28. Poor Sausage
CHAPTER 28
Poor Sausage
IVY
Clean and dry, pussy aching, we’re back in the main cabin with the rest of the entourage. I’m staring at Alistair with stars in my eyes, trying not to drool, and he keeps flicking his eyes over to me, over the screen of his laptop, and winking. So calm and composed, as if our meeting in the conference room never happened. But I can still feel the hard surface on my knees, the cold stream of vintage champagne running down my labia, the throbbing in my G-area. Holy, holy shit.
A member of the cabin crew comes up to offer us a drink. We order coffee and hide our smiles, both enjoying the idea that I had been in a similar uniform just an hour ago. I catch myself wondering what she’s wearing beneath the smart uniform, and I’m sure Alistair is, too. It makes me think about Freya and how I promised Alistair that I would tell him everything about how it felt with her; my first ever sexual encounter with a woman. Then I want him to tell me all the details about how it felt for him when he joined us. I feel a juicy throb in my panties. It was going to be an excellent honeymoon.
As if on cue, baby Alexander starts crying—just to remind me that this will not be a traditional honeymoon. Yes, there will be loads of great sex, but we’re leaving London for a reason. We have a baby with us for a reason. As Alistair said, we don’t do anything the traditional way.
I smile at Alistair and tiptoe over to Brumilde.
“His ears,” she says. “They ache because of the changes in pressure.”
“Oh, you poor baby,” I say to him. “You want to come with me? I’ll try to distract you.”
He doesn’t look convinced. Hand on ear, thumb in trembling mouth.
“It’ll help if he drinks,” says Brumilde, offering me the bottle she hadn’t yet had success with.
I take both the baby and the milk from her, and she signals her thanks. I carry the distressed infant to a seat next to a window and put my feet up, popping him on my lap to face me. He leans back against the top of my thighs, still tense. I play peekaboo with him till he gives me a tearful chuckle, then offer him his bottle. He takes it and drinks while I give him a foot massage and point to things out the window.
“Bird,” I say. “Sky. House. Ocean.”
Not only are we strangers to him, but even our language is foreign. Poor sausage, I always think when I look at him, but I shouldn’t because he’s going to be so loved in his lifetime, and so lucky. No one can replace a loving mother, but we’ll try our best to give him a wonderful life. His eyelids grow heavy, and I keep massaging his chunky little legs and feet, inspecting his impossibly cute toenails. I strongly believe in the healing power of touch, and I hope it will be one of the ways I can show him love and safety. When his empty bottle drops out of his mouth I consider putting him in the little bassinet provided, but his warm weight feels so comforting that I lift him to my chest and cuddle him instead, looking out of the window and dreaming of a beautiful life with Alistair and his—our?—growing family. The trips we’ll go on, the memories we’ll make. The things we’ll love and lose, cheer about and cry about. The whole universe seems open to me. Alex makes an adorable snuffling sound, and I hug him closer.
Bird, house, sky, ocean.