not talking about it.

“Haha is taking another ikebana class,” Stan said, gesturing toward the arrangement. “I can’t buy her roses anymore. She says they’re too vulgar.”

“Since when did you buy her roses anyway, Dad?” Keiji said, perching on the edge of the couch. He looked ready to flee if necessary. I made some polite-but-empty acknowledgment of the flowers; they were pretty, but I knew less than nothing about ikebana. Stan laughed like Keiji’s remark was up there with one of David Letterman’s scripted quips.

I could hear food prep noises coming from a room to our right; there was an open archway and I saw a sink through it. I knew that Keiji’s mother could hear our conversation, knew that we were here, but she sounded too busy to step away. My instinct to help kicked in.

“Should I go see if–”

“No!” Keiji said. I jumped, startled. “No. She doesn’t even like Sachi in there.” Stan smiled, nodding. (Did he ever stop smiling?)

“He’s right. Do you enjoy cooking, Cara?”

“I do. But I don’t have a lot of time to learn anything new these days. There are lots of crock pot meals at my house,” I replied. Stan continued nodding along.

“Cara’s a ‘career woman,’” Keiji said, wiggling air quotes while looking at me. I could see he was fighting to keep a straight expression on his face; he knew how I felt about my “career.” I rewarded him with a slight jab in the ribs.

Stan opened his mouth, probably to ask what sort of career, when Takako Nakamura stepped out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Or should I say the lady in the peach kimono stepped out? They were one and the same. Her face in life was older, small lines around her eyes, and she wore a white cardigan over a simple navy blue shift dress, but she was no less beautiful for it. If Keiji had Stan’s smile, everything else about him came from his mother — the fine, symmetrical features, light skin, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her hair was still a glossy black, save for one streak of grey, and cut in a short asymmetrical bob. When she saw her son her face lit up for the briefest second. Then I saw a hard expression settle on her features, as if she was steeling herself for something. By the time her eyes got to me, they were flat with indifference.

“Dinner is ready. You look like you could use some, Keiji-kun,” she said, her voice devoid of any trace of accent until she said her son’s name.

“What did I tell you?!” Stan crowed. “This woman is obsessed with fattening people up.” He patted his tummy. Takako curled her lip with disdain. Stan’s remark reminded me of the witch in Hansel and Gretel. Oh, for Pete’s sake. She’s not an evil villain, she’s your boyfriend’s mother. Give her a chance.

“Mom,” Keiji said, standing up. He offered me a hand and pulled me up; otherwise I might have attempted to disappear between the seat cushions. “This is Cara Brennan. We met at Hana’s play.”

“Hello, Okaasan,” I said in a quiet voice. I bowed slightly, feeling phony. She nodded back and then looked away. I wasn’t sure what else to say — “I’m a CPA”? “I enjoy long walks on the beach”? “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. A weak start for sure.

“The dining room is this way,” Stan said, rising and leading us out of the living room.

When we entered the room I saw a beautifully polished oak table set with several dishes; each place setting had chopsticks and small bowls for sauces, condiments, rice, and so on. It was impeccable. The only problem was the plate of salmon and tuna sashimi gleaming coolly in the center of the table. I’m a fan of sushi and sashimi in general, but today my stomach gave a warning roll. I grimaced and fought the sensation, determined to make a good impression.

“Wow Mom, pulling out all the stops for Thanksgiving,” Keiji said as we took our seats. Stan sat the head of the table, Takako on one side with an empty chair next to her, and Keiji and I on the other side.

“Yes, well, it’s been so long since you’ve bothered to come home,” she said. Keiji sighed and tried again.

“It looks really good, a lot of my favorites. Thank you.” Stan grunted his agreement and I nodded like an excitable puppet; Takako did not reply.

“I personally can’t wait for turkey tomorrow,” Stan said, ladling out servings of a clear soup; it had small cubes of tofu and slivers of green onion and was mild in flavor. I made it through this course with no problem. The potato and beef dish was also easy to get down; Takako was a talented cook with a deft hand for spices. Keiji and Stan exchanged jokes and caught up on each other’s lives, devouring anything in reach of their hands. I said little as I considered the remaining dishes on the table. Takako said nothing unless someone asked her a direct question (usually a request for seconds or thirds or fourths). I had some difficulty with the pickled veggies and boiled spinach, but managed to convince my body to accept them out of sheer will. When I’m not knocked up I love Japanese food, and Takako’s menu was hardly anything out there for a Western palate. I picked at my remaining rice for as long as possible before I noticed my hostess watching me. Busted.

“Keiji, the price of fresh fish this time of year is like being robbed,” she said, her tone light. She spoke to her son but looked at me. I got the message loud and clear — she was pissed that I wasn’t eating the sashimi. Stan and Keiji had already downed several pieces each, eating them before the stronger-flavored dishes on the table.

Keiji nodded, absorbed in conversation with Stan and for the moment oblivious to his mother. I took a deep breath and reached for the plate of fish, selecting one piece of each type. I sniffed my choices carefully, trying to determine which might be more mild in flavor, but Takako had bought and prepared the fish with emphasis on the highest quality, so there was almost no odor. I decided to go for the tuna.

Please, baby, I begged. Work with me, here. Grandma worked hard on this. Your first sashimi, you’ll love it. Mmm.

I put the tuna in my mouth and that was okay. It tasted pretty good and its cool surface felt nice on my tongue. Then I bit down, experienced the texture of the raw flesh, and it was over. My stomach lurched and saliva flooded my mouth. Even if I had known where the bathroom was, I never would have made it. I had just enough time to bend down below the table, trying to catch the worst of my mess in my dinner napkin. A beach towel probably would’ve been more appropriate for the job.

I heard Keiji’s chair scrape back from the table. He was on his feet like a shot and had me standing as soon as I stopped heaving (which seemed like eons to me; long enough for Stan to make a dismayed comment about whether or not he should get something for me to ralph in). Takako continued her silence and I was too humiliated to even look in her direction, though I tried to choke out an apology through tears. Keiji helped me away from the table, down the hallway, past the bathroom (damn it), and into his old bedroom. He laid me down on the bed and removed my slippers.

“It was the fish?” he asked. I groaned at the memory, gagging. “Oh god, sorry, sorry. I’ll be right back. Here’s a trash can in case.” He set the can next to the bed and I heard the door close. I heard a fair amount of back and forth between Keiji and Stan as they coordinated HAZMAT clean up. I contemplated hiding under the bed, or if that sounded silly, maybe jumping out of the window. In truth I still felt too nauseated to do anything but lay there with my eyes squeezed shut.

Five or six minutes later I was feeling a bit better; Keiji came in the door with a bowl of leftover broth from the soup and a damp cloth.

“You don’t have to eat it, I just thought you might want to get the taste out of your mouth and I remember you said water makes you sick sometimes,” he said, setting the bowl down on the bedside table. He sat down on the bed next to me and wiped my eyes with the cloth, clearing away tear stains. I took it from him and scrubbed my lips a few times. I was about to say thank you when we heard a terse, angry voice come from a room nearby. I couldn’t make out everything, but I heard Takako say “another bimbo hakujin,” “such waste,” “no appreciation,” and so on. Stan’s replies were mere murmurs. My shame deepened. Keiji’s jaw clenched as he listened; suddenly, he stood up and stalked out of the room.

“Don’t!” I said, realizing what he meant to do. We had talked about how we would tell his parents, had crafted carefully worded statements about surprise and commitment and responsibility and happiness. All of these went down the drain because I couldn’t eat a stupid piece of tuna.

I heard a door bang open and Keiji’s voice, low and cold. “Okaasan. Cara feels sick because she is pregnant with your grandchild. I think it would be best if you stopped talking now.”

He must not have waited for a reply because he was back in the room with me seconds later. He closed the door and locked it, then strode over to an old boombox sitting on a battered pine desk. The sounds of the local rock radio station filled the room, drowning out any other noise that might be overhead.

“Thank god that old RCA still works,” he said, taking a seat next to me again. “It cost approximately five million dollars in 1989. I begged my dad for it.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say; my body was still stiff with embarrassment. He offered me the bowl of broth and I accepted, taking small sips as I looked around his old room. It seemed so drab compared to the place he lived in now. There were brown plaid curtains on the windows, a brown carpet, and a matching brown plaid comforter on the bed. The only sparks of life were old band posters on the beige walls — Nirvana, Soundgarden, The Smashing Pumpkins, R.E.M. — and a somewhat untidy heap of old textbooks and sketchbooks on the desk. Keiji looked around with me.

“Pretty dire, isn’t it? Except for the posters. I forgot I left those here. I should take them, but where will I put them? Would Evan want them?”

“Evan’s more of a Jay-Z kinda guy,” I said, my voice a bit froggy. Keiji stared at me. “I have no idea, either. But I love these bands, too. How come we’ve never talked about music?”

Keiji smiled and laid down. “There’s been a lot to talk about. Your favorite band is?”

“Oh jeez, I don’t know. The Cure? Or New Order.”

“Both good choices. I’m gonna go with the classic Pumpkins. I hold James Iha responsible for introducing me to the idea that I could have a chance with someone like D’arcy,” Keiji said, lying down on the bed next to me with his hands behind his head. He gazed at the poster.

“He’s pretty easy on the eyes,” I mused.

“Yeah. Stylin’.”

There was a companionable silence between us for a time. I finished the broth and tried to forget about what had just happened with his parents, tried to enjoy the nearness of him, but a thought kept entering my mind. It niggled too much to let it go.



“Would you still be interested in me if I wasn’t pregnant?”

He turned his head and met my eyes, a question furrowing his brow.

“I just. I feel pretty out of place right now, I guess. Like why are you bothering. Your mother–”

“Are you kidding me? Look, I love my mom. I’m sad that we piss each other off so much of the time. But being with you is not a ‘bother.’” He turned toward me and scooted in until his forehead was touching mine. I closed my eyes and shivered, wanting him to kiss me. “Cara. I am very, very interested in you. I know it’s only been two months, when I’m not around you I feel like I’m just coasting. You’re smart, funny, righteous but not self-righteous, empathetic, humble. The fact that you’re having a baby with me is–I can’t believe how lucky I am. I can’t figure out what I was doing with my life before. I love you.”

A strange mix of relief and elation flooded me. I pulled back from him so that I could see his face. He didn’t have his usual calm expression, but he didn’t look nervous either. He looked certain, and hopeful. I heard Evan’s words in my mind (“Do you even know anything about him?”) but Keiji’s actions today made me believe his words, made me want to trust that my feelings for him were founded in something deeper than a physical attraction. It seemed to me that people’s impressions of Keiji were based on his outward persona — a capricious tomcat, a lothario — but that he had kept his inner self — the steady, compassionate, perceptive person I knew — under wraps. Did he treat all of those other women this way behind closed doors? The future was uncertain and none of this had been like love in the movies; there were no sweeping melodies, no blowing winds, no quirky coincidences with ends tied up neat. Still, I kept coming back to how I felt in his arms at the train station. It was a simple, deep contentment that I had never known before. I decided to go for it.

“I love you,” I said. “I love being with you.” He cupped my face in his hands and kissed me gently.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Oh, honey. If you only knew how many times I’m going to hear that question between now and July. I feel all right. The soup helped. Thank you.”

“No sweat. Um. I feel guilty about being turned on by you right now, not gonna lie.” I laughed and kissed him again.

“Well, if you feel up to it after all of that–” I said, trailing off as I thought about HAZMATs.

“I want to, you know, make love to you. Pick your romantic term. That’s how I’m feeling.”

“Oh, if we have to be romantic…hmm. Let’s do it missionary style,” I suggested.

“So that’s a ‘I’m feeling much better now’?” he asked, supporting himself above my body on his hands and knees. He didn’t wait for my answer before he started kissing me — on my face, my neck, my upper chest.

“Yes, yes,” I said, not sure if I was replying to his question or egging him on. He kept moving down my body, planting kisses through my clothes.

“I don’t know if you consider cunnilingus particularly romantic, but I intend to perform it on you,” he said, pausing as he got to the top of my skirt.

“Who could think that word is romantic,” I laughed.

“I’m not talking about the word, I’m talking about the act. After seeing you on the train today I’d have to be dead not to want some of that.” He peeled the mini down over my hips, revealing my tights. I was bare underneath and he knew it. He nuzzled his nose and lips against my pussy lips through the thin fabric. “Want me to take these off, too?”


He complied and soon I was naked from the waist down, my clothes in a heap at the foot of the bed. He knelt over my lower body, stripped off his t-shirt, and unzipped his jeans. He lowered his face back down to my mound and rubbed his cheek against the newly revealed skin, fulfilling a desire he mentioned earlier in the day.

“So soft,” he murmured, and began to use his tongue. At first he used broad, flat strokes to lick my outer lips. It had been a long time since I had been hairless down there and the heightened sensations surprised me. The pain from the wax was worth it.

“Wow,” I breathed. He “mm”ed agreement and sucked my clit between his lips, drawing slow circles along the shaft with the tip of his tongue. I felt myself get hard and swollen; after a few minutes of this treatment my pussy juices were running down between the cheeks of my ass. He brought his fingers up to my body, stroking my perineum before slipping two inside of me. I made a disappointed noise as he released my clit for a moment to look at what he was doing.

“I know this isn’t a very romantic thing to say,” he said, sliding his fingers in and out, “but you are so fucking hot.”

“Forget the romance for now. Just lick me,” I said, looking down my body to meet his eyes.

“I like this bossier side of you,” he said, and returned his attention to my clit. The combination of his tongue and fingers was fantastic, although I was soon so lubed that I could hardly feel them inside of me. (The huge wet spot beneath me on the bed was very obvious, though.) I began to gasp and moan as quietly as I could as the pleasure in my clit jumped to another level. He switched from circles to firm flicks and added a third finger inside, fucking me faster. The added stimulation brought me to a quick climax. I pressed a hand to my mouth as I had on the train to stifle my cries.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I chanted softly as my orgasm wound down. He licked me all over with a flat tongue as he had in the beginning, drawing the sensations out as long as possible without overwhelming my sensitive clit. I could have laid there for ages letting him do that, but I really wanted some cock as well. He seemed to sense this as he withdrew his fingers from me and moved up my body until we were face to face.

“Nice?” he asked.

“What do you think?” I said, giving him a messy kiss. His face was wet from below his nose to his chin. I loved the taste of myself on his lips. After we broke the kiss he rolled over long enough to take his pants off, and then positioned himself on top of me again. He shifted his lower body into position between my legs. “Oh, wait, wait,” I said, groping at my sweater. I felt overheated after coming. He helped me pull it up and over my head, tossing it down to the end of the bed onto our growing heap of clothing.

“Gonna leave your bra on?” he asked.

“No way.” Off it came, added to the pile. I looked at my breasts, amused by how they slid slightly off to the sides under their own weight in this position. I wasn’t used to having big tits at all.

“So beautiful, Cara,” he said, running his palms over my nipples, making them stand at attention. I draped my arms around his neck and pulled him closer as he entered me. He went slow, giving me time to savor the feeling of his cock spreading and stretching my pussy. I stroked the skin of his back, appreciating its quality — so fine, like the delicate skin on the backs of my knees, nothing like the other men I had known. We were both exhausted from the strain of the day, so he kept a slower pace this time. I felt like I was being fucked into the bed, becoming a part of it, felt sensuous and languid and unhurried. Even so, he broke out in a light sweat and his breathing grew ragged and hot on my neck.

“Yes baby, yes,” I purred, rubbing my breasts into his chest. “Come in me, come.” He wrapped his arms around me, moving my entire body along with his thrusts. He shuddered and rocked us together as he came, buried as deep in me as he could get. We didn’t move from our embrace for some time; I felt him soften but he didn’t pull out. We rested. I began to doze.

A sharp knock on the door jolted us apart. I had been sufficiently distracted by the sex to forget where I was, but it all came crashing back in seconds. I jumped under the covers, pulling them up to my chin and shot Keiji a worried look. His face was grim and tired as he looked for his boxers; he surprised me by going to the door wearing just those. He unlocked the door and opened it about six inches; when he saw who it was he nodded at me and slipped out, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her.

“Keiji, you have been a disappointment to me ever since you left this house. I don’t agree with your choices. Now that you are bringing an innocent child into your life — if it is your child — you must do your best to be a good man.”

“The baby is mine, Mom,” he answered, sounding as tired as he had looked. “I am trying to do my best. It’s been a long day. We’d like to sleep now.”

“That’s what I came to tell you. The couch is ready for you downstairs. There are clean sheets, a blanket, a pillow. Daddy is waiting for you there. He wants to talk to you. She–can stay here,” Takako said, her firm voice breaking for just a second.

“You mean Cara,” Keiji said. I held my breath.

“Yes. Cara,” Takako conceded. I let the breath out.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, again not waiting for an answer before he slipped back inside the room. I heard her footsteps move down the hallway to her bedroom. He stood by the door, looking wilted.

“Keiji. She is something else,” I said, stunned at her harsh words.

“Pretty good lecture, huh,” he muttered, coming to sit next to me. I groomed him, pushing his hair behind his ears and stroking the outline of one cheekbone. He closed his eyes at my touch and exhaled softly through his nose.

“I don’t agree with her. You are not disappointing in any way.”

“Oh, she just means that I was supposed to be a lawyer. You know, if you suck at math you have to be a lawyer. It’s the only excuse for not being a doctor,” he said, his eyes opening. His words were a joke but his eyes weren’t smiling. He was so beautiful, so good at heart that my own heart ached. I wondered how she couldn’t see him. I thought of the portrait of her in his apartment, how it clearly represented her importance to him. I kissed his closed lips, willing him to open back up to me, to feel how loved he was. He did after a few seconds and despite my exhaustion I was aroused again, remembering how he had used his lips and tongue just a little while earlier. I told myself to wait, as hard it was.

“Keiji, Keiji…you should leave before I can’t let you,” I said, pulling back from him.

“I don’t want to go, anyway.”

“No, you should talk to your father. I bet he’s worried about you.”

“Eh. You’re probably right,” he said, rolling his shoulders and his neck as if they pained him. “Are you going to be okay here tonight? I can come back if you want. It’s funny that I’m even entertaining the pretense of sleeping on the couch when we obviously just, you know, and you’re pregnant. Why bother.”

“You are a good son,” I said. He laughed, short and dry. “Besides, I kinda want to lay here and have a private moment with James Iha.” Now his laugh was genuine and his eyes softened.

“All right, I’ll go. I love you, Cara Brennan.”

“I love you too, Keiji Nakamura.”


I woke to the sound of the bed squeaking as someone climbed in next to me. Keiji wrapped all four of his limbs around me, snuggling me as I came out of sleep. The stubble on his chin tickled my neck. I smiled, inhaling his scent and pressing back against him. Judging by the sunlight filtering through the curtains it was eight o’clock or so.

“Oh, good morning,” I said, as I felt his erection nestle in between my ass cheeks.

“Hi,” he said shortly, running his hands over whatever parts of my body he could reach. I was still naked from the night before.

“It’s turkey day. Are you excited?” I asked, wiggling my rear in a deliberate manner.

“Yeah. I’m gonna have dessert first, though.” He cupped my breasts and began to move them in gentle circles.

“Oh man, what a line,” I laughed. “I have morning breath!”

“What, you think mine smells like a capful of Scope? I woke up with a massive boner and came straight here. Don’t turn around. It won’t be necessary for our purposes.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pulled away from me a bit to yank his boxers down, and then pressed into my butt again. His bare cock was hot and a bit sticky as he humped against me.

“I love how soft you are,” he said. “Have you ever let someone fuck you in the ass?”

“Ha! Um. I can think of one aborted attempt. We were traveling for work and he got so sloshed at the hotel bar that he couldn’t follow through, if you know what I mean. Why, you want to do that now? I am constipated like, forever,” I said, being brutally honest. The first trimester ain’t pretty.

“Just asking for future reference. Now I know you’re a virgin.”

“One day you can tap it, Keiji. Just let me get this baby out first.”

“Wow, deal!” he exclaimed. He squeezed my breasts, being gentle but obviously excited. He slid his fingers in circles around my areolas before brushing them over my nipples.

“Ahh,” I said, feeling the blood rush to my pussy in reaction to the pain-pleasure.

“Still tender?” he asked, his voice changed to deep, husky quality. I felt a little thrill, recognizing the transition from playful to serious.

“Yes, but don’t let it stop you.”

He pulled and pinched and twisted and flicked, fondling my breasts until I was writhing against him. I had always loved having my tits played with, but now being pregnant each touch was like a direct signal to my pussy; soon I was throbbing and leaking so much that my inner thighs were wet. “Please, please,” I begged, inarticulate with need.

“Please what?” he asked, pitiless. He knew that saying the words would make me even hotter.

“My pussy, my cunt, please, fuck me, please.”

“You want it hard, don’t you?” He was still manipulating my tits, a bit rougher than before. I moaned and nodded, squeezing my legs together, trying to relieve my aching clit. I reached behind me to guide his cock into place. He let go of my nipples to lift one of my legs a bit, giving him better access. He rubbed himself against my wet slit a few times; the head of his cock slipping over my clit made me moan louder than before.

“Shh, shh,” he said, putting a finger to my lips. I couldn’t resist taking it into my mouth and sucking on it. “You should play with your pussy. Make yourself come on me.” A helpful suggestion; as aroused as I could ever be, I had no inhibitions about getting myself off in front of him. As I moved my hands toward my pussy he sank his cock into me with one swift, firm movement.

“Oh my god. Ohh fuck, yes,” I groaned, pushing back against his hardness.

Shhhhhh. You’ll wake the whole house up.” He used one hand to keep my leg lifted and slipped the other over my mouth. I couldn’t be trusted to be quiet anymore, I guess.

He started moving inside of me; at first I was too distracted by his cock to remember my clit, but it soon sent out pangs that got my attention. I slid my fingers down both sides of the erect nub and couldn’t remember the last time it was so hard. I felt lower down until my fingers came to my sopping wet hole and his cock, pistoning in and out harder and harder as he approached his maximum speed — my absolute favorite. I was moaning and dropping four letter words constantly into his hand now, caring very little if anyone overheard. The bed was squeaking like crazy, anyway.

I pressed in on my clit, hard, and held it down. The motion from his vigorous fucking provided enough friction to move my fingers; the combination of that and the pressure destroyed me. I came so hard that white stars exploded behind my eyes. I could feel his hand over my mouth was wet with my saliva. I was probably drooling. Didn’t care. I let up on my clit a bit, made a few short circles on it, sort of a “reset” motion, and pressed down again. Another orgasm hit me in seconds, as strong as the first.

“Yes baby, keep going,” he whispered, not letting up on my pussy. His cock felt huge and my contractions on it were almost painful, the sensation was getting so intense. I decided to go for one more, because I could and I could tell he was close. I wanted to make him come. It took me a bit longer this time; I had to rub my clit in firm circles for a few minutes, faster and faster, until it sent out the tell-tale signal of an impending orgasm. I tore his hand away from my mouth.

“I’m going to come,” I gasped. He made a noise of approval deep in his throat. “But I can’t take any more. Grand finale time, okay? Do me as hard as you can.”

“Okay,” he said, finding some last reserve to do my bidding. I cried out with each brutal entry of his cock, my third orgasm flowing over my body in gentler waves than the first two but making the ride to the end incredibly satisfying. He squeezed my inner thigh as he came, digging into the soft flesh. (Two days later I could still see the marks from all five fingers.)

We laid against each other, panting, the sweat cooling on our skin. My pussy was still twitching minutes later, leaking a mixture of our fluids onto the sheets and creating a brand new wet spot to match last night’s. I stretched and turned toward him to give him a kiss — morning breath or no morning breath. He kissed back eagerly, running his hands down to my lower belly to stroke lightly back and forth.

Today was Thanksgiving, I remembered. I had a lot to be thankful for.


It turns out we needn’t have worried about being quiet; when Keiji peeked out of his room to see if the coast was clear, he saw his parents’ bedroom door was wide open. The bed was made and the house was silent.

“Where is everyone?” I asked, pulling on his discarded t-shirt from last night.

“I don’t know. Sachi and Hana aren’t supposed to be here until noonish,” he replied. “I’ll go take a look around. Hang on.” He put his boxers back on and walked down the hallway into the kitchen. “Turkey’s in the oven!” he called back. “Oh, there’s a note. They had to go to the store for last minute stuff. Jeez, I bet that place is a madhouse right now.”

“I need a shower so bad,” I said, walking into the bathroom. “I smell like splooge.”

“Yes, I have marked you with my scent,” he said in a grave voice, following me in and closing the door. We spent the next fifteen minutes soaping and massaging and kissing each other under the hot water; I loved touching him and ogled him relentlessly (he looked soooo hot wet, it was like a Backstreet Boys video in there), but Keiji lamented that he was probably out of commission for the next few hours at least, so we focused on getting clean. When we emerged we heard the sounds of shopping bags rustling and the front door opening and closing. Takako and Stan were arguing about who was going to prepare which dish. This gave us enough cover to sneak back into Keiji’s room and dress.

As I pulled a maternity shirt and pants on (no sense hiding it now, long live elastic waistbands), I considered our pile of clothes from yesterday — and the sheets on the bed.

“I think I need to do some laundry.”

“Oh, I can ask Mom,” he suggested.

Keiji. No way!”

“What? She won’t mind.”

“Won’t mind washing my dirty underwear and sheets splattered with cum?”

“You make it sound like we were painting with it,” he said, laughing.

“That’s probably something you’ve done before, haven’t you?” I accused. He rolled his eyes and rummaged through his bag for a shirt. “Well, obviously you didn’t sleep in that gigantic wet spot last night. I hope the mattress is okay,” I said. He laughed again.

“I’ll take the stuff down to the laundry room after breakfast, okay?”

“Thanks. Hey, what did your dad say last night?” I asked.

“Oh, ha. He apologized for her, which shocked me actually. He usually just pulls this blank face and zones out whenever she’s like that. I mean it would be nice for it to come from her for once, but I guess I’ll take it. He said he thought you were very nice and that he hopes he can get to know you better. And…”


“He’s thrilled, Cara. He’s so happy.” Keiji beamed in imitation of his father’s smile.

“Really?” I felt warm inside. If Keiji’s father reacted that way, maybe my parents would be happy, too. “Isn’t he always happy, though?”

“Well, he loves a good laugh, but I don’t know if he’s always happy. I wish you could’ve seen him though, like a kid at a candy store. It’s been a long time since we had a baby in the family. Hana was the last one. He said he thought it was never going to happen for me, that I would find someone–he said I seemed different with you than I was with–than I was before.” He sat back on his heels, seeming to muse for a bit. “I didn’t really know how to explain it to him but I I feel like–” he made a click noise with his tongue “–something is settling into place. Settling down?” He looked up at me, a tentative smile on his face. He stood up, finished dressing now, although he looked incomplete to me wearing just his socks.

June 2018
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