Chapter 2

Olga Jensen was 18 when she came to the city — alone and determined. She was filled to overflowing with the recklessness of the truly innocent. She would conquer the world. But mostly she would show her parents, her boorish ex-boyfriend and all the awfully stuffy people in her small town. She would show them who she really was and shame the tall blonde girls who had looked down on her for as long as she could remember. She would have her revenge on the teachers who shook their heads as she plodded on from one meager grade to another.

She got off the bus and breathed deeply. She hoisted the back pack over her shoulders and gripped the handle of her suitcase. The city stood around her — taller than her sleepy hometown, louder too. There was energy in the air — it buzzed and droned around her. If she reached out, she could touch her future.

Exhilarating was the word.

She found the apartment that she would share with a friend's friend. Her room was dark and small and at the back of the house, but she didn't mind. She was here. She had made it and she would stun the world. But first she would start in the secretarial pool of a large international advertising agency. It would be dull work at a low pay. She was the new, provincial nobody. But she didn't care. She was free at last and everything was amazing. There was nobody here to tell her what to do or to belittle her. There was no one to hold her back.

The men at the office looked awesome in their tanned skins and their Armani power suits. Their faces were fashionably unshaven, straight from the latest glossy magazines. The women would be called whores back home, but here they couldn't care less in their tight outfits and killer heels. They shook their styled, hair and painted their fingernails as they laughed throaty, shameless laughs with very white, flashy teeth. And, most amazing, they talked to her, they even listened. They advised her on what to wear, how to look. And they invited her for drinks after work.

She was never a drinker, but now she drank till there was a delicious buzz in her ears. She shared the gossip and danced in loud whirlpools of disco music. She let herself be dazzled by the lights and walked the cobbled streets on uncertain legs. She had the time of her life.

From Olga's diary:

"Yes! Yes, yes! I did it. I'm here! And it is all I dreamt of. The freedom, the people. They see me, they hear me, they think I matter! I am one of them!"

On weekends the girls took her with them to the beach to drink white wine and get a tan. They flaunted their tits for beach bums with blonde streaks in their windblown hair. Olga kept on her bikini-top, insecure about her imperfect breasts. But she knew she shouldn't be a party poop when the inevitable joint made its rounds. Or when greedy hands felt her up after the sun had sunk into the sea.

She was fearless. She kissed in hidden corners. She made out on dance floors and in the dark corners of cinemas. She took the little pills that kept her safe and the other ones that made her feel invincible. She gave clumsy hand jobs and sloppy head. Three times now she had let a guy fuck her — twice in the back seat of a car, once very hastily in a rather dirty alley.

She wouldn't have woken up if it hadn't been for Melanie. Melanie was an older woman — really old. She must have been at least thirty-five and a close colleague of hers. She had salvaged Olga from the alley where she found her, drunk and dazed and fucked out. The next morning Olga woke up on a couch in Melanie's light, clean apartment. Over breakfast the woman had told her what had happened and she warned Olga what could happen if she continued her indiscriminate ways. It made the girl's bristles rise. Who needs new parents?

But after that she went out less often. She took courses and was promoted. She had allowed the magic of her new life to rush through her body and mind. And she was proud of herself for having turned back at the edge — not shied away, she told herself, but chosen to back off. She was a seasoned city dweller now, she told herself. She knew the ropes. She belonged.

The Friday night before Olga turned 21 her friends and colleagues took her into town to celebrate. It was the night that she met him. He stood in the gloomy back of a bar they had visited after dinner. He was darker than the darkness around him — except for his eyes and the spotlight of his smile.

From Olga's diary:

"He said his name. I hardly heard it. I presume I told him mine — who cares? I guess I giggled a lot. I must have acted like a fool, but it did not matter. My hands wanted to touch him. My fingers needed to feel the strong muscles of his bare upper arms, the moist silk of his generous lips. God, how I needed to feel his body against mine."

Olga never looked back for her friends. She had no eyes for their knowing smiles as they left her with the tall black man who so obviously made her forget the world around her. The last one to leave was Melanie and when she went out, she shook her head. "Call me tomorrow," she said. Olga didn't hear her.

They had not danced. She had not even drunk much. She just drowned, sucked in by his incredible eyes. His embrace felt sweet and natural. Her hard nipples pressed into his chest as if they belonged there — just as her trembling lips belonged on his, her tongue inside his mouth, her belly against his growing cock. There had been no hesitation, no reserve. She knew it was love, even though she had never felt it before.

She didn't remember leaving the bar or how they had come to this tiny room. She could not remember losing her blouse or her bra, her skirt and even her panties. But she remembered coming hard and long when his hand touched her naked pussy for the very first time. She arched her chest, feeling his soft greedy lips around her nipple. Just touching her had been enough to send her into a world she had never been before — and make her faint.

When she came around, she felt that he had entered her. His stone hard erection stretched her tight lips wider than ever. Her legs were spread and up against her body. He was in all the way, and he was fucking her, pushing the air out of her lungs. She wasn't Olga anymore — she knew she wasn't. She was just part of him, a tight glove to his fucking. The hard, deep pounding ripped her inside out each time he retracted. He was so big — her world turned around his axis.

She heard his grunting and whispering. His voice meandered around the moaning and the wailing she hardly recognized as her own. His words punctuated his breathing. "Whore," he said. "Sweet little whore. My darling sweet slut ... oooh, fuck, yes ... my white, tight fuck hole bitch ... mmmmm."

She didn't mind the words — she hardly heard them. She just felt the huge piston slamming in and tearing out, taking her beyond hurt and pain into a world where she did not exist. Did she come? Oh yes, she did — over and over. She came so often that she never knew where one climax ended or another began. She just floated on a bed of lava — moaning, sighing until she lost her consciousness. Or was it her mind?

Reality returned from beyond the furry darkness of sleep. It wasn't welcome, but it insisted. It took the shape of a ringing telephone. She had to clear her throat twice to get an audible "hello" out. Melanie asked her how she was. She said "fine". And she said " fine" and "fine" again when the voice didn't seem to go away. No, she did not want to meet her for coffee in the city. No, she was fine. No. No! She returned the phone to its cradle. She slumped onto the bed. Her hand crept into the hot, sticky hollow between her naked thighs. She moaned his name.

When the phone rang again, her heart leapt at the sound of the deep, male voice. "Yes," she whispered, and "yes" and "yes!" The chilliness fled her heart. She was whole again. The voice that tickled her ear made her juices flow. His easy laugh sent a rush of excitement up her throat. There was only one single thought in her head: he wanted to see her again. Her god hadn't abandoned her. He saved her from the yawning abyss of rejection.

They went to see a movie. She never saw what was on the screen. After that they had some food. She never tasted a bite. Then they went dancing. She never danced a step, unless you'd call rubbing yourself into a hard male body dancing. At last she found herself back in the tiny room. He fucked her on the mattress and over the back of a chair, against the wall, on the table and inside the narrow shower-stall. He fucked her in her mouth, in her pussy and in her asshole. She would gladly have torn open new holes for him had he asked her.

After she passed out and woke again, he was gone. She washed under the meager drip he called a shower. Then she collected her clothes, dressed and went looking for him. The house was a maze of unpainted corridors, narrow staircases and countless doors. At last she arrived at a space obviously used as a common kitchen. It looked dirty. The sinks were full of used plates and cups. The air smelled of stale food, cigarettes and alcohol. Two black men were sitting at a long table, smoking and watching television. She asked where her lover was. They shrugged. Then one said he saw him leave earlier. The other one looked her over — he gave her the creeps. She went back to the room, but after half an hour she decided to go home.

He never phoned her for two weeks. He didn't answer her calls on the number he gave her. He wasn't home when she went looking. She slowly sank into a swamp of despair.

From Olga's diary:

"Two weeks today. Two weeks without him. One more day and I'll kill myself. No, I'm already dead. I am a zombie walking the streets, looking for him. I am a robot in the office. I am a crying wreck in my bed.

Could someone shut up this damn Melanie? She keeps asking if I'm all right. So does my room mate. So do the others at work. I AM NOT ALL RIGHT! I am sick and dying. But it is NONE of their business! Oh damn, sweet love, where are you? Have I been a fool after all? Why are you doing this to me?"

Then, suddenly, after two weeks he picked her up at work, waiting for her in the lobby. She almost fainted when she saw him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. He hugged her and whispered in her ears until a weak wintry sun returned to her face. He started kissing her eyes, licking the salty tears away. Then they left for a hotel, where he had taken a room. He already had her half naked in the elevator going up. After their first screaming climax she had sucked his wonderful cock back to hardness. She lost count of the orgasms he gave her while riding her pussy and her ass in all positions possible. It felt as if he'd never been away.

Later, in the hotel's restaurant she vented her anger over his sudden disappearance. "How could you leave me like that?" she asked. She quickly added a smile not to alienate him with the harshness of her tone. "You had me worried to death!"

He took her hand and kissed it. "We need to talk," he said. Then he started off by saying he loved her. It made her feel weak all over.

"Me too!" she cried. "Oh God, me too, honey. I love you so much! I never loved anyone as much as I love you."

The waiter interrupted them. After they ordered hastily to be alone again, he agreed with her and said he had never been so deeply in love. It made them swoon as they sank into each other's gazes, forgetting they were supposed to talk. His hand was on her naked thigh, crawling up to her exposed pussy. She spread her legs.

"I am married," he said, as his finger touched her slit. "I have a wife and three children."

Olga took in a gulp of air. Cold reality blew away the hot pink cloud around her, just as his fingertip penetrated the tight oven of her pussy. She felt two sensations as opposite as could be. "You ... you are?" she stuttered.

"Yes," he said, and a second finger joined the first. "But I don't love her. It is you I love. I love you, Olga. Tell me you believe that I love only you ... please!"

He rubbed his slicked fingers over her clit. She jumped in her chair, tears filling her eyes. "I," she tried. The probing fingers sent hot snakes of electricity up her belly.

She could not think. She could not talk. An overwhelming sadness fought with the debilitating arousal she had felt ever since she saw him first. She closed her eyes and moaned. A slow orgasm made her shudder. He smiled as he felt her contract around his fingers.

"It's all right, honey," he said. "You love me, I love you. Everything is fine." Then he took his dripping fingers from her pussy and offered them for her to suck on. She cried as she did, tears running down her cheeks and over the fingers in her mouth.

"Don't cry, please," he whispered as he leant closer to her. She let go of his hand and grabbed her purse.

"I have to go," she said with a sob in her voice, and rose. He rose too, stopping her. Both his huge hands clutched her shoulders.

"No!" he insisted. "Please sit, please listen!" She hesitated. Then she sank back into her chair. Her eyes were lowered onto her fidgeting hands.

"Olga," he said. "You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't deserve you, but I love you so much, I never loved a woman like I love you. Oh God, isn't life cruel? We should have met years earlier."

Olga looked up. The rims of her eyes were red and swollen. She was a child again, a small, lost girl. Her lips worked. She had to try twice to form words. "Will you leave her?"

His lashes fluttered. He took her hands in his. "I can't," he whispered. "I called over there to tell her I met you and fell in love. She took it badly. Pushing it might cost me my children." His shoulders shrugged. "I love my children. I don't see them much, but I break my back to provide for them. Nobody will ever take them away from me. Nobody." He sat with closed eyes and clenched fists. His jaws worked nervously.

"Over there?" Olga asked.

"Yes," he said. "They live in the Antilles, she and the children. I have pictures..." He reached inside his jacket, but Olga covered his hand to stop him. She shook her head.

"Please, no," she said. He looked up. "Sorry, how stupid of me. I love the little ones, I am so proud of them, forgive me." Olga blushed. "Please don't apologize — they are your children." Then she fell silent, her eyes down again.

After a long pause he said: "She'll fight it and I don't have the money to go to court. I need all my income to support my children. It is for them that I came here to find work, but it is hard. You saw where I live..." His fingers made mocking quote signs at the last word. He fell silent again. Olga just stared. "I worked double shifts these past two weeks," he went on. "That is why I stayed away, sorry."

Their food arrived. He picked up his knife and fork, then put them down again as he saw she did not even look at her plate. "Please, Olga. Please, I love you. I hate how this hurts you." She stared through him, shrouded in perfect silence.

"Take me upstairs," she then whispered. "Take me upstairs and fuck all these awful thoughts out of my brain. Do it now!"

From Olga's diary:

"I came to this city to be a free spirit and all I found were the sweet chains of love. I thought I was way too modern and independent to fall for that. But yes — here I am and it leaves me helpless.

My lover is my God and I am totally powerless in his presence. He can do with me as he pleases. He can leave me, betray me, and I'll only love him more. I am lost like a child in his presence. Lost forever — but there is no place I'd rather be."

Olga accepted her fate. Of course she detested sharing him with the other woman, even if she was an ocean away. She yearned to have him all to herself. She dreamt of living with him, being his wife and the mother of his children — even the stepmother of another woman's children. She ached for a life in which she was never without him. But she had to accept a reality in which he was away more often than he was with her. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months before returning to the devastated girl who loved him without reservation or condition.

It took Olga a year to find a way to cope with her fate. Her time alone was like a scorched desert, but the short sweet oases in between more than made up for it. She learned how to drag herself through the lonely spells. But often she cried herself to sleep, three fingers buried in her thirsty cunt.

The logistics of their affair were complicated. He could not offer real privacy at the various shabby places he happened to stay at. And Olga's flat mate nursed a dislike for him right from the start — a dislike that only grew after their first nights of stormy love-making in the poorly insulated apartment. So they spent most of their precious time at motels and hotels — cheap places he let her pay for.

She had once asked him to accompany her to an office party, but he refused. It disappointed her. She asked him if he was ashamed of her and he had passionately denied it, telling her to never ever think that again. But he didn't go with her.

Soon her frustration over his refusal turned into irritation towards her colleagues. She had a nasty fight with Melanie, calling her a jealous, frigid bitch. After that people stopped teasing her. Some even stopped talking to her, but she was so preoccupied with her affair that she hardly noticed.

Then, one day as they sipped coffee on a terrace in the city, he told her that he needed money. Work was increasingly hard to find and his wife pestered him for more and more money as the children grew up. Olga by then had already spent most of her free income on the cost of their times together. Last week she had even bought him shoes and a shirt.

"I would love to help you," she said, "but I am almost broke myself. I hardly know how to get through the rest of the month." He looked sad.

"I'd rather bite off my tongue than ask, but it is not for me," he apologized. "It is for my children. I haven't been able to send them anything this month."