Kate Upton becomes Kate Uptonogood, opening her marriage—and other things—to strange men.
“Baby, what do you think…” Kate Upton’s smile was a flamethrower that burned all resistance to ash. “…about open marriages?”
Justin Verlander sagged as if gut-punched into the pink velour love-seat. He’d had a sense that a bombshell would drop in this marriage counseling session. He hadn’t expected it to be thermonuclear.
“I dunno, babe… Seems kinda gross.”
Their therapist, Dr Sonia Gluckstein, pursed her lips and scribbled notes. Scritch-scratch.
“It ‘seems kinda gross.’ That’s an interesting reaction, Justin. It’s outside your comfort zone. It challenges you.” Her hand dropped to the armrest of the couch. Acrylic nails drummed an allegro takk-takk rhythm on the upholstery. He found this unbearable. “I think we need to hold space with your wife’s idea of changing your marriage.”
Justin squirmed in his seat. We need to hold space. Who talks like that?
He hated couples’ therapy so fucking much.
It had been Kate’s idea. She said it would fix their marriage.
It was also Kate’s idea that their marriage was broken.
Why are we doing this? Justin had wondered this on their first session with Dr Gluckstein, and was wondering it on their twentieth. Our marriage is fine! Sure, we’ve had…problems. Like that time I caught her in a hotel suite with two of the Astros. And that monkey photoshoot thing she still won’t give me a straight answer about. But we’re going okay now, I think? Even if we’re not intimate as often as we used to be.
But Kate had disagreed.
And as anyone would agree who’d ever witnessed those monstrous, luscious breasts spewing from her chest like waterfalls of flesh—bulging out her candy-pink sports bra to overflowing—Kate’s vote counted for two.
Justin felt like a cow shoved down a slaughter chute every time he stepped through the marriage counseling center’s front door.
The decor was feminine to a horrific, hellish degree. The wallpaper was a malevolent pink that made him want to bleach his eyes against bacterial vaginosis. The reception area was strewn with magazines emblazoned with merciless #girlboss scowls and threat-sounding words: SLAY and EAT and QUEEN. The sound system played a bowel-clenching mix of Enya, Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, and that godawful Hillary Clinton Fight song. Everything was a statement that you were in woman territory. A place where men were outsiders at best, and a pestilence to be nuked off the planet at worst.
Justin found the therapy sessions dismaying and alienating. Kate and the therapist had bonded, becoming thick as thieves—they spent every session sitting side by side on the double love-seat, arrayed against him, chatting and laughing and giggling. Acting like two girlfriends swapping KUWTK goss over spicy margs instead of a therapist and a client. They acted like he wasn’t in the room, or was too stupid to understand them.
She ate and left no crumbs.
It’s giving pick-me.
That’s beige flag, sis.
Justin was baffled. What are these two saying? What do these words mean? He wondered if this was some secret code language women learned at birth.
For a long time, he’d sensed a plan taking shape in the vaporous nebula beyond his comprehension.
But opening their marriage? Seriously?
“I want this, babe,” Kate caressed his shoulder. “I really want this.”
“I’m just not sure I want it…” Justin faced his wife. “Honey, this is all so sudden…”
“It’s something Kate and I discussed in one of the sessions you were, hm, unable to attend.” Dr Gluckstein’s words carried a point-making edge. She’s doing more than you are, Justin. “Increasingly, your wife feels her life lacks danger. Excitement. That’s not said in judgment—we all settle into ruts, as we get older. But it is a problem that needs to be addressed.”
Kate reached over, and squeezed his hand affectionately. She beamed her lethally effective smile, and his insides went warm and gooey.
“Justin, I’m a woman with a lot of love!” She squirted extra napalm into her flamethrower smile. “Believe me, you won’t go short if I share my love with…uh, some other people.”
Justin felt steamrolled by this. “But I thought the point of getting married is that you don’t share your love with other people!”
“Hmm, yes, that’s a perspective.” Dr Sonia freighted the word with contempt. A sexist, outdated perspective, worthy of the most troglodytic dinosaur of the Cretaceous epoch, but a perspective nevertheless. “But imagine you had a child. You would love this child very much, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course.” Justin shrugged. He had zero clue where this was going.
“If you had a second child, would that reduce the love you felt the first? Would you love them half as much?”
“Uh, no?”
“Exactly. Love doesn’t shrink when it’s shared. It’s not a cake being cut into pieces. It grows. There’s a world where your wife sees other people and remains devotedly yours. We want you to sit with the idea of manifesting that world. Do it for your wife. And for yourself.”
He felt a sudden heat as Kate’s swanlike neck arched into his space.
“Don’t stress it, baby.” She pecked a kiss on his cheek. “You’ll still be my number one. But now they’ll just be…some other people in my life for a while. Some other men. This isn’t about shrinking you. It’s about growing me.”
Something rolled over and died in Justin’s stomach.
They drove in silence down Coldwater Canyon Avenue, heading for their Beverly Hills McMansion.
Kate Upton, eternal passenger princess, filed her nails and waited for the yes.
“Fine,” Justin flung up his hands in defeat. “An open marriage. Let’s try it.”
“Great!” Kate beamed, joy making her radiant. She had a dangerous goddamn smile. Red-red lips and white-white teeth and a tongue like a cliff for your heart to drive off. It made you want to keep saying yes and yes and yes to her forever, like a rat pressing a pellet lever, until she owned your soul and your Bentley and your bank account. Justin wondered if he’d said yes because he meant it, or because he wanted to see his beautiful wife smile at him. One more time.
But now that Kate had gotten what she wanted, the smile vanished. Transaction concluded. Her movements became precise and efficient. Her gaze snapped down to the phone in her lap. Her fingers blurred over the touchscreen, texting. Her body language became closed. He felt a wall go up between them.
“I need you to drop me off at a bar,” she spoke with her face to a phone. “Rislow’s Dream at 351 Palm Avenue.”
“Why?” Justin asked.
“My date’s waiting for me there.” Still not looking up.
Your date?
Justin’s tongue felt like a dead slug, rotting thickly in his mouth. “Kate, we’ve been in an open relationship for ten seconds. How can you possibly have a date?”
“Well, obviously I arranged the date ahead of time.” Her thumbs machine-gunned out more texts.
“You didn’t know if I’d say yes.”
“I knew. Woman’s intuition.” She smirked, and touched his thigh. His heart sped up like an outboard motor. “This is secretly what you want, too. You just don’t know it yet. Don’t look so scared, babe! This is the start of something wonderful for us!”
Justin shrugged, and punched new GPS coordinates.
Sure. He grimaced. Wonderful.
They turned down a side street, crawling through traffic.
“What does ‘a date’ mean, anyway?” Justin’s hands slipped on the wheel. “Are you two gonna share a plate of spaghetti by candlelight and then suck up the final strand together until your lips meet in the middle, or what?”
“Ha. No, we’ll chat. Get to know each other.”
Get to know each other. He shuddered, imagining a stranger’s hands clasping Kate’s enormous tan breasts, imagining the hands squeezing until rolls of her titflesh exploded out like sausage meat.
He watched Kate’s boobs quivering in her bra, and shuddered with need. How long had it been since he’d touched them?
“It…won’t go any further than that, will it?”
“If you’re asking if we’re having sex, absolutely not! Oh my God, I’d be too scared!” Kate giggled, leaned across, and whispered in his ear. “Baby, believe me, I’m just as anxious about this as you. Excited, but anxious! We’re here, by the way.”
They turned a corner. A bright neon bar slid into view, vomiting a rainbow of color across the driver’s side window. Justin double-parked, and Kate scrabbled for her clutch, peering at the bar windows behind the patio. She squealed, clapping excitedly, eyes fixed on the bar. “Oh, he’s at the window! I see him! Gotta go! Love you, baby!”
She popped the car door open, and dashed at high speed. Her ponderously heavy boobs cannonballed up and down as she ran, bouncing in her blouse like massive Christmas hams.
Anxious and scared? Sure, Justin thought bitterly. So anxious and scared you forgot to do up the last two buttons in your top.
He watched in high-strung misery as a man—silhouetted to a stencil cut-out against the bright throb of the lights—threw an arm over his wife’s shoulders, and ushered her inside.
God.
Damn.
Justin clenched the wheel. Clenched his teeth. He drove away, merging into traffic, imagining Gomorrhean outrages happening to his wife inside that bar. Some act involving a donkey and a chorus line of midgets, probably.
Dude, stop being an insecure bitch, he thought, trying to calm his surging heartbeat. She says she’s not fucking him. Can’t you trust your own wife?
The question plunged him into a line of thoughts he wasn’t ready for. He almost ran a red light. He stomped down on the brakes. The Mercedes-Benz SLS jolted, whiplashing back on its suspension. Horns and curses blared in a demonic chorus behind him—all rise for the LA national anthem.
Something went clink in the cup holder to his right.
He side-glanced. A wedding band lay in the middle console, shining a cold 14-karat stare back at him.
Whose wedding band was it?
Not his. His thumb reported that it was still on his finger.
Justin played poker with some buddies that night.
“So, where’s Kate the Great?” the field manager for the Kansas City Royals asked behind a fan of cards.
All of Justin’s poker buddies loved it when the lady of the manor plopped her heavy funbags on the table. Kate Upton had the makings of nasty WSOP talent. Nobody looked at her face.
“She’s…having an early night.” Justin stared in despond at his four and nine.
As the turn was dealt, one of the men saw something on his phone and smirked.
“An early night, huh?” The man giggled. “Your wife’s at a bar, dude. Some guy’s got his arm around her shoulder. The photos are all over Instagram.”
“That’s her brother,” Justin said testily.
“You wanna double-check that story?” The smirk spilled out into a grin. “He’s black.”
The man flipped his phone around. Justin flushed, and not in a good way.
Kate was in a dive bar. Neon glazed over her face in a sheen of poison candy. She was wide-eyed; excited; grinning from ear to ear. Snapping selfie after selfie, angling the phone down into her endless trench of sweaty jiggling cleavage, sharing her evening out with six and a half million Instagram followers.
A black man had his arm slung possessively around Kate’s neck. Justin’s stomach plummeted.
A shaven head, a white polo with tribal tattoos marching out of the neckline, a dark teardrop under one eye. A diamond grill gleaming like ice above a jawline’s arrogant thrust.
The black dude’s cocksure stare pierced Justin’s heart from above his wife’s shoulder, as though the screen wasn’t there. This your chick, bro? The OG seemed to say. Sure doesn’t seem like it.
The table dissolved into gales of laughter. Justin fumed in frustration.
When he folded (ten high), the jokes were predictable.
“Cheer up, bro. You’re not the only one who’s out playing the board tonight!”
“And we know your hand doesn’t have a queen!”
“Thanks, guys,” Justin sulked despondently. “I really appreciate the moral support here.”
Eleven o’clock. Twelve o’clock.
Justin sat waiting in the entrance of the mansion. Tapping toes, waiting for his wife to come home.
Twelve-thirty. Come on, where the fuck is she? No date takes this long, unless they’re… He felt acid bubbling in his stomach. Hard not to worry, or imagine the worst.
She wasn’t returning his texts. The torrent of Instagram photos had stopped at about half past ten.
Suggestive of her leaving the bar. Suggestive of things less savory.
At one o’clock, Kate staggered like a zombie through the front door.
She was drunk and reeling, bobbling on her heels, lit like a 4th of July firecracker.
Justin rose to meet her, suppressing his fury. Be a good husband. Hold space for her.
“Hey, babe! How was your date?”
Kate giggled, falling into his arms like a long fur coat. Her skin was flushed. Her breath stank of alcohol. He caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on her collar, and withered inside. She’d never smoked in her life.
“It was wonderful. I feel alive. That was the best time I’ve had in…oh my Gawd…years! I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”
Ghostly insects seemed to walk on Justin’s skin. That makes one of us.
“It’s so late,” he murmured, tracing her chin with his eye. “What were you doing with that guy?”
“Talking!” She screwed up her face in disapproval. “Gosh!”
“For seven straight hours. You talked for seven straight hours.”
“Um, yes?” She scowled. “What is this, anyway? My trial? We didn’t have sex yet, if that’s what you’re implying. He wanted to, but I said no!”
“Of course, naturally,” Justin noticed how smeared her lipstick was. It was halfway up her cheek. “I was just worried about you. Wait, did you say ‘didn’t have sex yet?’ As in, you’re going to? Just not tonight?”
She smiled a Mona Lisa smile. A woman’s smile: every secret locked behind it.
“I’m still figuring out what I want. I found him on this dating site recommended by Dr Gluckstein. It’s used by celebrities who wanna stay on the down-low. It’s awesome! There are so many cute guys there.”
He laughed. Tried to be a player.
“Babe, you got a cute guy right here!” Grinning, determined to win her back, Justin started to put moves on Kate.
One arm slid around her back. Other hand clasping her golden braid to the nape of her neck, sweeping her lips toward his…
…Kate deflected the kiss onto her cheek, and batted aside his grasping hands.
“Not tonight, baby. It’s late.”
No shit. “Tomorrow, maybe?” Justin asked hopefully. He hadn’t gotten laid in weeks.
She pinched his cheek affectionately. “You’re on, loverboy.”
But her eyes were gazing past him. Through him. Despondency settled over him. She might be anticipating the tomorrow, but not because he was in it.
Then the loose button on Kate’s blouse dress came undone, and it slid down her collarbone. She yelped in panic, and pulled it back up to cover herself.
Justin shuddered. Winced.
He wished he could unsee the hickey on his wife’s neck.
Justin went to bed, hoping this would be the end.
She’ll go on a date or two, get whatever this is out of her system, and then we’re back to the usual-usual. Hopefully the version that includes sex once in a while.
But it was very much not the end.
Kate went on another date on Wednesday. A third on Thursday. She knocked out three more over the weekend.
Justin obediently chauffeured his wife to upscale bars and downtown dives. Night after night, he watched her stagger out of the car on her $200 mules and slingbacks, dressed to the nines, huge white breasts almost spilling out of whatever piece of designer couture she’d shoehorned them into that evening…a stagger that usually ended in another man’s arms.
A different man each night.
She met men at bars, at photoshoots, at equestrian events. She met men on Dr Gluckstein’s dating app. She met them everywhere.
The dates just kept coming and coming. When you’re built like Katherine Elizabeth Upton, dick is not hard to find. It’s a struggle not to drown in it.
Kate stayed out until very, very late. One o’clock. Two o’clock. There were nights where she didn’t come home at all. Justin just sat in the chair by the foyer until he finally nodded off to sleep, and when he woke up, she was back, like a magic trick.
He didn’t mind that. Better not to see her arrive, honestly.
Better not to see her drunk, smelling of strange smells, giggling compulsively, goaded by alcohol and mischief, bragging about how fun it had been, how thrilling, how exciting. Wanting to tell him all the gory details.
Kate loved this new wrinkle in their marriage. For some reason, she seemed to get off on describing her dates in photographic, blow-by-blow detail 2:00am.
Justin would have to nod and smile and say yes, babe and glad you had a nice evening. All the while noticing cologne-scent on her collar in a brand that he did not wear. Noticing marks on her skin that he had not made. Noticing bright horizons in her eyes that didn’t seem to include him. Noticing, noticing, noticing.
It was difficult to hold space for your wife, when you noticed so much.
He remembered how Dr Gluckstein had said that love did not diminish when it was shared. He did not know if that was true. What he did know was that his wife had not had sex with him in an entire month. And not through lack of trying on his part, either. Whenever he tried to touch her, he got cold-shouldered. I’m tired. It’s late. I have a headache. I have a photoshoot tomorrow.
At night, as he lay beside his beautiful wife, ragingly horny and unfulfilled…he’d look across, and see the lambent glow of her phone pulse deathlight over her face, turning it into a green Halloween mask. A witch.
Texting. Texting. Texting.
Setting up dates. Meeting new men. Free dopamine, holla.
“I’m not sleeping with them,” she said one night, turning to his side of the bed. “You trust me, right?”
“Of course babe.” Justin said timidly. She seemed about to get angry. “I trust you.”
But one day, Kate forgot her husband was in the house.
She undressed outside, and began suntanning in the nude at their Grecian-marbled pool. Justin saw the flash of bare skin outside, and went to watch. If he couldn’t touch, he could at least look.
Kate lay on a towel, naked under the blazing sun.
Her gigantic tits were rolling off her torso and onto the tiles. His mouth watered at the sight. They looked as big as pontoon floats. He began to get an erection.
But as his shadow fell on her, she squealed in shock, and hastily pulled a towel over herself.
Justin recoiled for reasons of his own. In the second before the towel went over her tits, he’d seen them up close.
Kate’s breasts were covered in bruises and bite marks.
Next week, another bombshell landed.
I’m the vine she grows on. As Justin drove his smiling wife away from the clinic, he ran Dr Gluckstein’s slogans through his mind, trying to silence the anguished howl screaming from somewhere inside him. This isn’t about shrinking me. It’s about growing her.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this, baby?” Kate smiled eupeptically behind a pair of sunnies.
He nodded in determination, hands throttling the wheel. “Yeah, I think I’m okay. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a shock, but…I’ll cope with it.”
Justin felt like a blasted-out building; roof gaping open to the sky.
Shattered. Hollow. Torn apart; his entrails sown to the four winds.
I’m holding space for her emotions. He was coming to enjoy Dr Gluckstein’s therapy cliches. I’m doing the work. You could just chant them like a mantra, chant them all day, chant your brain cells away into a bright pink light of pure mystical nothingness. I’m sitting with my discomfort. The slogans killed thoughts like a shotgun to the spinal cord, and that was a good thing. After that conversation, he wanted to never think again.
His mind flashed back to Kate, crossing her legs and squeezing her breasts together between her arms and batting her eyelashes. Knowing how to make him say yes.
“Honey, this open marriage of ours…I’ve decided I’m ready for the next stage of it.”
He turned onto the driveway of their mansion.
Tonight was a special night. He was not driving Kate to a bar or a club. Instead, she was bringing one of her dates into their house.
And she would be fucking him.
Justin sweated on the living room couch. He glanced at the clock.
His wife’s boyfriend was about to arrive.
The help was on leave, and Kate had worked her husband like a slavedriver—cleaning, scrubbing, sweeping, vacuuming. She seemed desperate to make a good impression on the man she would be fucking on her marriage bed.
Then Justin heard tires crunch gravel. A car was pulling up outside.
His heart shriveled to a raisin as a fist banged on the door.
“OHMYGOD!” Kate charged to answer it, breasts half-flying out of her sundress, almost snapping a heel as she ran. She yanked open the door, squealing like a seal hyperventilating on helium. “KEVIN! Come in!”
Kevin stepped inside.
Justin blinked, seeing what appeared to be a wannabe white rapper or nu metal singer, yanked frozen from a 1999-dated cryonics tube and flung in the microwave. The guy had frosted tips and mirrored shades and baggy JNCOs with a wallet chain long enough to strangle all of Limp Bizkit at once.
That’s who gets to fuck her, Justin thought in disgust and horror. Not me. THAT.
Kate pounced, fell into the white rapper’s arms; and planted a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “Mwah! You look good enough to eat!”
As he hugged Kate, Kevin nodded politely to Justin, who politely nodded back.
When he handed Kate flowers, she almost had a brain aneurysm. “Flowers, oh my God, I love them, they’re so perfect, you’re so perfect, thank you thank you THANK YOU!”
It was like she’d been given racemes secateured from the Garden of Eden. She gushed and fussed and flapped, finally shrieking at her husband.
“Justin, find a vase! Find water! HURRY! The flowers are fucking WILTING!”
The flower bouquet was forced into Justin’s hand. He stared at them in loathing. He remembered the last time he’d given his wife flowers. She’d said Aw, thanks, you’re so sweet and the next day he’d seen suspiciously similar-looking roses rotting in the compost.
Justin stuffed the flowers into a dry vase, praying they’d die quickly. Kate was too giddily distracted to notice that he hadn’t added water. She leaped around the kitchen, clumsily making mixed drinks for her new lover, spilling crushed sugar and ice everywhere. She seemed just frantic to get the evening rolling.
“So, what will you two be doing?” Justin asked.
Frosted Tips folded his shades into the pocket of his popped-collar shirt.
“Fucking, mostly.”
He turned to Kate. “Yo, we’re not gonna have him—” a dismissive finger jerked Justin’s way “—hanging around the house while we bang, are we?”
Kate’s cheeks flushed when he said bang.
Justin was lost for words. Rage crashed against him in a hot red tide, spiraling through his chest. “Dude, it’s MY HOUSE! And she’s MY wife!”
Frosted Tips shook his head, and gave a slow, rueful smile. “She’s your wife, huh? Coulda fooled me, broseph. Coulda fooled me.”
Justin leaped forward, fists raised, eyes slitted.
The guy set his feet, and raised his own hands.
“STOP IT!” Kate flung her body between the two men. “Cut it out!”
Then she squeezed hands around Justin’s shoulders, eyes imploring. “Honey, this is an emotionally challenging new dynamic for both of us. To be honest, I was hoping Kevin and I would have a bit of…uh…privacy tonight. If that’s alright with you…it’s our first night, after all!”
I’m your husband, you bitch! The entire weight of the sky seemed to slam down on Justin’s shoulders. This is real. This is happening. He liked curveballs better when they were at Wrigley Field, and when he was the one throwing them. His wounded pride was punctured by an image of Dr Gluckstein, all stern glasses and fussy librarian manner, wagging a finger at him. Be supportive. Allow your wife to grow. Don’t yuck her yums.
No.
Fuck no.
Fuck doing the work. Fuck holding space. He wouldn’t be humiliated like this. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair.
Kate had gone too far! with this bullshit!
“I paid for this fucking house, and I’m not leaving!” he snarled at them. “I’m staying right here!“
And then Kate cruelly slashed the neck he’d defiantly stiffened.
“Fine.” Her stare was a flat line. No fucks given. “Stay. But I warn you, we’re doing it all night, and it’s not going to be quiet.”
She sauntered toward the bedroom—his bedroom—ass swaying, holding hands with that fuck-ass white rapper with frosted tips.
“You’re gonna wish you’d left,” Kate spoke with a pissed-off nastiness he’d never heard from her before.
Kevin turned his head, sneering in triumph. He reached a tattooed hand behind Kate’s back, and unhooked her bra. It whiplashed from her shoulders, falling on the floor—boat-sized 28HH cups slapped on the tiles, with diaphanous silk strands fluttering behind them.
Justin watched numbly as his wife’s colossally vast tits flowed down her chest, pouring like rivers made of meat, falling in luscious mounds on her midsection. Thick pink nipples throbbed in raised bumps.
From the cold, Justin tried to think. Not excitement at the upcoming night of infidelity, pounded out on Justin’s bed. It was a cool day for LA.
In any event, he glimpsed Kate’s naked breasts for a brief second. Then they’d stepped into his bedroom and were gone from sight.
SLAM! The door was pulled shut. Guess I’m sleeping in the lounge room tonight.
Justin sat, trying not to listen to what was happening on his marriage bed.
He tried to ignore the rustling bedsheets, the bedsprings ringing, the two people giggling like idiots, their voices panted out and soft and eager. He heard hands undoing a belt, heard a soft flop of underwear, heard Kate’s stunned ohmygosh, heard the douchebag’s too big?, heard Kate’s eager ‘too big’ is fake.
Then he heard awful, wet noises throbbing rhythmically from behind the door.
It might have been oral sex.
Justin wasn’t angry anymore. That hollow, vacant sense had fallen over him again. Nothing mattered. Nothing was of any consequence. It was almost like freedom. He didn’t have to sit with his discomfort. He just had to sit. And sit. And sit.
It went on all night.
Kate was right—they weren’t quiet.
“Oh baby, fuck me harder baby, fuck me harder, slam me open with that big fucking cock baby…”
SPLOOOOOSHHH-WHAP! Plap-plap-PLAAAAAPPPP! SCHLUUUUPPP-SMAK!
Sex-noises slavered and spewed and slurped from his bedroom. An endless, frantic bassline of fat engorged genitals squelching as they pounded together, grinding out in a rampant, obscene blitzkrieg of sound.
“I’m gonna fucking cum again on your horse cock baby…GONNA CUM! OHMYGAWWWYURRMAKINGMECUHHH!”
Justin sat on the couch in shock, hearing his wife blissfully gurgle out her third orgasm.
“Uhhh! Uhhh! OOHH! FUUCK!”
His jaw fell open. His mind was a catatonic shell of sex-noise. Holy fuck, why are they so loud? How are they so loud?
GLORTCH! SKLORTCHHH-SLAAUUUURGGHHH!
How is it physically possible that a penis going into a vagina make so much noise? It was like the guy was pounding his huge thick long cock into the cunt of Justin’s wife right next to his head, so hard that Justin was getting facefuls of Kate Upton’s squirt.
SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP-SCHLAPPP! PLAAAAAAPPPPPSHHH! SCHLAAAPPP-SQUISH!
The deep, obscene squelch of brutal bull-rutting filled the house, drowning his ears. He couldn’t escape it. Every empty space in the mansion was like a chalice, immediately overflooding with gushy-wet, messy, squelching noise.
At some point, he glanced and saw the bedroom door was open. It had not locked, and had drifted open with the draft. His cheating wife and her boyfriend had been too busy to notice. Or maybe they didn’t care.
Either way, Justin now got to hear the unrated cut of a huge throbbing penis defiling his wife’s most sacred garden.
SCHLUUUUURRRRPPPKKK! Slllluuuurrrppp-gak-gak! SSSSSSCHLLLLUUUURRRRPPP!
He heard everything. Everything. Hips plapping against hips. A huge cock, happily slurping its way inside his wife’s convulsing cunt. Bedsprings rocking and jolting as Kate swallowed a fat veiny bitch-breaker down to the balls, ramming its bulbous head against her G-spot, triggering screams of primal ecstasy.
“Oh… oh… oh… uh… uhh.. yeah… like that!” Her voice was a blade, bright and girlish. Brittle. “Uhh! Uhh! Uhh! OOHH!“ A voice crystallized from glass and honeyed sugar, sharp, insatiable, and ready to fracture beneath its own need. Unstable. A sound born to shatter.
Justin kept checking horse race statistics on Deadspin, trying to ignore the drooling cuntflaps being ripped apart twenty feet away. Why did I stay? God damn it. Shoulda walked while I had the chance. I’ll look like a spineless pussy if I run out now.
The slapping, rhythmic drumbeat of raw animalistic sex raped his ears, twisting coils around his brain, wondering if he should shut the door at least. A particularly vivid plop sound made him wince. Yes, my bedroom is already metaphorically open, but does it also have to be LITERALLY open?
Kate’s squeals were like a Go-Kart motor revving up.
“Oh! Uhhh! That’s it! That’s IIIIIT! CUUUMING! I’M CUUUMMMMINNGGGGUHHH!”
Her movements were outlined in starkly visceral explosions of sound. Her hips surged forward, spraying cum. A sloppy tide of frothy fuck slop splattered over the sheets and their pummeling crotch, overlaid by her orgasmic screams.
Deafening. Disgusting. Abhorrent. A moist, slippery, visceral orchestral rondo of throbbing fuck-flesh squelching together. The sound damned souls hear if they end up in the fun part of hell.
He heard every slap and gush of flesh twisting knots into flesh, heard every heave of breath, heard every hump and thrust of her hips spiking forward from the bed.
Every detail seemed to scar hearing like shrapnel. He’d heard the precise moment, Kevin propped Kate’s kicking legs over his shoulders for deeper penetration into her writhing, orgasm-slick cunt, knew the exact picosecond his prick hit bottom of her fuck-sleeve for the first time.
Slooooorrrppppp sklupppppp shlorpppp! Slooooorrrppppp sklupppppp shlorpppp!
The tempo changed. A fast cunt-cleaving rhythm sliced the air. His cock whammed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Justin cringed, feeling flop-sweat trickle down his armpits. He could practically hear individual veins in the guy’s cock as they zoomed through Kate’s fucked-apart cunt.
They banged for nearly an hour. Kate had three more loud orgasms.
Then he heard Kevin gasp, socketing his hips deep within Justin’s wife. The fast rutting became a lewd, sticky cunt-rooting sound as he ploughed his thick shaft in and held it womb-deep, blowing a river of baby batter into her pleasure-dilating slit.
SCHLOOOOORRRRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SQUUUEEELLLCHHH-SPLUUUURRRRTTTT
Justin gritted his teeth, hearing an avalanche of thick gloopy spunk spew into his cheating wife’s pussy.
He felt sick and faint, as disgusting gurgles and splatters made the air tremble. Holy fuck, as if it wasn’t enough that he could hear everything happening on his marriage bed, he could now smell it, too!
He imagined wave after wave of spunk—crawling thick with wrigglers—blasting into Kate, deluging her eggs in a strange man’s fertile ballslop.
SPLUUURRTT… splurt… splt… DROOOOOL… drool… drl…
The sound of Kevin dumping his balls into Kate guttered out to near silence. Thin fast breaths beat upon the air like bat wings. Kate saying ohmygodohmygodohmygod, mouthing syllables faster than an Eminem freestyle. Then…
Plop.
Footsteps.
Kate strode naked and glorious into the hall.
She was silhouetted in sweat and blue light. A tall and curvy figure, hunched over with exhaustion, glistening with perspiration. Her tits swung in shadow beneath her.
“Huh…huh…” She sucked in desperate lungfuls of air, leaning against wall. Huge boobs slung and spilled, glistening heavily as they lolled down her chest. The nipples dangled in space.
He watched his wife with yearning, heartsick need. She did not return the favor.
Panting. Covered in fuck-sweat. Immaculately coiffed hair fucked into a wild tangled shock. Still lost in her own pleasure.
He’d never seen her look like this.
He’d certainly never caused her to look like this.
Kate’s long pale legs trembled, knees wobbling like a newborn giraffe’s. She wiped off her face, and stepped into the light of the living room.
“So, er…” Justin said.
Kate spun in sudden irritation, hands on hips. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He didn’t know what he’d meant to say. He just stared in stupefied horror at his wife’s cunt.
Rivers of cum went spewing down his wife’s thighs, a white tide bubbling from her slack pussy lips. The guy’s load flowed with the slow turgid thickness of dirty engine oil, with Kate the high performance V8. Her needy cheating cunt had opened up, swallowed everything in his balls, and was now messily disgorging it back down her thighs.
Kate wiped off her flushed face, found a meerschaum makeup compact, and began redoing her lipstick in a wall mirror. Justin just watched, trying to blot out the memory of the creampie running out of her.
She tried to be conciliatory as she dabbed away at sweat-running concealer.
“I’m really proud of you, baby,” her voice was husky with half a dozen cums. “You’re making big steps here.”
“Thanks.” He smiled, and assumed it was over. “So he’s leaving now?”
“Ha!” Kate howled in sudden laughter. Amusement clenched her abdominal muscles, forcing another turgid bolt of semen to pulse out of her cunt, splattering the expensive hardwood floors. “Oh, God, no! I love this guy. You’ll have to pull me off him with a crane.”
On that piquant note, Kate returned to the bedroom she’d debauched.
Justin remained still as a statue, and listened to the guy creampie Kate another two times.
Four hours later, her lover finally bounced. Justin flung open every window in the house. God, you smelled sex-stink everywhere. The whole mansion smelled like the inside of a depraved cunt.
Justin pulled off the bedsheets, meaning to burn them. He saw a huge wet spot that had formed on the mattress, on the place where he normally slept. They’d made a point of screwing on his side of the bed.
He was glad he’d be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future.
Still, he couldn’t be mad at her.
It’s not about shrinking me. It’s about growing her. He repeated the mantra until it lost all meaning, until it numbed his brain like Novocaine.
Justin smiled vacantly. It wasn’t a happy smile. It looked like it had been carved into his head like a Halloween pumpkin.
As the sun began to rise, he fell into a deep, painless sleep.
Hopefully tonight would be different.
The next night—
“Oh my god oh my god oh my god OHMYGAWWWWWWWWD I’m gonna CUUUUMMMM!!!”
Obscene sex noises flowed like a river through his house.
He felt like a drowning sailor, bobbing helplessly on wreckage, as a surging storm of noise washed over him.
Bedsprings ringing and ratcheting.
Skin slamming skin.
Thirsty mewls and howls.
Grunts, curses, cries, curses, prayers, invocations of the name of God, and wild ululating screams. He’d never known Kate had such strong lungs. A bit of vocal training, and she’d be a triple fucking threat.
“HARDER! TEAR ME UP! WRECK MY FUCKING SLUTHOLE, YOU UGLY MOTHERFUCKER!”
Assuming someone else wrote her lyrics, anyway.
Justin heard a meaty, heavy clap clap clap that seemed to hammer through walls like his heartbeat was through his own ribcage. He knew that sound from firsthand experience—sadly, not recent firsthand experience.
It was the noise Kate Upton’s 28HH fuck-jugs made as they sailed toward her neck, snapped back down with an arching whiplash of her pleasure-contorted spine, and whammed like water balloons against her stomach.
Clap clap clap plap plap plap plap plop plop plop plop
He smiled. When her boobs and body got sweat-lathered, the clapping noise got deeper. He’d forgotten that. Amazing what you forget, when your wife hasn’t given you more than a goodnight kiss in a month and a half.
“AHHHH. OOHHHHH. THAT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOO-OOOOHHHHDDD. GONNA CUM! GONNA CUUUM!”
What was she up to now? Seven? Something like that? Who knew she was such a machine-gun. I felt so proud that time I got her off twice in one afternoon. He swallowed, hating the taste of his own mouth.
Thoughts of sex plunged him into a dark place. And not the one he wanted to be inside. God, he missed her body. Being able to caress it, hold it, sculpt it. Filling his hands with hot flesh by the pound and palmful.
At least he still got to experience her sexually. Just not directly. Through someone else. Second-hand Kate Upton was better than first-hand anyone else.
“GONNA CUM! GONNA CUM! YOU’RE MAKING ME CUMCUMCUMCUUUUMMMM!!!”
Kate’s voice swerved and curved with desire. It pierced everything. He heard every grunt, every moan, every slosh of her enormous breasts cannonballing back and forth on her chest. It was stenographed on the walls of his mind.
“DON’T STOP! KEEP FUCKING ME! DRILL ME THROUGH THE WALL? DO YOU HEAR ME! THROUGH THE FUCKING WALL!”
The nonstop fucking went on for over five hours. Kate was insatiable, screaming and screaming, howling so loud the walls seemed ready to splinter. She blew up on the man’s prick so many times that Justin was surprised there wasn’t a river of female ejaculate trickling out the door along with all the noise.
They finally finished screwing at four in the morning. A scabby Chicano greaseball in a du-rag sauntered out, smoking a cigarette.
He fistbumped Justin on the way to the door.
“Thanks for letting me fuck your girl, tio. She a wild piece of ass! Jajaja!”
Another night. Another cock for Kate to pole-vault on.
Justin sat in the living room, staring at the rust-covered jeans of a Teamster truck driver. They were still in the same spot where she’d yanked them down from his hips.
He understood Kate’s need for excitement and risk, but surely giving the guy a blowjob right in front of him was a bit much…
Now he got to listen to them fuck. Viscerally hearing every thump of Kate’s tits as they hit her collarbone like speedbags, hearing every orgasmic moan wrenched from her throat.
It went on and on. The sounds of his wife getting a dick up her cock-socket.
Eventually, the smile on his face had a thin, strained quality. Like wallpaper, peeling off his face.
“Ahh! AHHH! AHHHH!!!! OHHH!!”
Once the man started forcing her to call him daddy and papi, Justin couldn’t take it anymore. He tried to escape. Tried to hide. He lifted up the comforter thrown over the couch and crawled under it, pressing a pillow over his ears. Just a child, scared of the dark.
It offered no resistance to her screams. Her orgasms tore through everything.
“So how are you finding your open marriage, Justin?” Dr Sonia Gluckstein asked, sweet and fake as Splenda, one stockinged leg folded atop the other. Her hands were laced, the fingers overlaid in a sharp steeple. She stared at him severely.
It was just him and her this time.
Kate was at home. The stovetop hood on their kitchen was broken—it short-circuited the house when they switched on the light—and they’d booked a repair guy to come over. Someone needed to watch him so he didn’t go upstairs and raid Kate’s underwear drawer.
“…Anything to report on that front?”
He grunted indistinctly. Sleep-deprived, he’d lapsed into abject shellshock, replaying memories of last night.
A skeevy-looking black guy with gray stubble and a windcheater had shown up at the door. He’d been older than Kate by at least thirty years.
He’d claimed to be a dog trainer. He’d stripped Kate naked, and put a pink collar around her throat. Then he’d ordered her to walk on all fours, a housepet with tits and a cunt. He’d shoved a lubed buttplug with a fluffy tail up her ass, and made her gambol around Justin’s legs, woofing and playing fetch. This elaborate doggy role play had ended back at the black man’s hips, where the dog had gotten a bone.
The therapist’s voice pierced the horror-fugue of his thoughts.
“Justin! Wake up!”
“Huh?” He jerked upright. “Sorry.”
“How are you finding the open marriage?”
“She’s had sex with forty different men on my bed.” Justin shuddered, revolted. “Forty-one, depending on what counts. It’s just…I know she wants to sow some wild oats, but I just didn’t expect there would be this many.”
“Your wife once said that another man would be the missing piece in her puzzle.” Dr Gluckstein’s smile. “I think she’s only just discovering how many missing pieces she actually has. You have to be empathetic here, Justin. This is your wife healing from trauma she didn’t know she had.”
“I suppose so.” He shrugged. She had a way with words.
Dr Gluckstein smiled, a benevolent angel. “I am very proud of you, Justin. Many men simply wouldn’t have the strength—the courage!—to escape society’s masculine programming, and allow their wife to heal in this fashion. From what Kate tells me, you’ve been a model citizen…aside from one or two lapses which we will discuss.”
Justin gulped, feeling strangely better. “Yeah…” he shrugged. “It’s just…it’s really hard, you know. Really hard.”
Blip. A text had just arrived on Dr Gluckstein’s pastel-pink phone.
Her eyes flicked to read it. Flicked back. A smile ghosted upon her face and then evaporated, like a smear of kettle-steam vanishing from a windowpane.
“Justin…” An acrylic-nailed hand slid onto his, and squeezed. She smiled ruefully. “I know it’s hard. But sometimes…”
…The challenge is the way? He thought.
“The challenge is the path.”
Almost.
“SONIA!” Dr Gluckstein’s receptionist yelled from down the hall.
Sonia sighed, and stood. The hand vanished from Justin’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Nadine? What’s wrong?”
“The printer jammed again! How do I unstick it!”
“Can’t you tell I’m with a client? A famous client? I’m disappointed, Nadine. Your resume indicated basic office skills—”
As Dr Gluckstein raked her receptionist over the coals, Justin leaned over to look at the phone.
It was unlocked. He read the text conversation on the screen.
KU: hi biiiitchh! got a quick q
SG: make it VERY quick. the village idiot just showed up for our appointment 😉
KU: should the guy be on top? if im trying for a baby?
SG: yes. on top, with his hips raised. missionary is best. vaginal undulations help the sperm reach the egg, so try to have at least one orgasm.
KU: thats usually not a problem lol
And then the latest message…
KU: ok, just finished. feels all squirmy and nice, like theyre wriggling in there 😉 can you keep you-know-who busy for another 45 mins? there are two guys and i wouldn’t mind doing the other one before he gets back 😉
He heard Sonia Gluckstein’s sharp-heeled footsteps, and sprang back into his seat just as the door swung open.
“I am sorry about that. Now, where were we…”
It’s not her, he thought. It’s someone else called KU. And someone other than me is the village idiot. I mean, didn’t she just call me brave and courageous? How could I also be an idiot?
Then Dr Gluckstein spoke.
“Justin, I think we’ll need to extend today’s appointment, to tease out some problem spots.”
She tapped the side of her mouth, thinking.
“Hmm…forty-five minutes should be enough.”
Months rolled into months, like necrotic pustules rupturing and suppurating into each other. No difference between one scab and the next, ultimately. Days became an undifferentiated smear of time.
A bleary, near constant orgy of sex droned out across the mansion. None of it involving Justin.
Kate fucked and fucked and fucked, spreading her legs for numberless men. Photographers. Maintenance men. Old friends.
Justin got used to playing the butler. Opening the door for her bulls. Taking their coats. Offering them breath mints and refreshments. Showing them the way to the bedroom. Dr Gluckstein had suggested he take on this role, to become more involved in his wife’s new lifestyle.
He was starting to get used to this.
If I behave, she lets me watch. Sometimes, anyway.
Justin felt like the eunuch guarding a harem. Observing a world he could never participate in. It was sad, but better than being superfluous.
And such a world it was to see…
He got to watch a man grasp Kate’s thick hips like a wheelbarrow, lift her up into the air against his crotch, and blow a load deep into her from a standing position. His cock had been so big he’d seen a bulge distending Kate’s lightly stubbled pubic mount. Her pubic mound had jerked and throbbed as he’d ejaculated inside it.
He got to watch three college boys take turns on her, pounding her into the mattress, reducing her to a whimpering heap of tits and blonde hair. One of them did whip-its while he fucked. Justin’s head spun like a piñata from all second-degree nitrous oxide he was inhaling. He thought he was suffering from severe brain trauma. Hoped he was suffering from severe brain trauma.
He got to watch a former PGA golfer take a dozen Ben-Wa balls on a cord, and press them one by one against Kate’s asshole. Using a nine iron, he literally putted them inside her ass, one by one. Her puckered asshole slurped up all twelve. The man had then promptly yanked them out in a single hard pull—the sound had been like a massive toilet clog getting unblocked by a plunger—and replaced them with his cock. She’d screamed so loud the chandeliers above still seemed to be resonating with her fundamental harmonics.
He watched her fuck other men until his eyes glazed over, and his brain seemed to dribble out of his ears.
“Is your husband mentally…okay?” Kate’s stunt cock of the evening asked while trying to get hard again. He cast worried side-eye in Justin’s direction.
Kate’s quivering legs were splayed. Her drooling gash had been fucked wide open, and three cumloads rolled out like the tide. “He just likes to watch.”
“It’s just, he keeps mumbling the challenge is the way over and over.” The man shrugged. “Like, what does that even mean?”
Kate missed a period.
Her belly began to swell; a cumulonimbus gathering before the storm.
As she took scores of lovers between her hips, Justin watched her growing baby bulge sloshing back and forth, like a larger version of her breasts. The sight of it swinging back and forth over her pumping, drooling crotch was faintly hypnotic. The miracle of life.
As Justin watched the bump catapult back and forth as she humped some man or another, all of his worries seemed to lift into the skies.
He kept track of the baby’s growth. Each week, her baby ball would rock back and forth just a little more. Her pregnancy was an explosion, a Hiroshima-sized nuke, time-lapsed down to extreme slow motion. Lots of little bangs instead of one big one.
In the final weeks, Kate lost herself to her own depravity.
A never-ending river of men flowed into their mansion, and flowed into her. All day long, the glass windows rang with her screams as she climaxed like a slut in heat. Justin stopped trying to clean up her messes. There were too many of them. The carpet and bedsheets and walls and curtains acquired seemingly hundreds of stains, each marking a spot where her pussy had ejaculated.
A small regiment of men planted their cocks into his well-fertilized wife, seemingly driven insane by Kate’s overripe, heavily pregnant body. He got used to seeing Kate’s legs splayed on their couch or their recliner or their bed, belly jiggling heavily as someone pounded his cock into her gash.
A feverish, baby-crazed mating energy had taken over her. The hormones racing through Kate’s body made her more sex-crazed than ever. It was complete anarchy. She took five or six or seven men a day. She was a beautiful flower, spreading and being pollinated by every single goddamn bee in the garden.
Everywhere, Justin heard the sound of the nymphomaniac blonde getting smashed and wrecked, her enormous belly wobbling back and forth, the sloppy squelching of thick cocks plunging in and out of her sopping wet pussy.
Glad for her, he thought, as his heavily-pregnant wife screamed.
Today, Kate was on her back, legs spread. Her sweaty thighs were spread in a diamond shape. A boy was pumping and rutting at the gash between them, his ass squirming back and forth.
He defiled Justin’s wife with long, eight-inch strokes of his cock. She howled, sweat running down her face. She bared her teeth as she orgasmed ferociously around the man’s rooting shaft.
“Be careful,” Justin said timidly. “She’s very pregnant.”
“No shit,” the kid said, grasping her hips for support.
Kate’s belly hung forward, an enormous bulging watermelon, distending to touch the ground. Her baby bump was drum-taut. Every movement made the obscene bulb quiver.
It would not be long now.
The college kid fucking her on a pile of pillows was just eighteen. Slightly over half her age. He pulled his eight-inch cock out of her dripping gash, and stood over her.
“I’m gonna fuck your boobs,” he said.
Kate smiled, panting in horny rapture, and held up her monstrous tits. They’d swollen into bulbous sacks of flesh that flooded over her hands.
“Think you’ve got enough cock for them?” Kate clapped her massive udders together. WHAP! WHAP! Her nipples seesawed back and forward, whiplashing atop rolling hillocks of breastflesh. “My husband didn’t.”
Justin had turned a corner. Once, a remark like that would have raised some hackles.
Now, he took his lumps with a smile.
The kid chewed her plug-like nipples, then plunged his face into the obscene canyon sweeping between Kate’s heavy monster jugs. He grasped both sides of her rack with his hands, and pressing huge white slut titflesh like a pliant cocoon around his head. Her breasts washed over him like tectonic plates, almost drowning him.
Then he hip-straddled Kate’s arched chest, using her pregnant belly as a backrest. He slapped his fat cock between her pale udders. It submerged from view like a pink phallic submarine, sinking into a thalassic sea of quaking, sweat-moist titflesh.
The college freshman started seesawing his fat cock between Kate Upton’s tits. Moaning, the kid thrust and pounded a sweaty path through Kate’s mountainous, slippery fuck-tanks, sending them wobbling as his slick cock fucked through. She squeezed her boobs, applying pressure inward, trying to stop his dick from bursting free of her cleavage.
The college boy hammered away at full-force at Kate Upton’s cleavage for over ten minutes. Then he lunged forward, howling in release.
His fat cock tugged free with a stickly squelch, pulsing and squirting in his fist. Semen hosed out of his penis in violent blasts, piling atop Kate’s breasts in clotted, heaped loops of genetic sludge. His ejaculate was as thick and messy as cake icing piped out of a chef’s pipette. He spiked his hips back inside, groaned hideously. His knees wobbled as his balls continued to evacuate themselves. A loud, gloppy splattering echoed through the room.
“Uhhhhh! SHOOTING IN YOUR WHORE WIFE’S TITS!” he yelled at Justin, sawing his spraying length between Kate Upton’s sloppy milk-filled jugs, making them vibrate. The huge fatty masses heaved, splattered with strands and ropes and clumps of ejaculate. He gasped, and pulled out of her cleavage trench. Plop!
Kate released her spunked tits. Gigantic preggo breasts collapsed beneath their own weight and rolled down to her sides; an avalanche of flesh that spilled across the floor.
She glanced at her husband. As did the kid.
Waiting for a response, a reaction, or something. But Justin just grinned like a lobotomy patient. No thoughts. Head empty.
“Babe,” Kate said, wiping handfuls of ballgoop from her rack. “What do you think of Shelley? Would that be a good name for a girl?”
On November the 1st, Shelley Upton-Verlander entered the world.
She weighed seven point one pounds, had a head of downy-soft fuzz, and grasping, inquisitive fingers. Her face was intelligent and strangely old. A child with questioning eyes, and a life ahead to discover, treasure, or endure the answers.
Justin Verlander and Kate Upton granted an exclusive interview to Women’s Choice magazine to celebrate their child.
The photoshoot was held at their Beverly Hills estate. Kate looked divine. A glowing, radiant goddess, incandescently blonde and beautiful. She had skin spun from flawless gold. Her teeth were white. A snake of long glossy hair was French-braided and then twisted back upon itself like a paradox, like some glabrous living snake. She cupped Shelley to a water-barrel sized tit that was paler than her body, like a moon carved of whitest chalcedony.
Justin stood over his wife’s shoulder as she nursed the baby. He did not blink when camera flashes popped.
He also looked happy. But there was something strange in his grin that unsettled the photogs.
The pictures came out slightly discomforting, mainly because Justin was in them.
He looked broken. Like a Pali mystic who has climbed a mountain and seen Nirvana. He had transcended. Attained enlightenment. His mind had fled the mortal realm, never again to partake in its mundanities. He had glimpsed infinity, pierced the cosmic veil. Nothing mattered, and in that nothing was bliss.
Justin was described as a model husband in the Women’s Choice interview. He’d been a veritable rock to Kate during her pregnancy, supporting her every emotional need.
It was mentioned—only in passing—that the Upton-Verlanders had opened up their marriage.
“You’re so brave,” the interviewer told Justin. “Most husbands wouldn’t have had the courage.”
“I’m just holding space for my wife’s needs,” he mumbled out rote therapyspeak, earning coos and clucks from the gathered women. What a respectful, empathetic, progressive husband!
“Was it emotionally difficult, seeing your wife with other men?” The interviewer asked.
A shadow seemed to wing a dark path across the sunlit Nirvana of Justin Verlander’s face. Just briefly, then it was gone.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I’m not perfect. I had moments of jealousy. I just have to remind myself: this new lifestyle isn’t about shrinking me, it’s about growing her.”
Kate handed Shelley over to her husband. The photographers scooted into position—this could be cover shot material.
Justin smiled again for the cameras.
Smiled, and held up Kate’s extremely cute—and extremely black—baby.
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