Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Cheating,
Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1 - John found Olga. He married her and found happiness. She delivered his child, then panicked and left him, not leaving a trace. Why?
John examined the little plastic container in his hand. It had a blue lid and a label with his name on it. He turned it slowly, his eyes losing focus. The nurse who had handed it to him had been overweight and past fifty. Behind her a young blond bombshell in a tight nurse's uniform had walked by. She 'd crossed the hall flaunting her boobs and her sexy ass. It had made him chuckle. So much for logic, he'd thought. The ugly ones get to collect sperm, while the hot ones wash the wrinkled bottoms of ninety-year-old patients.
He wondered if he'd be able to perform. Would there be old Playboy issues in the little room? Maybe even some porn video's? Fat chance of that. Damn — why not employ that young blond nurse to jerk him off? He grinned, feeling his cock twitch in his pants. He'd be all right, he knew. His well-trained imagination never let him down.
John McCall was at the urologist's office at the academic hospital to leave a sample of his semen. He and his wife Olga had tried to make a baby for over four months now. He was 32, she was 28 — not overly young to start a family. But in no way old enough to expect problems in conceiving.
Besides, Olga had been pregnant before. She had skipped her period once and they had decided the time wasn't right yet. That was almost five years ago, when he was in still over his head in starting a career. Olga had by then gone back to school. They just didn't have the time, did they?
As he now remembered it had been mostly Olga who wanted the abortion. He just went along — he had hardly been able to picture himself as a daddy anyway. But the emotional toll it took on Olga had shocked him. She seemed so sure beforehand, and yet she had been out of sorts for weeks afterwards. Would he ever understand women?
Anyway, that was how he knew they could have children - or at least they could back then. Could anything have changed? Nothing important, really. Olga took tests last week and she'd told him all seemed okay. John thought he was in better shape now than five years ago. He had quit smoking. And he ran eight miles twice a week. He only drank wine at dinner, and an occasional beer at a party.
The not-so-sexy nurse woke him from his musings. She smiled and pointed out the room. He went in. There was no video. There wasn't even an ancient Playboy on the cold, white table. The blond nurse had to do — in his dreams.
When they met, Olga Jensen worked where John worked. At times they had even teamed on projects. It hadn't been love at first sight. John wondered if it had been love at all when it started. At the time he was still recovering from an unrequited affair with a girl that kept haunting his thoughts - and his nights. It left him numb and quite a bit wary of girls in general — not at all the perfect mood for falling in love, even at second sight.
The day Olga happened, he had a rather wet lunch in a neighborhood pub with a group of colleagues. Amongst them was Olga's boss. He had brought her with him. The lunch stretched into the afternoon. It was late autumn and rainy — the day turned dark around 4.30 p.m. Olga's boss had left, allowing her to stay. John had no need to look at the clock — his days with the firm were over.
They had some bar food and the afternoon turned into evening. At last they left the pub together. She had no ride and rain poured from the dark skies. He offered to take her home. His head was in an agreeable buzz. He supposed hers was too, as their conversation had been quite animated the last hour or so. She was fun to be with, witty and quite open in her likes and dislikes. More to the point: she laughed when he joked. After a minute of driving, her head lay in his lap. His hand found her hair, she purred.
The memory of her hair made his thoughts take a detour. They often did that, his thoughts — it was just a flash of fond reminiscing. Olga's hair didn't by nature have the color that you'd expect to go with her green eyes. So she helped a bit. She kept it always close to auburn — a dark-blondish red. As he later learned, the exact shade was a matter of importance to her. John remembered a day she'd been desperate. Her hair stylist had overdone the red. It had turned out almost pink. She rinsed it frantically all afternoon in the tub to get it back to her "own" color — ah well, auburn.
He chuckled, thinking back to that desperate day. He knew for sure he loved her by then. Through the memory he came back to that first ride with her head in his lap. She had rubbed his crotch with her cheek. His cock needed time catching up with the surprise — as did he. Recent experiences hadn't strengthened his self confidence, really.
At her apartment they stayed in the car for an hour — kissing. She had told him she would love to have him come up with her, for coffee. But she and her roommate had a few female friends over — amateur ballet dancers. They were in town and had to sleep somewhere. So they had made room for them.
He remembered the first weak, wet touch of their lips. He also remembered how his tongue tip poked at her mouth, shyly at first, but ever bolder. A rush of relief coursed through his body when she yielded. Two pink fishes swam round and round, playing, tumbling.
The kissing was magic, as was her body. She let his hand roam her chest underneath her cashmere top. A thin, satiny bra covered her breasts. His thumb traced a nipple. She gasped.
They necked and petted in the darkness of a broken street lamp. The windows misted over. He loved how she felt, how she kissed. He also sensed a numb panic at the pit of his stomach. What should he do? How far could he go? Again he damned what happened the last time. He couldn't imagine surviving a repetition of that humiliation. He also cursed his awful shyness and the inexperience that was the result of it.
His fondness of her grew rapidly in the weeks after their first kisses under the broken streetlamp. She admired him openly and complimented him until he blushed. She touched him and kissed him whenever she could. It was so easy to believe he fell in love with her — maybe he even did. Is it love when you can't stop thinking of her? Is it love when your feet refuse to touch the ground? He grinned. If it wasn't, who'd care about the difference? He didn't. Maybe she didn't either.
Within days it became impossible not to be with her. He could not keep his hands off of her - or his lips. Annoyed waiters informed them that there were other people in whatever establishment who might take offense. They just grinned. At other times they were the last to stay, while waiters started piling chairs on tables. In pubs or clubs they sometimes shared the same square foot, kissing all evening.
The first night they had sex was the third night they dated. She had been waiting for him at the top of the stairs to her tiny apartment, under the blinking light of a failing neon lamp. The dance of her tongue made him gasp. Her wet pussy lips engulfed his searching fingers. She had moaned into his mouth when she came — softly, discreetly.
That third night he had undone her bra after she lay down on her narrow bed. Her soft tits sagged aside. He cupped one. "They are beautiful," he whispered.
She shook her head. "Don't lie," she said. "They sag. I am only 22 and they sag. They are awful."
He looked up to find her eyes. "I think they are beautiful," he said. He took a nipple in his mouth and sucked. He felt her hand on his head.
After licking and kissing her creamlike skin, he returned to her mouth. Their intimate play of tongues hardened his cock. Her hand was around it. He reached for her pussy — she was very wet. Then her hand guided his cock towards her slit. He sank into it with a sigh. She was not as tight as he might have expected. But she was slick and incredibly hot.
"We need a condom," she whispered in his ear. "I am not on the pill."
He pulled out and watched her wrap the rubber over the glistening head. Her fingers made him twitch. She chuckled and took him back into her embrace. The heat of her vagina was overwhelming. He seemed to sink into its furnace forever. Then he started fucking her slowly.
"Aaaah, yes," she hissed.
He knew he wouldn't last long. Years of hasty masturbation in showers and bathrooms took their toll. He tried to distract his thoughts, but her presence didn't allow it. Come, please come, he prayed, hoping she would have her orgasm before he did. She started moaning. Her hot wet flesh slid up and down his cock. Then she gasped and he let go. Spasms pinched his ass cheeks, his balls and then the shaft of his cock.
He had no idea how much he spurted into the condom — it felt like it never stopped. He also had no idea if her orgasm had been real — or even an orgasm at all. They hugged close together on the narrow bed. There was a glowing cloud around them. He cupped her face in his hands.
"I love you," he said, and he knew he did. She smiled and kissed him.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They made love again later that night. It was better, though still awkward. After a while he learned how much she loved to be eaten. She told him how she liked it best and soon he loved to give it to her. He loved her taste, the intimacy and the way her thighs spasmed uncontrollably as she came. But her responses were usually modest. She didn't scream or even moan loudly. Her clit remained soft most of the time, as did her nipples. She sometimes got him hard with her hand, but she only once took him in her mouth. It bewildered him. It felt great, but as he looked down on her bobbing head and kneeling figure, he found it humiliating for her. He knew it was silly — she did it out of love. He should feel honored, but he wasn't. It made him feel highly uncomfortable. Maybe she sensed it. She never sucked him again. He never asked.
She loved to ride him, though. Maybe because he reached deeper into her that way. He sure loved to watch her from below as she gyrated, breasts moving, face working, eyes closed. He also thought it made her feel tighter. He sure came harder.
He got used to the shy way she climaxed. She never talked much. She wasn't a prude, though. They often walked around naked in his apartment, where they made love in bed, in the bath, on the couch and on the soft carpet. He remembered how they once got a phone call in the middle of their lovemaking. It was their realtor telling them their bid on a new house had been accepted. They danced for joy, naked in the middle of the living room — windows wide open. Her titties flip-flopped as merrily as his swollen cock. Ah, John thought, remembering. I did love her. I did.
He lived that first year in a constant high. The world was so much more special if traveled with her. They spent weekends at hotels in exciting cities, only leaving the bed to eat gastronomic firsts in exotic restaurants. Or to hit the streets for a spree of shopping. He bought her anything she wanted. She loved fashion, but was rather conservative in her taste. Some of his more daring suggestions she mildly dismissed as "too wild" or even "sluttish." He tried to have her wear heels under short skirts. He tried to seduce her to go bra-less.
At last she gave in and let him buy her a pair of knee-high leather boots with four-inch heels. He loved holding her as she precariously walked beside him. And he loved to see her bare chest move like liquid under a thin sweater. But after they returned home she never touched the boots again. Nor did she go out again without a bra.
In that first year they went to Paris. They just loved to walk the boulevards and watch the people. They also spent a week at the Cote d'Azur. John's new job was hard work with long hours, but it paid off. He got a substantial raise and a very nice bonus. His income alone already secured them a life of comfort and pleasure.
They married in December. It was a modest affair. John didn't really see the need for a formal event. They didn't plan on having children yet. And he never saw the special romance of the occasion. But Olga very much wanted to become his wife. So did his parents, his in-laws, his tax consultant and the banker who gave them a mortgage loan on their new house. There were too many good reasons to ignore.
They went to New York for their honeymoon. The city overwhelmed them in its energizing embrace. It drowned them with the crazy lights of the season. They hardly slept for the entire week.
John might not have been the romantic type where marriages, flowers and boxes of chocolate were concerned. But once married he shared his accounts with her, although his income was tenfold hers at the time. He said that if one takes marriage seriously, there was no point in being unequal financially. They never talked much about it, but he felt trust was synonymous to being married. He might be naïve that way, he admitted, but he couldn't imagine living together otherwise. "Besides," he said, "I couldn't make the money I make now without you. So it is as much yours as it is mine." He saw tears in her eyes when he told her that.
On the morning of their second anniversary, Olga found a tiny card on her breakfast plate. It was an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon. John watched her while she read it. He saw her face turn pale — then flush with color. The card trembled in her hand.
"You shouldn't have done this, John," she almost whispered.
"No," he answered, keeping his tone light. "I did not have to. I love you as you are. But I knew it would make you happy. Tell me it makes you happy."
A tear ran down her cheek. "But it is expensive," she said.
"If it makes you happy," he answered, "t is the cheapest gift I have ever given you." She rose and hugged him tightly.
"Thank you," she said and kissed him. "You are the sweetest man."
The surgery wasn't complicated. She just needed a simple lift to keep her young breasts from sagging. They were full and large enough to go without an implant. She had to wear a special bra for a month. The few tiny stitches came out after two weeks. It took the superficial wounds only a few days to heal and disappear into near invisibility.
She had insisted on full anesthesia, as she hated to witness what they would be doing to her. When she came to, John sat at her bed. He smiled. Her first words sounded garbled — he couldn't make sense of them. Her chest was a mountain of bandages, but things looked worse than they were. The pain was just a throb. He kissed her. Then he produced two tickets.
"Aruba," he said. "Five days, end of next month. I have a shooting there. Come with me. It's topless tanning at last!"
He laughed as he said that. He remembered how reluctant she had always been to even show people a glimpse of her less than perfect breasts. She rose from her pillow and kissed him. Then she cried.
The entire week had been a warm, engulfing cloud of happiness. Even after he left her in the mornings to do the shooting, his head stayed full of her. And when he returned, he found her glowing from the day's sun — topless on their little patio. They made sweet, slow love, right there.
After showering they went out to eat at one of the many places along the beach — sometimes with the crew, sometimes alone. And after that they just strolled to see and be seen. Or they went out for music and dance and a refreshing mojito. John was proud of the easy and sexy way she showed off her body. Her outfits were more daring — she even wore sandals with a modest heel. And she glowed.
He would never forget that week. It was like a golden backdrop to everything that happened later — intense memories to cling to. He remembered her dancing, eager to learn the sensual steps of salsa and rumba. He was way too shy to be a good dancer. He loved to watch her, though. And he was always there to hold her when the music turned to slower and easier numbers.
He remembered walking barefoot along the moonlit beach. There had been voices whispering compliments from the dark. White eyes in black faces — flashing teeth. She ate it all up and he was proud of her.
Aruba changed Olga. It was a change that didn't fade after they returned from the island. She seemed at last to have slipped into a body that fit her true spirit. She carried herself with a new grace — she laughed a lot and loved to be the center of attention.
John was amazed how such a slight change could mean so much to her. And he noted how her change changed him too. He always had been one to look in from the outside — a watcher, even when he was a child. It made him an astute observer. It also made him a frustrated outsider. But now it was easy for him to slip inside the shining circle surrounding Olga. It was a place where he felt welcome, safe.
It was also a circle that attracted people like a lamp attracts insects. John had to get used to that. Olga became a magnet for attention and she lapped it up. But whenever he was around, she included him. To the world they were the happiest couple — and the world envied them.
Olga finished school and found a job. New names popped up, friends to see after work, things to do. There were excursions and seminars, parties to go to. She always told him about them. She also invited him to go with her as often as he could. He was proud of the warm and popular person she had become.
He of course had his own obligations. There were trips for work, shootings and presentations. There were dinners and parties with clients and colleagues, international festivals in the sun of southern France. He loved to show her off whenever he could. He admired how gracefully she moved, how easily she wound even the most sophisticated people around her finger.
He knew he was envied for being her man. It was a new and thrilling feeling. It never stopped amazing him how such a tiny physical change could result in this entirely new persona. The surgery had been a turning point. It had changed Olga from a sweet gray mouse into a confident, sexy woman. It had allowed her to become her true self.
Life was good. Of course it wasn't good all the time. There was the regular need to travel. Work would keep him away at times. And after Olga found her new job, she also had her obligations. They shrugged and took it in stride. Everybody they knew led lives like they did. John might hate the term, but he knew they were yuppies. So life was good, but at a price, a price that John was more than happy to pay, for that same life had given him a present almost too incredible to encompass. He could not begin to understand it. He just accepted it and treasured it. He watched it with constant awe.
Years went by. They were filled with shared experiences and exotic thrills. They traveled together. They partied. They conquered a world of their own. It felt as if they were climbing a gentle but endless mountain — forever moving from high to dazzling high. He stared into a blue expanse that promised more and more with every day he woke up beside this amazing woman.
Then, one morning, Olga said she wanted a child.
John hadn't thought of children ever since that gloomy day of Olga's abortion. He guessed it was the male cliché to resist the idea of becoming a father. It must be the irreversibility of it — the never-ending responsibilities. And maybe deep down it was the jealousy of having to share Olga.
He had hugged and kissed her and had made some neutral noises, hoping to at least postpone the inevitable. But Olga didn't let go of it. So in the end he gave in. They tried for several months to get pregnant. Olga started reading books on the matter. Love-making became a rite of utility — it developed a mechanical touch of purpose. And nothing happened.
After four fruitless months Olga told him she had seen a doctor and all was okay with her. She urged him to do the same. That was when he ended up at the urologist's, ogling a sexy nurse and filling a little plastic container. The results were just below average. The little swimmers seemed healthy. The odds of getting Olga pregnant seemed favorable. It just might take a while.
He hadn't heard it. The TV blared the excitement of a full stadium into the living room. The agitated voice of a reporter drowned every other sound. Only later did he hear the loud rapping on the door — and the penetrating wail of the bell.
He jumped up and ran into the hall. He heard a high-pitched female voice. It was Olga's and she seemed in a panic. He tore the door open and she almost fell in. Her coat hung open — her dress was in tatters. One breast was exposed. Her hair and face looked a mess.
"Why didn't you open up?" she screamed, her eyes wild. "I banged and rang and ... oh god ... ooooh goddd!!" She pushed him aside and stumbled into the room.
John looked outside. The street was dark and empty. He closed and bolted the door. Then he turned around and went looking for her. She had slumped down on the couch, crying. Her hands were covering her face, her shoulders shook. He sat beside her, trying to take her in his arms. But she shook him aside and jumped to her feet.
"Police," she screamed. "Police!"
He went and grabbed the telephone, fumbling with it. Then he saw her eyes roll back into her skull. She slowly slid to the floor.
He ran to her and took her in his arms. "Olga!" he yelled. Her mumbling lips were a blur of smeared lipstick. Her eyes swam in a pool of dripping mascara. They only showed the whites. "Olga, what happened?" Panic overwhelmed him. He felt utterly helpless. She seemed far away. — far off where he could not reach her. He shook her by the shoulders. "Please, Olga?"
She collapsed in his embrace. He carefully laid her on the couch. The dress fell open - her underwear was gone, her body was a mess. He dialed 911 while he went for a cold damp rag and a glass of water. When he returned he yelled his home address into the phone and told them to hurry.
He knelt next to her. Her eyes had opened again. He mopped her forehead with the cloth. Then he poured some water past her bloodless lips. She coughed. With a flare the panic returned to her eyes. She pulled the coat around her and started shaking.
"A ... a man ... black man," she stuttered. "In the ... in the car. He had a knife." The last word came out with a wail. "I ... I was getting out of the car when he p-pushed me back in. His kn-knife was in my face. He said ... he said to drive him. He shook the knife and he said: "Drive!""
Her body shook. Sudden sobs made some of her words hard to understand. "I- I had the keys in my hand. I begged ... begged him to let me go. To take the car but let me go. He hid his face — a ... a handkerchief or something ... maybe he was wounded." She seemed to lose the thread of her story. Her eyes turned away from him.
Olga didn't speak for a while. Then she pushed at his chest and freed herself to look up at him. She seemed calmer. "He tore at my coat and ripped my dress open. Then he..." A new flash of panic struck her. "He ... he raped me, John," she whispered. She pulled him closer and her whole body shook. "It hurt, John. Oh god, it hurt so bad."
The words echoed inside his head. He mumbled her name and patted her back. They cried together. Then she pushed her fists against his chest and rose. Her voice was clear. "When he was ... done, I ... I pushed him away and ran. I ran, John. Weaving through the street I screamed for help, but nobody heard. Nobody! And I banged at the door and you..."
She accused him — he felt awful. "I," he said. "I didn't hear it. I mean ... the T ... I did not hear you! Oh god, honey, forgive me, but I did not hear you."
Her eyes had turned into black, bottomless pits. "I banged and banged and rang," she said. Her voice was toneless again. "I was so scared. I was going to die and you weren't there. I was naked and his goo ran down my legs. And you did not open. He was behind me with the knife. I stood there. And You Were Not There." She broke down crying.
They had informed the police and she gave them a description of the man. He had been short and stocky, she said — and black. His head was shaven, half his face had been covered by a handkerchief. He had sounded foreign — African, maybe.
She had also been examined by a doctor. There were traces of sperm and other proof of forced entry. They had tried to do a DNA test on the semen, but there was nothing with which to compare the results. The rapist obviously wasn't in the books.
Tests for STDs came out negative. Results from the HIV tests would take some months. The doctor advised them to abstain from sex or at least use condoms. Olga had taken the morning-after pill, as she had been off protection for months. Her physical health was soon restored, but she seemed shocked and psychologically damaged.
She acted scared and panicky for weeks and weeks to come. He could hardly touch her. But the greatest blow to John's confidence was that she refused to feel safe with him. He knew he ought to swallow his pride — right now was not the time to bother her with his hurt feelings. But hurt they did.
When they walked the streets she kept looking over her shoulder. Her step quickened whenever she thought she saw something conspicuous. She pushed his arm away when he wanted to reassure her, and cut into his words when he tried to calm her. She felt cold and distant, shutting him out — she humiliated her knight in shining armor.
John damned the god-awful rapist. He felt as if he was suddenly banned from paradise — punished for something he did not do. He felt scorched by the flaming sword of the angel at the entrance. The angel he loved.
"I am pregnant." There was a small tremor to her voice. She looked at him and away again. They sat at the breakfast table. It was Saturday. There were soft-boiled eggs, fresh fruit and tea. The Saturday paper lay scattered all over the place.
John felt a rush of excitement. He rose and took her in his arms. She did not resist — she melted into his embrace. She cried and so did he. But his tears weren't caused by what she had said. He cried because at last she had accepted his embrace again. After weeks of icy rebuke, she had once again let him into her circle.
He didn't know why she cried. Most probably it was the emotion of at last getting what she had been praying for. Maybe it also broke the pent-up tension. Or maybe it was just a hormonal thing. Who'd know? Should he care? She was back, she was his again and that was all that mattered.
But of course there was the uncertainty. He guessed she saw it in his eyes. "It is yours, John," she said. "I took the morning after pill, remember? It can only be yours."
He held on to her gaze. It was calm and steady. "It is ours anyway, honey," he said. He pulled her back into his embrace.
The pregnancy went without complication. Olga was a healthy woman. Being pregnant made her body fill out. Her hair became thick and shining. Her skin started to glow. And even in her last months the round, firm belly gave her an earthy sexiness. She never went for the wide, sack like maternity clothes. Her dresses were short and tight — almost provocative. And she knew how to make the best of her newly swollen breasts.
It was a very serene and happy time. Although he had never worked much with his hands, John decorated the baby room and the two of them had a lovely time buying all the new things they needed. More than anything John was amazed how easily they glided into a totally new phase of their lives. It was as if they opened a door that had always been there, but had been invisible to them. Behind it was a world they'd had no idea of, populated with people they'd never have otherwise met. Soft, caring people who weren't in any race for anything. And people like them, waiting for some new and miraculous thing they had never before experienced.
It was a world of women. They tolerated men for practical reasons, but he always felt that they shared an age-old secret he couldn't begin to fathom. He knew he shouldn't even try to. He also found out that he'd best play this role of benign outsider, as it seemed to give him a whole new set of credits with these soft, round bellied, sexy creatures of which his wife was one.
The contrast with the hard-boiled, commercial world he inhabited was immense. He didn't even try to bridge the two. But he always knew when he met a colleague or a client who was in similar circumstances. They never talked about it, god forbid, but they knew.
The actual start of her labor still took him by surprise. He had watched her grow over the last nine months. He had felt the child kick, had seen it on a monitor. The baby had been in their conversations right from the start. They had discussed names. They already knew it would be a boy. John had wanted to call him Christopher after his recently diseased father, but Olga had insisted on Stanley. No reason, she said. She just liked the sound of it — Stan, Stanley, a strong, manly name. He had not liked it, but in the end he gave in. Christopher would be its middle name.
Naming the child had brought reality closer. But it still shook him when she said her water broke. It felt as if an even truer reality kicked in — the irreversible one.
Olga insisted that as long as she was healthy, she wouldn't go to the hospital. So they had decided to have the child at home. There were no specific reasons to go to a medical facility. "I'll have it where we made it," she said.
It was not to be a quiet labor. The baby fought its way out of her in less than a few hours. Olga was restless all of the time, walking, standing, lying down, groaning and puffing. The cramps multiplied until there was hardly any time between them, so he begged the midwife to hurry over. He tried to hold Olga and comfort her, but she pushed him away. She cried out and cursed — all sweetness and glamour had left her.
The baby looked perfectly healthy, screaming at the top of its lungs as soon as it was out. The sheer force and earthiness of it all shook John. It threw him back to a primal level, where life and death were so real that they could be felt and tasted. He took the baby from the midwife and laid it on Olga's blood-stained belly. He slid a hand under her shoulders, helping her up to see her new born child.
The low white chest of drawers had a plastic covered mattress on top of it. On it laid a pink, naked baby. It looked tiny in his huge hands. He folded the cotton cloth between the wrinkled legs. Olga had proposed they would not use the ready-made factory diapers — they had to be what she called "the natural thing". Now he was here, alone in the pit of night, wrestling with unwilling cotton and safety pins. His head was filled with a myriad of confusing thoughts.
When he had laid the newborn creature on Olga's sweat- streaked belly, she had opened her exhausted eyes. Her mouth had already formed a smile, when she suddenly got even paler than she had been. A scream left her lips and she pushed the baby off her body. "Nooo... ," she cried — the word tapering off into a groan and then into a sob.
The midwife caught the baby before it slid onto the bed. It started to wail. John stared at Olga, then at the woman and back to his wife. He stuttered. "But, but Olga. It — it is a wonderful boy. All is well, honey. He is so lovely — look! Please. Please take him. He is yours. He is ours. He is our Stanley. Our boy!"
Olga turned her head away. She covered her eyes with her hands. Her shoulders shook. There were sobbing noises.
She refused to accept the baby. John tried to change her mind. He wanted to hold her, but she fought him off. "Cut it loose!" she hissed. "Cut the pig loose, get it away from me! Give it up or whatever. And don't call it Stanley. I won't have it!"
The shock was in John's eyes. He and the midwife cut the umbilical cord. The placenta had already followed. There wasn't much blood — all seemed well. The woman swathed the child in white cloth. Then she asked John to come with her.
"You shouldn't worry," she said in a whisper. "This just happens once in a while. It'll pass. We call it post-natal depression. Quite a few new mothers suffer from it."
"But she loved to have the child!" John said. "She has been wanting it for years. We have worked hard for it. It took us forever."
She shook her head. "It just happens," she said, caressing the baby's now sleeping little face. "Talk with the doctor, tomorrow."
He had talked. And after Olga kept refusing even to feed the baby, he talked again. A female psychologist visited her. She mainly told him to be patient.
A week went by. Olga kept refusing to see the baby. She had demanded and gotten the hormone shot to dry up her milk. And when her breasts begon to hurt, she used a pump to drain what little milk remained. She left her bed on the third day and was gone from the house till late in the evening. She refused to answer his questions and never looked for the child.
When she stayed away the first night, he called around. She wasn't with family or friends. No one could tell him where she might have gone. On the third day of her disappearance John noticed that she must have been at the house while he was out with the baby. Most of her clothes and some of their belongings were missing. There was no note or message.
Then their bank informed him that half of their joint accounts had been emptied to a total of € 20.000. That was the last thing he heard from her.
The night stood silently around him. He threw away the cotton cloth and tore open the first package of ready made diapers. "Hi, Christopher," he said to the baby. "Let's pamper your butt, boy." He'd swear he saw a smile.