Sylvia Foster was putting most of her attention on the preparation of Saturday lunch. She was vaguely aware of her husband's intermittent typing, though. The most recent pause was longer than most had been. Was he blocked? Instead, George said, "I think that's it."

"Great," she replied. "I'll copy it over. You can read the whole thing in a week or so. If it still hangs together, we'll send it off."

"You're too indulgent. I'd hate to make you type it all over for a few late changes. You have your own teaching to do."

Typing, even careful typing, was no great chore. "Well, I won't type the whole thing over for minor changes. Just the changed pages. You need to put your best foot forward. This is really your first paper where you did the investigation alone."

"It is? I could have sworn there was a sexy girl with me every night. Must have dreamed her -- not the first expedition where I had wet dreams about her." It was nice that George thought of her as sexy. She spent all day in a classroom where the kids thought of her as maternal at best.

"I was in bed with you. I typed for you. You were alone in gathering the information."

"Not even that's totally true. You're an anthropologist's dream, and I don't mean wet dream this time."

Now was the time to tell him. "Well, you'll have to do without me next trip. Should have thought of this when we were discussing my going off the pill."

"Well, you might not take. You haven't so far. And we did think of that. A child is more important."

"I might not have so far." And she might not; she had to keep reminding herself of that.

"Darling! You think...?"

"I'm two days late. It's happened before, but I feel...."

"Oh, dearest! Oh, darling. Oh, Sylvia. Oh!" Well, no need to worry about what George would feel about her when she stopped looking sexy.

"Oh."

They kissed. He hugged her tight, first about her waist and then about her shoulders. He sprinkled her face with kisses.

"I warn you," she said, "I'm not sure."

"It doesn't matter. Well, it matters, matters enormously, but it doesn't affect the fact that I love you."

"It doesn't matter enormously right now," she pointed out. "Whether I'm pregnant will matter enormously next summer."

"I don't need to go on an expedition every summer. Vrooman stayed here this year."

She couldn't let him do that. "You're going! We decided. I'm not going with you."

"Well, in that case, it's time to start saying goodbye." Silly man.

But she did enjoy his goodbye, which involved his kisses all over her body with special attention to her abdomen. "You'll be disappointed if it's not true," she said. "I might regret it's not being true. I won't regret these kisses."

She enjoyed the kisses until she needed him. "Now, George," she said, "now."

When he got into position, she helped him in. At first, he treated her gingerly. Was she going to have to put up with that for the next nine months? Soon, though he was moving above her and in her firmly. Then he sped up. His motions excited her, took her up the hill. And, when she fell off into ecstasy, he thrust into her and against her. Then he was pulsing deep within her. When he was finished he rolled off.

Before she could feel abandoned, though, he hugged her lightly. He was kissing her hair as her breathing returned to normal.

The next morning, George went to church with her. That was a celebration of sorts; he accompanied her less than half the time.

When she typed up the paper, it looked good to her. She had a few suggestions, as did his department chair. George had a few revisions of his own when he saw the whole thing.

Meanwhile, her period didn't ambush her. George took to looking questioningly at her when they got together at the end of the day. She stuck her thumb up in answer. She was more certain every day; she could feel something happening down there.

After they sent off the paper to American Anthropologist, she made an appointment with a gynecologist. She asked him about risks to the baby.

"You're going to have more problems with feeling exhausted," he answered. "Your getting punched in the gut might hurt the fetus; falling down the stairs could. Generally, it's inside you. If you don't get hurt, it is doubly safe."

"I was thinking about sex."

"You can tell your husband anything you want. You're my patient; he isn't. But the truth is that I have never seen a case of intercourse harming a fetus directly. Infections, of course. Following anal intercourse with vaginal intercourse is always dangerous. You have two different sets of germs in the two localities."

"We don't do that."

"Good. It's dangerous to you. Generally, anything which is dangerous to you is more dangerous to the fetus. Ordinary venereal diseases, too. But direct injury is rare.

"At some point, you'll find certain positions uncomfortable. Experiment. Use common sense. This isn't the time to try out hanging from the chandelier or fisting, but you'll be hurt before the fetus is. Sorry if that isn't what you wanted to hear."

"Really," she told him, "that is good news."

"I'm happy for you. One thing you have to foresee is that you're building a new body inside your own. It takes the same nutrients that working physically does. Some special ones, and we'll give you a pamphlet; but you'll begin to feel more tired than you usually do from the same amount of work. Take that as a signal. Get the rest your body says it needs, not the rest you think should be enough. You may find yourself too tired for sex. That's not rejecting your husband; that's accepting your new limits.

"Another change will be the entire endocrine system will be adjusting. You'll go through mood swings. Warn your husband ahead of time. You're not necessarily angry with him; you're just angry right then."

When she told George that the tests had confirmed her pregnancy, he took her out to dinner to celebrate. That night, she had to tell him part of what the doctor had said. "I'm not made of glass you know."

He said he believed that. "I'm not treating you like you might break. I'm treating you like you're precious. And so you are. Sometimes I forget, but I'm clearer now than ever."

Well, she'd see about that. "Remember that when I spit up every morning. Well, if I'm precious, then you have to do what I say. Lie back."

He lay back, and she knelt with her knees on both sides of him. "Careful!" he said. "I'm being careful. I can't do this nine months from now." She took him in hand and slowly sank down until she was full. Despite what the doctor had said, she half expected her newly-full uterus to bump against his prick. Nothing like that happened.

If George had reservations about this position, they didn't stop him from participating. He held her boobs and stroked her nips. As she moved up and down his prick, he began tickling her clitoris.

All this stimulation increased her arousal. Then her feelings took control. She stiffened above him as wave after wave crashed though her body.

When the waves left, they took all her strength with them. She collapsed down on George, who turned her over. Then he was above her and moving in her. He said, "Oh, Sylvia" as he pulsed.

A minute later, he rolled off and cuddled her. She was nearly asleep when she felt him arrange the covers.

American Anthropologist finally wrote that George's paper would be published. They went out to eat again.

"Vrooman had a suggestion," George said the next night. "What I did in Fort Good Hope -- what we did, really -- was a study of acculturation. I could look at more acculturated Amerinds closer to home. No need to leave this place every summer. I could sleep in the same bed with you almost every night, which would make me happy. You could type up my field notes if that would make you happy. It's part of a developing sub-field called 'urban anthropology.'"

"I thought," she said, "that you guys left the current West to the sociologists."

"Well, sort of, usually...." And then he went off into a long discourse on the history of his field. She should have paid more attention than she did. Not only was this most of George's life, it was a good part of her future. This pregnancy meant that she'd decided that being a mommy was more important than being a schoolteacher. "Anyway...." George ended up.

"Anyway, you think you could build a career in urban anthropology."

"I think there is a good chance. At least, I've done a certain minimum amount of real anthropology. That bolsters both my reputation and my skills."

"You're not just saying that because I'd miss you if you went off on expeditions?" she asked -- serious under the teasing.

"No. I'm not even saying that 'cause I'd miss you. It's true."

"You could live without me. You did for a year in Chile."

"I did for more than twenty years," he said, "though most of that was before pubescence, which helped. I'm addicted now."

"I'm not sure I like being compared to an abused substance." Now she was teasing without any seriousness. Having him addicted to her was a great image, if not one that she could take seriously.

"Wait a few months; you'll be more substantial."

"A few months is an awfully long time. Why don't we go to bed? You could abuse me then."

Abuse, though, seemed far from George's mind when they were in bed. He stroked and kissed her body gently. His touch aroused her fully. But he didn't get to the main event.

"George," she finally said.

"Feeling abused?" he asked. Tease!

"Feeling deprived." She pushed him over on his back by his shoulder and climbed aboard. She adjusted her position and held his prick where it needed to go. When she sat down on it, though, she felt a twinge. If it hurt her, hurt her there, it was likely to hurt the baby. "Wait a second!" She moved off. "I don't think I'll try that again."

"Hurt?" he asked.

"Not really hurt. But I felt it enough to not want to bounce up and down on you. Think you could come in me this way?"

"Help me," he replied from above her. She put his prick where it belonged once more. George entered her quite gently.

Then he rolled them to a more sideways position. Her right arm dug into the mattress, and her left shoulder hardly touched it. He screwed her a few times like that. Then he touched her pussy with his hand. It wasn't quite screwing; it wasn't quite making out. Much of her sensation came from his fingers, but he moved his prick in her, too. She responded with her own motions.

He maintained his gentleness until her climax came. Then he screwed her vigorously, prolonging and adding to her feelings. After that ended in one long moment when he was rigid above her and throbbing within her, he dropped down beside her. The baby was perfectly safe from that drop. It didn't quite miss her, though. "My leg," she said when she thought it would go to sleep.

Obediently, he moved aside. Lovingly, he cuddled her in the spoon. "Love you," he said while adjusting the covers once more.

"Love you, too," she replied. And she did.