Imagine being Little Anne
Imagine being nine months pregnant and cooped up in an attic for so long that you start to forget what it’s like to be on the outside.
Imagine being horny and hormonal every waking moment of the day.
Imagine your diary being devoid of entries for days on end as pregnancy brain prevents you from forming a cogent thought in your head.
Imagine having to go barefoot all the time because your feet are too swollen for your shoes and socks to bear and having to listen for the constant threat of creaks as you waddle about the cold wooden floor, feeling the splinters dig into your toes.
Imagine being plagued with nightmares at night and desperately wishing for some kind of escape.
Imagine being in there with Peter, they boy who fathered your baby, no more ready for fatherhood than you are for motherhood.
Imagine seeing him contort his pants with discomfort whenever he looks at your growing belly.
Imagine knowing what he really wants.
Imagine waiting until everyone falls asleep and then poking Peter awake, quietly gesturing him to follow you.
Imagine sneaking through the darkened corridors Opekta plant and onto the roof.
Imagine stripping off your dress that’s a few sizes for you and making Peter do the same.
Imagine making Peter lie down and climbing on top of him.
Imagine inserting him inside you because he’s too nervous to do it himself.
Imagine riding Peter like a horsey for what seems like an eternity, with only the moonlight to illuminate his face.
Imagine the sheer ecstasy of of having your insides filled with Peter’s hot and sticky goo.
Imagine looking up at the night sky with Peter and seeing the moon blocked out by chemtrails as armada after armada of Allied warplanes streams overhead on their way to Germany to take the fight to the Nazis’ backyard.
Imagine being reminded that soon, this terrible war will be over and that with any hope, you, Peter and the baby will to see the end of it.