Pregnancy and motherhood had not only sharpened her planning skills, they had given her time to act on them. Not when she was dealing with the baby obviously but in those times in between, the times her husband had spent with her before she became a mother figure. Seventeen months (the last five months of her pregnancy and the first year after her daughter was born) were spent in emotional loneliness, fantasy, and scheming.

She would lie in bed with her husband, feeling large, or later nursing and feeling less large, watching men on television and wishing she was married to them instead. She especially liked the brawny, brainy, take charge do it yourself types on home improvement shows, the kind of men who would work for her, who would work with her, who would be real partners in love and life and above all, in bed. There was one man she wanted in particular, the enormous, handsome, muscular landscape architect on the show where they came to your house and helped you with your problems. She had a problem she wanted help with, and it had nothing to do with landscape architecture, but she had plenty of time to figure out a way to have him. Just once. Maybe if he had her once he would want her forever, but even if he didn't she would at least have a memory to carry with her for the rest of her life.

One fine morning in April, the morning of her daughter's first birthday to be exact, she announced to her husband she was ready to emerge from the house, to start doing something beyond motherhood, to work on a landscaping project outside that she'd been thinking about for a while.

"Sure honey, that sounds great," he said, not looking out from behind the newspaper.

That afternoon, with her daughter strapped to her back, she went out to buy party stuff and building supplies for a walkway. The young man at the home improvement store was very helpful and even flirtatious, and she was tempted to take him home with her and take advantage of him while her daughter napped, but she had a plan, and she stayed focused on it.

Every day for three months after her daughter's first birthday she spent an hour a day in the hot summer sun on her hands and knees in the rich dark soil of her yard, shedding weight pound by pound, building a new walkway brick by brick from the back patio around the house to the driveway, until she had reached the steep little hill from the driveway to the yard.

It was another week before her husband went outside and saw her handiwork. He called to her and she joined him, stepping out through the sliding glass door of the kitchen and walking with him down her walkway, smiling proudly as he exclaimed on what a beautiful job she had done.

"What are you going to do about the end?" he asked when he reached the steep little hill where a small flight of stairs obviously belonged and wasn't.

"I have no idea," she answered, "I had this vision and I went with it, and then I hit the end and I stopped. But I'm very happy with it and it's kept me busy and fit for three months. If I run get the camera can you take a picture of me on it?"

Her husband nodded. She returned a moment later with the camera, which he took from her, and with one more button undone on her blouse, which he didn't even notice.

He took several pictures of her standing on the walk, and then posing with a shovel, and then down on all fours looking up at the camera with a brick in her hand, a very lewd look on her face, and yet another button undone on her blouse. He smiled indulgently, but with no hint of arousal.

That night as they lay in bed watching the show with the enormous, handsome, muscular landscape architect who comes to your house and solves your problems, her husband suddenly said "Hey honey, maybe you should contact them about how to build a stair for your walkway. Their studio's not that far away. I bet they might help."

"That's a great idea honey!" she answered. "Why didn't I think of that myself?"

The next morning she sent an email to the show, attaching the pictures of the path and the hill she had taken herself a week before and two of the pictures her husband had taken of her on the path, one with the shovel and one on all fours with the brick.

Outside it is growing dark. The stairs are built. The film crew has gone back to the studio. Her daughter is napping. Her husband is still at work. The enormous, handsome, muscular landscape architect is standing naked behind her on the bedroom rug as she kneels on the bed, his hands on her hips, his cock buried in her cunt, his hips thrusting, is lying on top of her on the same rug, her legs spread wide, his cock buried in her cunt, his hips thrusting, is walking around the kitchen, jogging her up and down, looking out the sliding door at the patio and her walkway, her legs wrapped around his back, his cock buried in her cunt, as she comes with each jog, with each step he takes, is standing at the top of the new stairs they have built together, out in the open but protected from prying eyes by hedges and darkness, fully dressed now but with his pants unzipped as she kneels in front of him still stark naked, keeping an ear out for the sound of her husband's car, his cock in her mouth and her fingers lightly tickling her clit, having come already more times than she can remember, finishing him off now, swallowing him as he explodes, his come down her throat, filling her mouth, trickling out and down on to her neck and on to her breasts.

It is time for him to go. It has been time for him to go. Reluctantly she puts his cock back in his pants, zips him up, buckles his belt, stands and kisses him deeply, her mouth still full of his come, waves a little wave, turns back to the house and laughs to herself, "What a great idea honey," as she scampers naked back up her walkway through the door to check on her daughter, to jump in the shower, to cook dinner, to be clean and ready and dressed and dutiful for her husband when he arrives home late from work as usual, "Why didn't I think of that myself?"