More Stories to Make You Blush (15 page)

The two lovers were so close they felt they had been making love together their whole lives, yet without becoming any less passionate. Their gestures were tender, full of love and affection. In a sweet dance of lust they moved together, covering each other with kisses and stroking each other with increasing urgency. Matthew relived every intense second of his recent fantasies, but this time with a real live woman! He could finally touch her, feel the texture of her skin, her supple legs, her round breasts. Their bodies twined around each other in the most natural way. Matthew tried to delay the ultimate moment when he would finally plunge into the companion he knew so well without ever having truly savored her. But as their kisses and desire grew more ardent they could wait no longer, and Matthew slid inside her. They fell into rhythm with each other, rocked by the movement of their hips, exploring each other's bodies with delight, curiosity, and contentment. They seemed made for each other, Jane's hot sex perfectly gripping Matthew's impetuous member, now thrusting without restraint. He stopped a moment and knelt down behind her, lifting her close, then plunging back into the heat of her prone body. His hands could not stop exploring her skin, lingering on her throat, nipping her graceful neck. His hand reached down and found her trembling lips, spread them and massaged them, reveling in the young woman's eloquent sighs. Matthew's pleasure grew more intense with every breath, and finally he came inside her in a great liberating wave. For long minutes after he could feel the tremors of his companion's body. They fell asleep happy; any worries about the sudden change in their relationship far from their minds.

The following Saturday, light of heart, Matthew went off to do his laundry at the usual hour. He and Jane had scarcely been apart a minute since the night they had finally come together. He now realized how much he had always desired her. She fulfilled him in every way, and each moment away from her was painful. He spent his time at the laundromat thinking about the last few days, a smile of bliss on his lips. After the drying cycle was over, Matthew piled up his clothes and could not repress a mischievous smile when he saw a pair of pretty panties tumble out of the machine. He realized at this moment that neither he nor Jane had discussed the technique she had used so skillfully to seduce him. He was surprised that she had not yet given it up, for obviously she had not. She'd really pulled one over on him! If it had not been for her and her adorable little game, they might not be having such a wonderful time together! How happy he was she had made the first moves!

He picked up the panties and put them in the basket with his other clothes. At that moment an older woman appeared—the one he had seen the day he had come a bit early, hoping to catch the trickster in the act. She seemed preoccupied, slowly walking around the room, examining every machine. After a few minutes of careful searching she turned to Matthew with obvious embarrassment.

“Excuse me, young man. I don't suppose you happened to find something in the dryer? I'm so absentminded, I've been forgetting things for weeks when I come do my wash. I've lost all my nicest underwear, and my husband is starting to wonder.”

 

 

 

I don't think I'll ever forget that eventful autumn. As the leaves on the trees changed color and we, poor humans, braced ourselves for another few months of winter misery, my life was falling to pieces. In a single month (though it was a lovely September) my boyfriend left me, I lost my job, and almost got thrown out of my apartment for not paying the rent, which had, until then, been the responsibility of the aforesaid boyfriend.

After a long period of feeling sorry for myself I had to face facts: I'd been asking for it! The whole tailspin started when Jerome left me and for that, I had only myself to blame.

The problem began with a little party we threw to celebrate my birthday last January. I was looking at my friends gathered together, and realizing how lucky I was for such a show of friendship from so many people I liked and respected. But I suddenly understood that something was missing, some little thing that would make my life complete. And this little thing could be summed up in one word, “posterity.” After I departed from this life nothing would remain to continue my memory. Nothing tangible, anyway. After that moment I could just think of one thing, having a baby. Of course I'd thought of it before; I'd wanted to have a family for as long as I could remember. But I kept putting it off, again and again. “When I'm in better shape financially,” I told myself; “when I've found a man I want to spend the rest of my life with,” or “when I've fulfilled my career goals.” When, when, when …

Analyzing my life that evening, several things became clear. First, I was living with Jerome, whom I loved enough to imagine as the father of my children. We didn't have a lot of money, but after all, wasn't love what counted—wasn't love what a child needed most? As for my career I had to admit it wasn't turning out the way I'd hoped; I seemed to be getting farther from fulfilling my goals, not closer. So what was holding me back from having a baby? The answer to all these questions was, obviously, “Nothing!” Once I realized that, the idea of conceiving a child became a total obsession, despite my companion's lack of enthusiasm about my new “resolution.” But I did not consider his attitude an obstacle. I'm a stubborn woman, and was sure that once he was confronted with a
fait accompli
, Jerome would jump for joy and welcome the little jewel with open arms. I was equally convinced that all I had to do for that miracle to happen was put away my contraceptives. To put my conscience at rest I tried for several days, even weeks, to convince Jerome of the benefits of my plan. But this was no more than a simple formality. After persevering for awhile I concluded that my happiness would be his happiness. I put an end to my attempts to persuade him and simply went into action. I stopped bothering him about it. I stopped talking about babies, stopped sighing as if my heart was broken when I saw an infant on television or in the street. In short, I pretended not to be thinking about it any more. What Jerome didn't know is that I'd also thrown my diaphragm away, saving only the case, which I left lying around each time we made love. If I conceived I could always feign innocence and refer to it as an “accident,” and flatter him by telling him he must have dynamite sperm to be able to get past that thick latex barrier!

To ensure the desired result I had taken care to find out about the process. I knew which times of the month were useless, and which times my plan was most likely to succeed. Maybe Jerome found me unusually forthcoming on those days I waited in bed for him to get back from work, wearing my skimpiest lingerie, and striking the most enticing poses. But he never seemed to wonder about it, preferring to think it was plain desire, fired by his incomparable sexual prowess. Of course I let him believe what he wanted, while trying not to be too obvious, because men are sometimes less stupid than they seem!

But anyway … eight months passed and still nothing had happened. I started to get discouraged, and one day I was struck with a terrible doubt. It wasn't that easy after all; was something going wrong inside my body? I swept these unpleasant thoughts from my mind and tried to pull myself together. I took the initiative once again, taking advantage of the fact that we both had a week's holiday coming up at exactly the right time. We were going to a charming little country inn where we could “give free rein to our passion.” Jerome pointed out that our passion was already pretty unreined as of late. But I told him, “You drive me wild! If you think I'm hot now, think how we'd be with a whole week to live out our fantasies!” He couldn't resist. On the tenth day of my cycle we left for the country. I was already overjoyed by the idea of my baby being conceived in such an enchanting setting.

For the whole week I gave him no peace. I left nothing to luck or accident. True, I'd read someplace that you got the best results when you let a day go by between each relation so the man could “recover his strength,” but I considered this detail totally unimportant. I used my imagination, seducing him in a different way each time to take full advantage of his precious juices. I transformed myself from courtesan to frightened virgin, from brazen whore to curious young girl, and he savored each character with increasing vigour. I was in heaven! In seven days we had made love at least eleven times, and I told myself that if it didn't succeed, it wasn't because we hadn't tried! But I didn't have the time or opportunity to elaborate on this theory because at the end of the month, Jerome finally figured out what was going on.

When my period arrived two weeks after our little adventure I didn't have the strength or the desire to hide my disappointment. The first two days I was in a foul mood, swamped in dark thoughts (this often happens in such cases), and refused to get out of bed, moping around in a gloomy slump. On the third day, his patience worn out and contaminated by my bad mood, Jerome started a major housecleaning to calm his nerves. He cast me disapproving glances from time to time as I sat watching TV, stuffing myself with ice cream. Half an hour later a livid Jerome snapped off the television and planted himself in front of me, flailing the diaphragm case like a lethal weapon.

“What's this doing in the bathroom, empty?”

“What do you mean? It can't be empty.”

“Caroline, what kind of game are you playing?”

Oh-oh! He'd caught on; I didn't have the energy to deny anything, feeling it was a losing battle. A terrible quarrel followed. He called me every name under the sun, accusing me of deliberately betraying his trust. I just sat there, not even trying to defend myself. Why bother? He was no idiot. Finally, he left, slamming the door behind him, leaving me to understand that he could never forgive me, and refusing to admit that he was plain terrified by the idea of being a father with all the responsibilities it entailed. He disappeared into the night and I didn't see him until a few days later when he came back to get his things. It was a very hard day. He gave me no chance to explain or to try and make him understand how important the desire for a child had become. The breakup was final, definite, and complete.

I was devastated. In the following weeks, I missed a lot of work, mumbling something about a mysterious illness. My general attitude was far from charming— and you have to be charming when you work at a dating agency. My work performance was declining, and finally, one day, my boss overheard me being downright rude to a would-be customer. He fired me on the spot. So now I was not only single, but jobless as well. I tried to get a grip on myself and come around to the idea of looking for another job. Time passed—it does have a way of flying by, sometimes—and my situation showed no improvement. The only time I reacted was when my landlord gave me an ultimatum after I told him one too many times that I'd “forgotten” to pay the rent. Finally, I pulled myself together, found a job in another dating agency, and got a bit of order back in my life.

But I felt really alone. My breakup was still very recent. However, I had to admit that what I missed most was not so much Jerome, but the part of his anatomy that contained that necessary ingredient for making a baby. I had not put the idea out of my mind, far from it. I wanted that baby more than ever. I even told myself any man would do, as long as he had a good disposition and other qualities I wished to transmit to my child.

I started to look more closely at the men I knew, examining them with a critical eye. Nothing of interest there. I had some very nice male friends, but the idea of going to bed with any of them seemed too strange, almost incestuous. What's more, one of them was gay, the other happily married, and the third one too unstable, both financially and emotionally. Next, I tried the agency I worked for. “What better place to find the perfect father?” I said to myself, full of enthusiasm. It was simple. All I had to do was search through the files of all available men and determine their “pedigree,” at my leisure. Many of these men seemed like good candidates; I'd long since stopped believing that the clientele of dating agencies was solely made up of losers and dropouts!

I got right down to work. Isn't the computer a wonderful research tool? I made a first selection on the basis of a few vague criteria, like age, height, and social standing. Did I want someone single or not? A married man would have the advantage of not being around too much, but he also might not be available on the nights I really needed him! My experience with Jerome was enough to convince me that you don't get pregnant on your first try! No, he'd have to be single. I'd just get rid of him afterwards, if I had to. I left the age category fairly open so as not to limit my research unnecessarily. Next, height; if I had a boy, I'd want him to be tall and athletic. Hair color? I chose brown or black. Eye color? Hazel, why not? I decided not to get into the “special interests” category, preferring to examine each case separately. Finally, I pushed the “return” key one last time, and so began my research for the ideal man. The computer pondered for a few moments, then presented me with my first file: fourteen candidates. Fourteen! Fantastic! But my excitement dropped a few notches when I read the data on the screen.

“John, fifty-four, single. Currently unemployed. John is looking for a classy, sexy companion, and is not afraid to broaden his horizons in order to discover the pleasures of life.”

I had nothing against broadening my horizons and considered myself fairly sexy. But this John, though six feet tall, was seriously overweight. That was no father for my son, and certainly not for my daughter! I continued reading.

“Stan, twenty-two, marathon runner.”

Hmm, this was interesting! A bit young, but that wasn't a problem. Quite the opposite! But as I read on, I saw he was looking for a man in his forties who was as athletic as he was. Too bad! Next …