What's my motivation?

So the coil is out. We are now officially "trying for a baby", that whiney little phrase which has always made me cringe when I've heard anyone else say it.

I've told a few people - my mum, one close real-life female friend, a few online friends. I kind of want to keep it on the downlow. I don't want everyone waiting on tenterhooks for "the call", because I'm fairly sure it'll be a while before we conceive. I'm in my mid-30s, so my fertility may or may not be up to scratch, but while this was something that worried me a few years ago, now I'm more concerned that it will be the infrequency of our fucking will slow us down in the up-duffing stakes, and I don't really feel like explaining that to people when they ask why I'm not pregnant yet.

Of course, this could put rather a new and interesting spin on how we approach our sex life. I've been arguing for months for the concept of planning sex, booking time in to do it rather than waiting for spontaneous passion to overwhelm us. When you have the winning combination of a low-libido man, a woman whose confidence is stifled by his lack of desire, and the calcifying build-up of misunderstandings and assumptions clogging up the lust flow, spontaneous passion is few and far between. Even when it appears to be present, my unhelpful internal dialogue unfurls and spreads itself out like a damp tea towel on a chip-pan fire. V has been singularly ambivalent towards the planned approach, though as far as I can remember he's never really said why.

But now we have not only a brand new reason to fuck like bunnies, but also a damn good imperative to plan it into our schedules. The patterns of fertility are such that there's a relatively short window each month when conception is most likely. However, as it's technically possible to conceive any time, most experts recommend making love (OMG, "making love"! what a weird concept that is to me) at least a couple of times a week. He jokes, like all men probably do, that it'll only take one go with his super-strong über-sperm, but he doesn't seem overly opposed to the idea of planning in sex dates. Having said that, he hasn't actually said yes. Or no. I think I need to talk to him about it when he's in a peak state, get a proper answer out of him and, if he is willing, actually make a plan.

Of course, this is a wee bit complicated by the fact that he has only just started coming around to the idea that having kids might actually be a fun and fulfilling thing to do. Perhaps I should pitch his motivation to him - a well-fucked and pregnant B is a happy B, a B that's moving towards a future she wants. A happy B is the B he fell in love with. Surely he wants that girl back?

Last night was our first unprotected fuck, and very strange it was too. He was tired and didn't feel like it - quelle surprise - but had been promising me all week and I guess he knew he had to put out eventually. Jesus, that makes me feel like a rapist. We kissed and caressed standing up in the bedroom, and our undressing was awkward and methodical, but kind of exciting. We joked and chatted throughout - I can't remember about what, but it lightened the mood.

I laid him down and began to kiss his body, lightly drawing my hand over his cock and balls. He gasped and moaned loudly, but he didn't feel too hard under my touch. Was he faking, or genuinely enjoying while his body failed to catch up to what his mind was doing? For an instant, the movie in my mind unravelled and I glimpsed a future where erectional dysfunction combined with low libido into a big old mess of sexual dissatisfaction and childlessness. I reached a hand between my own legs and turned the voices in my head down. He tried half-heartedly to touch my pussy, but half-cocked is worse than no-cocked, and triggers the feelings that he doesn't really want me, so I shifted my body down and sucked his cock enthusiastically. It had been a few weeks and, God, I had missed his cock in my mouth. I love the looseness of the skin over the grainy firmness of the flesh underneath. Feeling it swell harder and hearing his groans turned me on far more than a missing-the-mark hand on my pussy. The voices in my head exalted - I am a sexual being! He wants this! He wants me! I felt giddy at my power and skill. My hips bucked and twitched of their own accord. Suddenly I was wet where before I'd felt embarrassingly dry.

By the time we finally fucked, he seemed to have joined me in the mental space where it felt right. I lay back, drawing a cushion under my hips and hooking his towards me with my heels. He grabbed his cock and lay it over my open pussy, stroking it over my clit a few times before redirecting it into my cunt and pushing hard into me with an "Oh, fuck!" His face scrunched up and, one hand on the headboard to hold himself up, he grabbed a breast and massaged it roughly, then slapped it across the nipple. I yelped with pleasure, but laughed silently at his change of tune - my god, there was actually passion there. He moved with more determination inside me, and my hand went right to my clit, clockwise circles the way I have for years. He was ready to come soon, and he thoughtfully stopped, rigid inside me, and waited. To my amusement, the climax-inducing images in my head were not the usual pornographic standbys, but sperm penetrating eggs and cells dividing. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud, but it did the trick. I fell over the edge and cried out, and when he felt my cunt squeeze and my back arch as I came, I felt his cock pulse against my G-spot as he poured his come into me, buckets of backed-up no-orgasms-for-a-week come. Peter North quantities. My cunt was actually full, and even the tops of my thighs were dripping wet and covered. He looked down at my pussy and said "Well, that's that done, then".

I wouldn't be surprised but, as much as I want to be pregnant, I kind of hope not. I want more of the same, please. Lots more.