Camila dipped two manicured fingers under each of her small breasts and lifted them higher in the corset top. In the master bath’s full-length mirror she double checked that her nipples weren’t visible above the hem of the Playboy bunny costume. She leaned forward and shimmied her shoulders and the mounds jiggled like a Victoria Secret model. The corset lifted her pert breasts to new heights. With this bit of magic, she might have to give up her seat on the itty bitty titty committee. If those nitwits on Instagram could hock waist trainers as a weight loss device, she could rock a corset. 

The playboy bunny costume was made for her by a seamstress in Des Moines. While taking the measurements and the fitting was a bit awkward, the body suit was a perfect fit and modeled on the original bunny uniform worn in the 1960s. Hugh Hefner himself would have appreciated the seamtress’ attention to detail.

Her phone chimed from her nightstand. No doubt an automated notification from one of a half dozen apps tracking her fertility and a reminder that it was baby-making day. She adjusted her bunny ear headband and turned to check the fluffy bunny tail stuck to her ass with velcro. Over the past year Camila had tried various other costumes to spice up the sex during their fertile window in hopes her enthusiasm would spread to her ova. As she looked at the full length mirror in her walk-in closet, she knew this time was different. The stockings and heels made her feel nine feet tall and invincible like a superhero. She used two fingers to caress the swell of her white breasts which quickened her breath and sent shivers down her spine.

Even after five years of marriage, their sex life hadn’t suffered. This wasn’t some desperate attempt to rekindle a flame they hadn’t tended. Dr. Benson, the very expensive fertility guy they found in Des Moines, recommended that they only make love during her fertile times rather than fucking like rabbits like they normally would.

At first, the sexual prohibition had been insufferable. They’d bickered and snapped at each other like feuding roommates. That’s when she started playing with costumes to transform their nights of lust into a special event. This change ensured that they looked forward to the nights starred on the kitchen calendar. But into the third and fourth month of the baby making scheme, they’d learned to cope. Jonas had thrown himself into his work at Granum Labs with a special project he wasn’t allowed to talk about, but occupied much of his mind at work and at home. Camila had initially focused her energy on civic duties and volunteering for different beautification committees through city council in their adopted home of Mineral Springs. For a while she tinkered around with different hobbies: knitting, quilting, even taking a few classes in painting at the local art center. Now she spent most of her days deeply engrossed in a book and leading a few book clubs in their adopted town of Mineral Springs. She even called herself a “bookstagrammer.” although she hated that made up word. 

One last look in the mirror, she double-checked her winged eyeliner and false eyelashes before heading downstairs. She wanted to meet him at the door with a cocktail in hand.

At the sideboard in the formal dining room, she poured a double shot of Grey Goose into the cocktail shaker full of ice, added a splash of dry vermouth, replaced the top and gave it a shake. Her now bountiful breasts bounced and jiggled with the motion. God, she loved this. If only her tits looked like this all the time. Maybe after the baby and breastfeeding, she’d invest in some great tits. Although she wanted to keep jiggling her tits, she didn’t want to chip the ice and water down Jonas’ martini. She popped off the top and used the strainer to pour into the chilled glass. Damn. She’d forgotten the olives in the fridge.

Her heels clicked a great rhythm as she strode into the kitchen on the tile floors. As she stood with the fridge door open debating between classic queen olives and the blue cheese stuffed ones, she heard the front door bang open. Jonas was home.

She speared three queen olives onto a toothpick and dunked them into the liquor. She put the tippy martini glass on a small beverage serving tray, lifted it one handed, and clacked across the tile floor to greet her husband in the living room.