27 comments/ 63296 views/ 6 favorites True Love Pt. 01 By: angiquesophie Part 1. John, Olga. 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, hiss, 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. True Love Pt. 01 All characters within this story are 18 and older. * It was a beautiful Friday morning, the last Friday before I started my new life. New life in a brand new school, in a brand new place, with a brand new family again.... Fuck! Being an 18 year old girl can be hard, especially when your still stuck in the foster loop. Seems like every time I think the family might like me they pitch me off again. "Miya downstairs, there's someone we want you to meet!" Comes out of my judgemental foster mothers mouth guess its time to meet my new brother who just got back from camp. He's a councillor named Wyatt. I quick grabbed my clothes, threw on my short skirt, t-shirt, and leather jacket and descend the stairs. I'm almost down the stairs, when I see the most muscled back come into view. I continue down the steps and find a gorgeous mop of blond hair in a pair of boxers. I then notice and hear my new mother, "Miya I'd like you too meet Wyatt, Wyatt, Miya. Now that everyone's been acquainted I suggest you march back upstairs and finish getting ready, that red mop top isn't going to straighten itself out you know." If you ask me the worst thing in the world; second only to death is indeed foster families. So before I came up with a snarky remark I did just that turned and went back to my room. I have to admit my hair wasn't the greatest; still needed to be straightened and combed through. You see I'm not a natural red head, I'm actually blond and with the help of box die I'm a striking pure firetruck red head now! I don't know what comes over me but I suddenly have the over powering urge to try and impress this God that is my new foster brother and for once my ending up here might not be a joke. Just looking at him could make my stomach flip and flop. The gleam in his eyes made me turn to jelly and nothing I could feel in my stomach was going to change that. This being of perfection that was suppose to be my "brother" kept flashing past my eyes the image of him in his boxers the muscles and the secret of what those boxers contained; all made my mind confused and my pussy wet. The shine that just swept over him exaggerating his gorgeous physique swept through my mind as I finished my hair and make up. I was just pulling on my combat boots, skirt hiked up so I could bend over easier (felt good to have my hot and wet naked pussy out in the open too). Slowly I moved to the bed with images of my new "brother" flashing behind closed eyes, lied down on my back and moved my hands to my breasts. Now I have a slight frame only about 100 pounds with slender hips and a tiny ass, but somehow with a little luck I ended up with a full 36C cup. Lightly tracing around my large mounds getting myself worked up slowly, round and round with a twist of my fingers on my nipples I was moaning in no time. I moved one hand from my well worked breast over my tight body and my short shirt to my pussy. I pushed a finger between my pussy lips and felt the pulse of energy buzz through me, like a jolt of pleasure and I couldn't hold back a moan. I pushed the finger farther in, moving it slightly around and around inside my wet pussy. Up and down left and right, until I couldn't take it anymore and reached for my purple vibrator in my top drawer. Turning it on I removed my fingers sinking the vibrator all the way in before turning it on, moving my finger up to my clit pushing the button back and forth with two fingers. The vibrating and the motion on my clit had me on the verge of coming when I noticed my door was open and there was someone standing within it Sadly I was facing towards the door with everything on display, I pulled down my skirt to see my muscled brother in my doorway. Still only in boxers it was apparent that he had gotten an eyeful by the huge bulge and outline in his blue boxers. I went bright red, breathing heavy and slightly scared of what he would do. Slowly Wyatt moved his hand to his junk squeezed one, twice, three times before sliding into my room and closing and locking the door. Finally finding my voice I said, "I don't believe I invited you into my room!" "Oh but Miya you just did by your little display, now you wouldn't want to leave me like this would you?" Slowly to my dismay Wyatt slowly pulled his boxers down and stepped out of them. It was at that point me new foster monster yelled up the stairs, "have a good day kids dad and I will be home around 5 or 5:30 tonight. Behave Miya, love you Wyatt!" There was a slam and mom and dad were gone, leaving me starring at my naked foster brother. Dick in hand now Wyatt stood looking at me stroking himself lightly and just watched me until he decided to come closer. Letting go of himself he slowly crossed the room to me. Standing just in front of me, lifted one finger to my chin and lifted lightly. Bending down towards me Wyatt brushed his lips to mine, soft and gentle, repeatedly. Slowly I become an active participant in the kissing and threw my arms around him and pulled myself up against him not caring that he's naked, or my foster brother. Slowly he moved his arms around me moving them from my shoulders to the small of my back and then lower. I felt a light tug on my skirt and then it was up around my waste again. My mind was screaming at me that this sort of affection with your new "brother" couldn't happen; but my body wasn't listening. I kept moving closer to him until I wasn't able to move an inch, all the while feeling every inch of him against me the hardest part trapped between our stomachs. I felt the tips of his fingers slowly wiggle their way down my back onto my bare butt cheeks; yet they didn't stop there they kept going, lower and lower. I felt his hands creep down between my legs to the outside of my pussy, his touch was like an electric pulse through me. I moaned into his mouth and wiggled a little against him; Wyatt took this as a green light and pushed his fingers farther down. His finger went straight to my pussy lips diving between them and into my wet hole, pushing slightly until he came across something puzzling. He slid his lips off mine, still looking down at me said, "You're a virgin?" Blushing I babbled, "I'm a foster kid no one likes foster kids, besides there was never really anyone to talk too let alone make out or more with. I'm sorry!" I detached myself from him and backed up on the bed, but he was already moving with me. Pulled me against him and wrapped his arms around me, I tucked my head between his neck and shoulders. Suddenly shaken and feeling foolish for thinking this 19 year old; a man would want me that way. Wyatt somehow knew what I was thinking, rubbed my shoulders and got down lower to look me in the eye. "Miya if you're not ready to do that I understand, besides I am your brother in a way; not in blood but it could seem really weird... What I meant to say was you are gorgeous. Seeing you come down those stairs in my house like you owned the place, confident in yourself. Not to mention the tight short shirt, skirt ensemble had me thinking about you all morning. The red hair and combat boots, the leather jacket hell you're more that just confident you're sexy! I just don't understand how I could get so lucky living with a goddess like yourself, and when I walked into your room seeing you on display pleasuring yourself was without a doubt the Hottest thing ever, or at least I thought it was the hottest thing ever until about 5 minuets ago!" I stared and finally got a word out,"but I didn't think, I couldn't let myself think that you had any kind of liking to me at all!" "Oh but Miya I do, and I don't think it will ever change!" Wyatt pulled me against him again, one of my hands trapped between us; trapped beside what could only be his cock. One hand went across my back and the other behind my head, he ducked down to kiss me again gently until I was the one making it rougher. Slowly his hands traveled down again, and lower still until he could grab my legs and pick me up and wrap my legs around him. He moved his mouth to my neck slowly licking his way along my collar bone, I tilted my head to the side and moaned grabbing fist fills of his hair. I never thought this feeling of lust could fall over someone so quickly, never thought that any man could make me feel like a woman just by touching mr the right way. Moving his mouth up to my ear Wyatt whispered, "Is this ok?" Moving slightly I felt myself open my mouth to say yes when he flipped us over so he was on the bottom and I on top. I blanked but could only think that he was doing this so I felt more in control. He moved his lips from my neck then down to my bare skin above my shirt looking up at me, slowly I moved my hands above my head and smiled back down at Wyatt. Gently he grabbed the bottom of my belly shirt and brought it up over my head removing the jacket with it. His journey continued down my chest to one aroused and rose coloured nipple, gently he took the areole into his mouth and sucked gently. My head rolled back and my hips rocked gently, groaning I grabbed the back of Wyatt's head and held on tight. Just when I thought it couldn't get better he started toying with my other nipple between one hand and my clit with the other. Before I knew it I was on the verge of cuming but Wyatt wouldn't let that happen. Whispering in my ear, "Not yet gorgeous I want to make this as memorable for you as I can." Latching onto my mouth again, slowly releasing me and lifting me upwards slightly he moved down to lay on the bed and guided me just above his mouth. When he had me in position he pulled hard and I slid onto his mouth, my pussy opening with one of his strong muscled arms holding her to him. I sat there for a moment until the most incredible pleasure over came her, Wyatt's tongue making slow circles on my clit while I wiggled above him. Leaning over so I could put my hands on the bed and started moan and groan and buck against him, suddenly I felt two large fingers enter me making me twitch and role on top of his tongue with greater force. I was about to come when again another change happened I moved and found myself with the vibrator posed on my clit along with his two fingers which a third had been added too. My hand reached out for something to grab onto and it ended up being Wyatt's nine inch cock, hard as a rock under my hand. I started to explore it touching and moving my hand up and down and feeling as again my orgasm roared up. I felt the different moments of both the vibrator and his tongue against my clit and the action of not one but three of his fingers pumping into me like mine had been a few minuets ago. His hard cock still in my hand I felt him add one small finger to the attack on my pussy both in my pussy and on my clit and it was too much. I reared back bucking against him frantically racing towards the edge that would give me release of this please torture, all the while pumping his cock and moaning at the top of my lungs, "Oh GOD Wyatt!! Don't stop don't ever fucking stop! Mmmmmmmm Oh FUCK OHHHHHH FUCKKKK!!" I suddenly felt this wave of peace crash over me and felt my pussy throbbing in orgasm but just as I asked Wyatt didn't stop! He kept up the assault on my pussy, my clit telling me to stop but the pleasure told me to keep going. I started pumping his cock faster this time, not knowing what to do I moved fast and with a good grip on it until I felt Wyatt remove all but two fingers from me. I felt the loss but then then felt filled up by the vibrator being pushed into me with his two fingers. Gently I felt Wyatt bite my clit and suck it into his mouth and started nursing on it bring with it a quick hitting massive orgasm as I bumped against his face making the attack on my clit that much more pleasurable. I felt myself hurled into my orgasm so quickly that I fell onto the bed moaning and humping against his attack on my clit. I rolled off then looking at him as he kneeled beside me then laid down on top of me. I nussled my neck and then brought his lips back to mine. Tasting slightly of me I kissed him back lazily due to the pleasure I was still in. Looking at me with smiling and gentle eyes, as if asking me a question. "If I would like to continue?" Slowly I opened my legs to him and reached up to bring him closer. He settled between my legs and gently brought his cock head to my entrance and pushed forward to my virgin barrier. Once in he have me time to adjust to the feeling, and then he forged onward covering my mouth with his. There was slight pain and then all I could feel was him, gently moving within me. I started to move up against his strokes. Wyatt started getting faster and his stroke length started getting longer, I started moving up to meet him. His cock making me feel the pleasure his mouth had once again, Wyatt started grunting and groaning my name over and over grasping my breasts and rubbing my clit between our legs. Moaning we both started hurling towards the edge until Wyatt yelled, "I'm cumming Miya, I'm cumming urrrrggg!" With a few hard fast humps he grabbed onto my hips and plunged forward once more. Ropes of gooey cum flew into me striking my orgasm and I came again bucking and cussing, curling my toes and myself backwards. We breathed heavily for awhile until he lied down head on my breast tickling my nipple with his tongue lightly. I giggle and lay my head down on the pillow and fall asleep there thinking about how lucky I was to be here, with someone who seemed to care about me. It was around 3:45 when Wyatt and I woke looking at each other naked, kissing and getting ready for round two when the downstairs door opened with an audible slam. "Miya, Wyatt we're home! Turns out shopping didn't take as long as we thought!" Steps on the stairs and then a knock on my door came. "Miya what are you doing in there and where is Wyatt?!?! Open this door!!" * First story I've ever submitted please let me know what you think and I will have the next part up soon as long as you like it. Any criticism is wanted thanks for reading. True Love Pt. 01 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. True Love Pt. 02 Part 2. Olga, Stanley. "Yes, okay," she said. "I understand." She grabbed her dress, half-heartedly pulling it open at the chest. There was a silly stab of regret as she felt the soft silky fabric tear. The dress was from Paris – she remembered the expensive little designer shop in the Marais where John had bought it for her. She thought back to how she had turned left and right in the reflection of the mirror. She had blushed when he said it was a present. The dark man scowled – the streetlamp carved ugly canyons into his face. He pushed her hesitant hand aside and ripped the silk all the way down until buttons flew and her bare, sticky thighs caught the breeze. It made her shiver. She squealed as he slapped her exposed tits – his nails scratching the flesh. She felt the stubbles of his chin on her tender throat. His teeth tore at her nipple. Her cheekbone bruised where he hit her. She doubled up and almost vomited as his fist pounded into the messy weakness of her vagina. "Now move!" he said. He pushed her into the car and slammed the door shut. She fumbled with the keys. His fist pounded on the roof. "Go!" he growled. The clutch protested. Then the small blue car drove off into the night. *** 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? From Olga's diary: "Am I insane? I must be. My head is exploding with emptiness. I can't think – not that I want to. I just want to be inside this cloud, floating away. My body aches. My pussy, my poor titties, my…asshole. Oh God, what have I let him do to me? I don't ask. I just walk around smiling this wide, empty grin. I even smile as I wince. I walk beside my body, admiring its sensuality. He created it, it is his. It stopped being mine. Am I insane? I must be." *** 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. True Love Pt. 02 "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." They sat in silence. Then she cleared her throat. "I could maybe get an advance. That might ease us over to the next month." She never wondered about the use of "us". She also never wondered why she was so easily prepared to give him her hard earned money. She just did. She gave him part of her advance. Then she gave him the rest. It may have solved his short-term problem, but it left her almost penniless after paying her rent for the next month. After that he stayed away for three weeks. When he returned, they never talked about the money. He took her dancing and dining, but most of the time they were in their motel room fucking. By then there was nothing Olga wouldn't do for him. She sucked his cock before or after sex, whether it had been in her cunt or in her ass hole. They fucked in her tiny car and even once on the dance floor of a darkened discotheque. After he had left again, she reluctantly allowed reality to return. She lay in her lonely bed, when a thought plunged into her pink dreams like an iceberg into a tropical sea. She had sucked his wonderful cock and drunk his sperm. She had never minded the acrid taste on his dirty stem, but he had hardly touched her pussy with his mouth, this time. Only after she'd begged, he had eaten her out – half-heartedly and without his usual passion. She realized that it was a first. His lips and tongue had always made her come howling, but not this time. She shuddered. The shower sluiced his stickiness and the smell of their sex off her skin. But the tiny remnants of her one disturbing thought clung to the inside of her skull. *** Things changed. The intensity seemed to leak out of their meetings. She felt a distance that had never been there. When he once again returned after a long and barren month, he hardly kissed her when she picked him up at the station. After a chilly, wordless drive to their rented motel room Olga didn't leave the car. Her white-knuckled hands grabbed the wheel as sobs started wracking her body. She seemed at last to penetrate his indifference. He embraced her, letting her cry on his shoulder. "I am so sorry," he whispered. She looked up. Her eyes were red and swimming in tears. "What is going on, sweetheart?" she asked with a wavering voice. "What is happening to us?" He just looked deeply into her eyes, saying nothing. Then he said: "I can't do this to you anymore. It has to end." An icy shock hit her. "No!" she cried. She grabbed his shoulders. "No! You can't leave me. I'll die!" He shook his head. "I love you, honey," he said. "Now more than ever. And that is why we have to end this…this miserable affair in shabby rooms and cheap motels. You deserve more, Olga, so much more than I can give you." She took his sad face in both hands and deeply kissed him. "Oh God," she moaned. "Oh God, my sweet, sweet man. I don't care, you hear? I don't care that we are poor. I love you, you love me! We are the richest people on earth!" She had put her finger to his mouth when he protested. Then she had pulled him out of the car and into the motel room, where they fucked in a blind rage of desperation. Afterwards she lay in his arms, humming. He got up on one elbow, staring down into her flushed, happy face. "My wife threatens to divorce me if I don't send her more money. She told me she could no longer accept that her children are ridiculed for their threadbare clothes and second hand shoes. She says she'll marry her old boyfriend and take the children away from me. She'll make him their legal father, so they can go to good schools." "Can she do that?" Olga asked. She only reluctantly dragged herself up from the dreamy afterglow. "Yes," he said. "She can. The guy is a wealthy drugs dealer. I wouldn't be able to pay for a lawyer, so it wouldn't make sense to fight the divorce. She says she loves me, but she has to think of the future of her children. 'My children,' she said, not 'our children'. I guess she is already fucking him." Olga softly caressed his face. Then she pulled him down in her arms. "The damn bitch!" she hissed. "I so much want to help you, but where do I get the money? I would borrow money for you, but how could we pay the interest?" He shook his head vehemently. "No!" he said. "I already took way too much money from you. It makes me feel like a begging loser. My damn poverty already cost me a wife, I don't want you to start hating me." He pressed his mouth to hers, smothering her protests. "I love you too much to ask that," he said after they came up gasping. She saw there were tears in his big brown eyes. It broke her heart. From Olga's diary: "Am I crazy? I must be. Am I immoral? Oh yes. But do I have a choice? Today I kissed John McCall in his car. We made out – I let his clumsy hands roam all over my body. He is a nice guy. I used to work with him. He is a brilliant copywriter, but he is way too shy for his own good. Then again, I guess that is exactly why he is the ideal candidate. He'll fly up the corporate ladder. He already landed a great job. He also is a lonely sucker. I know I can easily make him fall in love with me. God…am I writing this?" Her lover had begged her not to do it, but she had asked him if there was another way. She knew it would hurt his jealous macho soul. But she told him to be honest about it. Would his damn ego pay for his children? Would he rather lose them? She had beaten his brow and made him give in. But she had not been proud of her victory. He had looked like a sad puppy when he left, that day. She had kissed him at the station and assured him that she loved him and would always love him. But he must trust her with this. It would only be for the money, their money, remember? The money for his children. There would be no love involved, just a marriage of convenience…their convenience. So she had given John McCall a chance to fall in love with her and soon they were married. He was a rotten lover. He did not even arouse her those first awkward times they made sex. But he was devoted to her, doting on her. He took her to wonderful places, buying her things she'd only dreamed of before. She played the wide-open innocent. But behind her closed eyes she fucked her dark, passionate lover, while McCall poked her with his fumbling little cock. She faked most of her orgasms. She also faked a prudish lifestyle, wearing fashionable, but dull outfits. John asked her what happened to the sexy little dresses he remembered when they still used to work together. She smiled and said she was a wild girl back then, but now she was a woman – his woman. It made her grin guiltily when she donned her secret sexy tops and heels for a meeting with her lover, two towns over. "No," she corrected herself. "Not with my lover, with my true husband." And she blew a kiss to her reflection in the mirror Olga knew she had to be careful. She gave up her job. It seemed safer to cut the ties with her old circle of colleagues. She went to school to study for a career-switch that would make more money for her lover. The courses weren't as expensive as she'd shown John, but he gladly paid for them. He paid for everything. "Whatever I make," he once told her, "I could never make without you. It is yours as much as it is mine." She had smiled and wondered why she suddenly felt ashamed. Then she had taken his head in her hands and had whispered: "Thank you." Her sweet dark lover took the money she smuggled out of her marriage. But as time progressed, he found it increasingly hard to conceal his jealousy. Every fiber of his proud macho body protested against him being "cuckolded", as he put it. She told him over and again that she only loved him, that John never made her come, that his prick hardly touched the sides of her pussy – but she learned that going into such detail just made things worse. So she said that she would stop at once if he insisted. Which he did not, of course and that only frustrated him more. Then Olga missed her period. The thought of a sweet dark love child excited her immensely. But she knew she could not have it, not now. The whole charade would blow up in their faces if the baby were black. And she wasn't at all sure that her lover would take care of her if John dumped her. Of course the baby could on the other hand very well be John's. But thinking of bearing the white offspring of John McCall almost physically nauseated her. She tried to imagine how her macho lover would take that. He would leave her at once, if he didn't kill her first. *** From Olga's diary: "I feel sick, physically and mentally. At last I convinced myself that losing the fetus was the only thing I could do, and I did it. John was very sweet about it, hugging me and asking about my feelings. I just hated him for it. I never told my lover I was pregnant. No need to taunt him with the impossible. But I feel so very awful now. What if it really had been his baby taht I got rid of? I so much want a child from him, a wonderful little dark velvet-skinned baby with his lovely black curls and soul-filled eyes. I guess John doesn't understand why I am so depressed. Ah God, is there anything he understands?" Time dragged on. She lived for the moments her lover visited, but they were scarce and far between. A nagging thought entered her mind in sleepless nights. She wasn't beautiful enough for him. That must be it, or he would see her way more often. Standing in front of her tall mirror she focused on every real or imagined flaw. Her hair – too short and dull. Her eyes – too small. Her legs – not long enough and god, those skinny calves. Her sagging tits, ah well…. John surprised her on their second anniversary by offering to pay for surgery on her breasts. It took her by surprise. Their imperfection had always been nagging at her self-esteem, but she never thought John would spend a thought on it. Her true lover never commented on her tits, but she knew it might just be the surprise she needed. She'd never given up the dream that one day he would be hers in public. And in a twisted way she thought that having a new, perky chest would help her get there. The lifted breasts were indeed an amazing boost for her confidence. She remembered the week they spent in Aruba – the dancing and prancing, the topless tanning, the heads turning. She also remembered the secret arousal of her free nipples as they rubbed against her top. And of course she remembered the secret sex she had with her Antillian lover when John was out working. He had flown in on a ticket she'd bought for him. Afterwards she allowed John sloppy seconds in the balmy Caribbean nights. It excited her so much that she even had her first real orgasms with him. The glorious self-confidence stayed with her after they returned from the island. People seemed to love her new, outgoing attitude. Colleagues from her new job hovered around her. So did friends and strangers alike at the increasing number of parties they were invited to. She basked in their warm attention. John took her everywhere and before long she discovered that it had become easier to be around him. He seemed no longer the tongue-tied, awkward odd man out. He had a wonderful sense of wry humor she never saw before. She discovered that he was respected in his job, especially so amongst his peers. He took her with him to dinners and parties and festivals abroad. She even thought there was a spark of adventure in their love making that had never been there. From Olga's diary: "I am confused. How could I ever feel for the klutz? He is so damn nice, it makes my skin crawl. I have to close my eyes and imagine the hard, ebony body of my sweet love to be cured of these preposterous feelings. I have to imagine my true lover's soul searching chocolate eyes to forget John's. But, damn…I have to imagine so hard, lately. Come back to me, honey. It has been three months since Aruba now. Where are you?!" *** He returned during a week when John was away, so they had all the time to renew their love. Olga had made reservations in a resort by the sea. They swam and tanned and danced and dined. And most of all: they fucked like bunnies. She must have talked too often about the changes she appreciated in John. One sunny afternoon when they lay by the pool, he suddenly jumped up and screamed at her: "Do you love him? Do you want him? Go for him! Go for his goddamn money! I won't be in the way anymore!" Then he turned around and walked away. She ran after him, grabbing his arm, but he shook her off. He turned and pushed his enraged face into hers. "You whore! You damn, filthy whore!" The words stunned her. He was already gone before she could respond. "Whore?" Her trembling lips whispered the word, almost tasting it. Through the blur of her tears she saw people around the pool looking at her. She blushed and covered her topless tits. *** Olga tried to reach her lover and apologize. He never responded. She sent numerous voicemails to his mobile phone, begging him to answer. She promised to divorce John and be his forever. Then she asked: what do you want me to do? I'll do anything, anything. That message he answered. They met in an empty bar. She felt the Pavlov-response of her pussy when he walked in. She rose to the tips of her toes to kiss him. "Traitor!" he said, but he smiled. She apologized, feeling a blush rise up from her throat. "Anything," he said with an ironic voice, after they had their drinks. "You said anything." She just nodded. "Okay," he went on. "I want you to have my child and have John pay for it." Olga sat stunned. "But," she stuttered. "He will kick me out. It'll break his heart. He'll never accept it." Her lover shook his dreadlocks. "Anything," he repeated with a voice that had turned bitter. "You said anything." He rose to leave. She reached for his arm. "Don't go. Please, honey, please. I would love to have your child, our child. You know that! I always dreamt of having children with you. And I don't care if the damn oaf kicks me out. Oh God, honey sweet, you know how I yearn to be only yours, to leave him and be with you the rest of our lives. Please, oh please, believe me! I'll call him now and tell him. Shall I call him now?" She grabbed her purse to find her phone, but he laid his huge hand over hers. "No, darling," he said, smiling. "I want him to know the child isn't his and still have him raise it as his own. I want him to pay for it. I want him cuckolded, humiliated and punished for what he did to me! And I want you to do it to him." At the "you" a hard finger stabbed into Olga's soft, bra-less chest, making her wince. The next half our, she listened to his plan. It was outrageously dangerous and could cost her her marriage. At first she balked. She said he was crazy. Then, after he once more threatened to leave, she thought: what the hell. If John kicks me out, isn't that exactly what I want? I have a good job and there's no doubt we will get some good money out of the divorce. We might go to the islands and live there, basking in the sun: he, my black Adonis – and all our sweet chocolate colored angels. What made her give in was the dizzying idea of carrying his child and maybe getting him to be entirely hers in the process. He hugged her hard and pulled her to the elevators. "No reason to delay," he laughed. And they sure didn't. Of course she didn't get pregnant that time as she was still on the pill. And she would continue taking them for the next months of her lover's absence. She had cried when he told her he would be away for months. How could he, right now, she had asked. But he said he had to. "So what about John?" she had asked. He just laughed hard. "Let him try first!" he exclaimed over his shoulder as he jumped into his cab. From Olga's diary: "Why is he so cruel? Why does he want me to torture John by letting him think he could get me pregnant? I asked him, and he said it was important that there would be enough doubt as to whose baby she was carrying until delivery. No need to have him push for an abortion. "Besides," he laughed before he left, "why not give the loser a chance first!" My marriage must have hurt him much deeper than he let on when I started seeing John. I love only him. He must know that! If he doesn't trust me, why did he allow me to marry John? God, how I hate myself. Each time I see John I can't help feeling sorry for him. I keep repeating what a klutz and an oaf he is, but I know he isn't. Not anymore. I keep comparing his pudgy body with the glorious physique of my black Adonis, but I know I am lying. John isn't an athlete, but he isn't pudgy either. He is sweet and attentive and funny. Goddammit, why does he have to love me? Am I a monster? Am I?" The whole charade of John trying so very hard to fulfill her child wish would have been funny if she hadn't felt so guilty. She knew it was guilt as she lay in the still of the night, beside him – his fresh sperm deep inside her infertile womb. But she also knew she could not afford to blame herself. There was no point, was there? So, in order to live with her guilt, she turned the disgust for her own despicable actions against him – against her sweet, deluded husband who murmured: "I love you," before falling asleep. She started hating him for loving her. "Preposterous," she thought. "Who does he think he is? No one loves me but my lover." After four fruitless months of trying she lied to John that she had seen a doctor and nothing was wrong with her. She asked him to have a sperm test taken, which he did. The results were adequate. She faked relief. Then at last she got the phone call that made her throw away her pills. She knew it would take weeks to get fertile again. But she increased the number of sudden headaches and other plausible reasons to slowly exclude John from making love to her. Her period seemed conveniently early that month, too. *** From Olga's diary: "I love to rub my huge round belly and feel the child kicking. It's a boy, they told me. Stanley went out of his mind with pride. His wife only has daughters. He'd always ached to have a son. Now he has one and it is mine! We'll call him Stanley, Stan for short. John doesn't understand why. He wants to call the boy after his father. I said the name would be Stanley. It will only be weeks now. John seems confident that the child is his. I lied to him about taking the morning-after pill. But we did discuss the other possibility. I think he has reconciled himself with the small chance it might be black. He is just too decent a man to kick me out with a rape child. Yes, I know I married a wonderful man. And I know I am a monster. I can't help blushing as I write this down. He sure deserves a better wife." Olga's pregnancy had been a glorious time. John treated her like a queen and so did Stanley, who had been around more often than usual. After her morning sicknesses abated, she had felt continuously horny. She even instigated sex with John, but fucking Stanley gave her orgasms of an entirely different dimension. It must have been the hormones, no doubt. And the enormity of the secret she shared with her black lover. At last the day came when she delivered her child. From Olga's diary: "NO!! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! It can't be. IT CAN'T!! Why me? Why this horror? What happened?? All was planned so carefully! And now this! I thought I had died when I saw the ugly pink piggy wriggle on my bloodstained belly. NO!! NOOOOOOO!!! Oh God, no, let this be a nightmare. Get it away from me, I don't want it. I DON'T WANT IT!!!" True Love Pt. 03 Part 3. John, Manda. John McCall sat on the low wall overlooking the beach. The island hadn't changed much. He remembered how the sand had been just as dazzlingly white, or how the sky had been as incredibly blue. He even remembered the clump of gnarled trees, close by the sea -- and how, one balmy night, he had made love at their ancient feet. Wherever he looked he saw memories, and they all hurt. Sure, the pain had numbed by now, but it was still there after all these years. He guessed it would never leave him -- not back home and certainly not here. He wondered why he had decided to revisit the island. Christopher was eight now -- my God, eight already. He saw the boy standing at the edge of the sea. His slim body looked like a question mark against the glittering sea. He was bending over a red plastic bucket, its content having his undivided attention. John thought how much the boy looked like the mother he never met -- his eyes, especially. They were a constant reminder. Turning a bit to the right he saw a huge yellow umbrella and in its shadow the back of a woman. He knew that back -- how it felt, how it smelled and tasted. He knew each sweet molecule of it. He also knew the blonde, short hair, wet now from swimming. His fingertips could even at this distance sense the soft slope of her neck, her shoulders -- and parts of her body he could not see from here. He had met Amanda ("never say Mandy, please, call me Manda") at a commercial shoot. She did the catering, having her own business ("Mmmmanda!" she'd named it -- who was he to call it corny? Besides, the name fit her even better than it did her cuisine. Manda was a delicious-looking, fun-loving, uncomplicated woman of 32.) Of course he had seen her before at productions, but he hadn't been very social at the time. At first he had buried himself in misery, then in work and in the worries of being a single parent. It must have been hard for a woman to penetrate the shield he put up around himself in those days. He guessed not many would bother anyway -- until Manda did, about two years after Olga left. He and Manda had always been friendly in the happy-go-lucky way that so often develops during shootings. For Manda it had meant more, as she told him later. She had nursed a crush on John. She loved how he looked, but also his quiet sense of humor and his calm composure. John never knew she did -- he wasn't aware of things like that. Before he met Olga he could hardly believe any woman would be interested in him, period. Later on Olga was woman enough for him. And after she left, he hardly even acknowledged women through the blurred mist of his misery. One evening, after sundown had made work impossible, John discovered that he hadn't had lunch. He'd been busy reconsidering parts of the script they were working with. He had also missed the usual afternoon snack, so his stomach growled when the crew wrapped up for the day. He saw that Manda had already closed her mobile kitchen, but he tried anyway. She was busy cleaning her furnace, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. She looked up and smiled when she saw him. "John! You're still around?" Her face was flushed from the exertion, her smile shone even brighter because of it. "My stomach refuses to leave, Manda," he said. "It growls and calls your name. Is there anything you could do about it?" They had sat together at a small table around the back of her kitchen. The air was still warm from the last sunrays. She had made him the most complete omelet he had ever seen and poured him a nice rosé wine to go with it. She sipped from her own glass, watching him eat. The talk had been pretty shallow, with just enough lightness to avoid serious subjects. That seemed to suit him better than it did Manda. Her chuckles turned into increasingly weaker smiles until he felt that his words seemed to be bouncing off a wall of silence. What started out as silly banter amongst friends, had become an uneasy, one-sided conversation riddled with silences. "Sorry," he said, breaking off another lame anecdote. "I must be boring you." It shook her out of whatever funk she must have been sliding into. "Oh no!" she cried out, blushing. Her hand flew up to her mouth. "No, John, to the contrary. I…" She stuttered. Her eyes were never in one place. Then she leant in closer, touching his hand. "John, this may become the most embarrassing moment of my life." She once more allowed seconds of awkward silence to rise between them. Then she swallowed and said: "But I'll never forgive myself if I don't tell you this." He looked up from the touching hand to her fiercely blushing face. He was startled by the hoarse seriousness of her voice. "I am very fond of you, John," she whispered. "I have been for a long time. From the first time I saw you, to be precise." Her eyes wandered, then returned. "I've always been too scared to tell you. But I guess I have to, as you never seem to notice." She giggled now -- nervously. Her eyes were wide. She later told him she had been praying while waiting for his answer. "Um," he said eloquently. He hoped the last orange rays of the sun would explain away his own blushing. "I am sorry Manda," he went on, finding his voice. "It is my fault. I, uh, I know I haven't been very observant, lately. I didn't mean to be rude. I, eh, feel honored you even consider me." He tried a smile -- it didn't come easy. "I guess I have been very busy hiding it," he went on, "but I like you a lot too." Thinking back he didn't remember how she got him to talk about his pain and his feelings, but she did. He had not opened up that way to anyone, not even his family. And she listened. She was like a sponge to his sudden waterfall. They talked and sat in silence, then talked a bit more until the sky was dark and the air turned chilly. He gave her his jacket and they went looking for a pub. They just didn't want the evening to end. During the rest of the shooting they saw a lot of each other. And after the production finally wrapped up, he took her to his apartment to meet his son. Little Christopher had taken to her at once, and so had Manda to the boy. She told John of her own pain. She had been married for a short time when they discovered that she could not have children. Their marriage suffered from too much tension to survive after that. They divorced. She decided to call her child "Mmmanda!" and build a business that would distract her from the pain. John and Manda married the next year. He knew there was a lot of pragmatism in the decision. For him, certainly, and for Christopher, too -- the boy took to Manda like a duck to water. And she could not have been a more loving mother if the boy had been hers. The marriage solved many problems. But John also knew that he loved Manda with a calm, profound intensity. Their love would never be a wild, reckless tsunami, he knew. It would be the strong, irresistible groundswell of an ocean. He loved oceans. The woman under the umbrella looked over her shoulder. She waved. He waved back. Then he rose and walked to the sea through the hot white sands. He looked into the plastic bucket and remarked on the "huge" shrimp and the "giant" crawling crab. He turned around to the woman in the chair and smiled. Then he grabbed the squealing boy and threw him into the surf, diving after him. *** They were having grilled prawns and a Kiddy Burger with fries under the huge awning of a restaurant's terrace when he saw her. Her hair was long now and whitish blonde -- it moved wispy in the ever-present wind. Around her eyes were thick, black lines of kohl and her body looked skeleton-thin. Long legs ran naked from her tiny skirt down to her whorishly heeled platform sandals. The tits on her narrow chest looked a lot bigger than he remembered. They were wrapped in a low cut, long-sleeved top. It left her belly free -- a jewel sparkled at its dimpled center. The woman didn't look at all like the Olga he knew, but he was certain it was her. And when their eyes met, he saw that she recognized him too. He sat frozen for a second. Then he rose from his seat, dropping his napkin. But before he got around his table, the throngs in the busy street had already swallowed her. Manda saw his reaction. She turned around to follow his gaze. "What is it?" she asked. John hesitated. "Um," he said. "Just someone I know…or knew, rather. Could be a mistake, though." "Someone I know too?" Manda asked. He shook his head. "No, she's from way before we met." He sat down. "These are delicious prawns," he went on. "How are your fries, Chris?" "She was a lady with spooky eyes," said Christopher, playing with his French fries. "White hair and spooky eyes. She was a ghost." Manda looked from her stepson to her husband, puzzled. John felt himself blush. "I, eh," he mumbled. "I thought I saw Olga. She looked like a skeleton. Awful." Manda frowned. Then she smiled a wide smile. "Good," she said. "Very good." She covered her plate with her napkin. "Enough prawns for now. Let's have a nap." When they walked into their apartment, Manda turned around and embraced John. She pressed her soft body into his and kissed him hard. He tasted the spices of the exotic food. Then she took his hand and pulled him into their bedroom. From the sitting room came sounds of a cartoon-channel. Manda let her colorful beach-dress fall to the floor. Then she went down on her knees and opened his cotton slacks. The lazy fan on the ceiling swooshed -- it had the exact rhythm of her sucking lips. John trembled as he looked down. He laid his hands on her blonde bobbing head-- softly caressing her hair. As always he felt the heat of embarrassment -- a flashing memory of Olga taking his cock in her mouth for the first and last time. He shook his head to chase the image away. He moaned -- Manda looked up. Her lips smiled around his swollen flesh. *** They cuddled up after he left his sperm deep inside her. He listened for a while. When she breathed light and even, he slowly worked his arm from under her and slid out of the bed. He silently dressed, wrote a note and left the apartment. The lounge of the hotel felt chilly after the moist heat outside. He let his eyes roam the place, starting at the reception. He had seen Olga walk purposefully to the entrance of this hotel. Seeing him had obviously changed her plans -- she had disappeared the other way. Would she be a guest, he wondered. If so she must have married rich -- the hotel was very expensive. Or would she have had an appointment? Maybe, but then why run away and not just disappear inside? He walked across the lobby to reach the bar. It was four in the afternoon and the place was almost empty. At the bar two men in shirtsleeves tested their stools with their obese behinds. They drank large beers and guffawed. A barkeep was busy at the register. Then he saw the black woman on a stool way back at the end of the bar. She was talking into a rhinestone-studded cell-phone. It was the way she looked that answered quite a part of his questions about Olga. Her hair was blonde and curly, although her skin had a deep butterscotch hue. Her pink top tried valiantly to control the abundance it hugged -- so did her short lycra skirt. He recognized the platform shoes and knew what Olga might have been looking for in the hotel. He walked over to the woman. He never was someone to walk over to a woman like this and not feel self-conscious. She screamed cheap sex in such a blatant way that he felt embarrassed for her. He knew that "real" men don't feel such embarrassment -- they have this switch that allows them to safely put women into categories. They call them either "ladies" or "whores" -- and dehumanize the latter. Whores only have one dimension for them; they are business. "I am Dick," they say. "You are Cunt; let's make a deal." John's brain had never quite mastered the trick of switching. So when he reached the woman he felt hot and tongue-tied. "Hi honey," she said. She had a rich alto voice and flashed a very white smile. "A glass of champagne, please." He hesitated. His line of thought was snapped by her breathy voice and the shameless bumps of fat nipples in her shining top. Before he could do anything, the hand of the barkeep already put an elegant flute of bubbles in front of her, asking what he'd have. He ordered a beer. The banality of the ritual freed his tongue. He sat down and smiled. "I am new to your lovely island," he began. She smiled back and narrowed her eyes in their bush of artificial lashes. "I am not very familiar with, let's say, the various traditions here," he went on. "So please help me out. Is it at all possible to just have a conversation with you and ask a few questions, without getting your expectations up for more?" Her smile vanished for a second. Then her heavily ringed hand patted his knee. "Fine with me for now, honey," she said. "But of course it is you who would have to get things up." She laughed a throaty laugh. "Although I could very well give you a hand there!" They both laughed, making the fat men look over to them. "Shoot, honey," she then said and sent her body into a new jello-like fit of giggles. He took a sip from his beer. "You must know quite a few of the, eh, professional girls on the island?" he asked. "Especially the ones that share your, eh, territory?" He vaguely waved to encompass the hotel. She'd lost her mirth and moved nervously now. "We don't give that kind of information, sweetheart. No use to ask," she said, taking another sip. He produced a crumpled fifty-dollar bill from the hollow of his fist and slowly unfolded it. Simple things like giving tips had always bothered him. It wasn't just the decision of the proper amount, but also the act itself. It felt degrading -- as did bribing or haggling. He also felt it when waiters were overly friendly, or when an ambitious assistant laughed too loud about a joke he made. He slipped the banknote under her sequined purse on the bar. She was very good at seeing things without looking. At once her smile returned. So did her hand on his knee. "Still no use to ask, love," she chuckled. "But yes, I know most of the girls. Why would you want to hear about anyone special? We all aim to please." She chuckled and nodded to the barkeeper. A full glass replaced her empty one before John could even answer her question. "One of them is my ex-wife," he said. "Her name is Olga." "Ah!" she exclaimed. "Olga? My name is Shantelle, but it has been Denise and LaToya before that. It even has been Sue Ellen, but please don't remind me of that!" She laughed loudly at her private joke and squeezed his knee. Then she chuckled and took a generous gulp from her new glass. "I saw her this afternoon, here at the hotel," John went on. "Long ash-blonde, wispy hair, very black eye-make up, long, tanned legs and a very thin body with big fake boobs. As to her outfit, let's say she, eh, dressed the part." The woman slowly stroked his knee. Her fingernails were the same shocking pink as her lips and her top. "Honey," she said. "Let me explain this to a naïve stranger on my island. We, darling, are whores. We're not wives or ex-wives. We have no past, we are not even women. We are cunts and asses. We do what we are paid for and we only have names because we have to maintain an illusion. It is the same reason why they give names to rubber blow-up dolls. Mine is Shantelle, right now, so regulars can ask for me and dream they are with a real woman. Hers might be Olga, but you say it is her true name, so I doubt if she'll be known by it around here." Shantelle emptied her glass and slid off the stool. It made her skirt ride up and her tits bounce. He reached out to stop her. "Shantelle," he said. "Please, give me a few minutes more." She hesitated. He went on. "I have her son with me. Olga hasn't seen him since the day he was born." He produced another fifty-dollar bill. She stared at it, then made it disappear. "One minute," she said. He took a deep breath. "You don't have to tell me who she is or where she lives," he went on. "But I am certain you know her from my description. Ask her please to be here, in this bar tonight. Let's say around eight. Tell her to look out for John. She'll know, she has seen me today." *** It wasn't eight o'clock yet when he walked into the crowded bar. There were a lot of tourists -- some business types too. And around them were a few women whose profession he knew by their uniform -- or the lack of it. Olga wasn't there yet. He wondered if she'd be in work mode. Back at the hotel he had told Manda what was going on. She had listened and been quiet for a while. Then she told him she understood. She took him in her arms, pulling him against the softness of her chest. They had kissed. He'd asked if she wanted to go with him. "No," she'd whispered, closing his lips with a finger. "No, John, better not." Dinner had been a quiet affair. He felt too nervous to eat much. When he left to walk over to the hotel, she had once more embraced him. "I love you," she'd said. So had he. He ordered a soda water and sat at the only free stool, way in the back. It was the one Shantelle had been sitting on before. From it he had an unhindered view of the entrance. After twenty minutes Olga still hadn't arrived yet. Twenty minutes are an eternity when you watch the ice cubes melt in your glass. He asked the barkeeper if there was a message for him. There wasn't. So after ten more minutes and another soda he assumed his plan hadn't worked. Maybe she didn't want him to see her as a hotel whore. Then again, maybe she just didn't care. She hadn't given a damn eight years ago, so why would she now? He threw some money on the bar and rose to leave. Right then there was movement at the entrance. A blonde woman in a gray sweatshirt and jeans walked in on pink sneakers. Her hair was in a ponytail; it gave her a young and natural appearance. She didn't wear make up. It took him seconds to recognize her. She also hesitated before walking over. "John?" she asked. "Olga," he said. He just stared and so did she. She looked pale, he saw, and yes, very thin. But apart from the white-blond hair she looked more like the Olga he remembered than she had done that afternoon. A weary Olga, he thought, with tired eyes. He saw there was an almost faded bruise on her left cheekbone. She didn't apologize for being late. They sat down at a side table after he ordered a mineral water for her. He stuck to his soda. "How are you, John?" she asked. She sounded hoarse. He didn't answer her question -- he just stared, which embarrassed her. She started to fidget with the white laces on her sweatshirt. Then she looked up again. "I am sorry," she said. There wasn't much tone in her voice. He once more kept his quiet, just holding her gaze. She cleared her throat. "I am sorry I left you like that and took your money and never let you know," she went on. "I must have been crazy…I must have been… why else would I have run away from you and our child, leaving you like that and…" Her voice died, her eyes were down. He still didn't know what to say. His throat was jammed with thoughts and emotions, insults and unshed tears. A full minute passed. Olga took a sip from her glass. When she looked up again, her face was even paler. "How is…how is little Stanley, John? Is he all right? I guess it was him I saw at the beach? I think…" He cut her off. "His name is Christopher, Olga." The steadiness of his voice surprised him. Her lashes fluttered. "Of course," she mumbled. "Of course, Christopher. How stupid of me." "Olga," he began, not knowing at all where to go with this conversation. "Is it still Olga? Maybe you have another name now?" She shrugged and said Olga was fine. He went on. "I don't want you near Christopher, do you understand?" Her eyes closed before she nodded. True Love Pt. 03 "You ran away, denying him the milk in your tits," he said. "You called him a pig. You screamed to cut him loose and give him up. You cursed him when you should have been the most important person in his life." Maybe he saw a tear on her cheek, but it was hard to see in the bar lights. "You left me without a word, ruining my life and mocking all that was dear to me," he went on. She nodded. "I…I…yes, John… I know. I know! I am so very sorry. So sorry I did that to you and…and the boy." He grabbed the edge of the table. His knuckles turned white. "Why didn't you even bother to let us know; not even a note, Olga?" he asked. "If only to tell us why? To explain what happened or where you were going? And WHY?" Her eyes widened. There were real tears now. "I don't know, John!" she wailed. "I really don't! I must have been insane. I just ran away…had to be away! I must have gone crazy, but I had to be away from, from you and him and everything…" Her voice drowned in a sob. He watched her cry and steeled himself against invading feelings. "Insane," he repeated, then shrugged. "For how long, Olga? What about when you returned from that, um, insanity?" She stopped sobbing. Her eyes stood huge and red rimmed in her narrow face -- her mouth tried to shape words, but nothing came out. She took another sip then said: "When I came to my senses I was too ashamed to come back or even call you. Sorry, John, but I was too ashamed of what I had done." He stared at her in absolute amazement. He just watched her for a full minute, making her more nervous the longer he waited. "Bull…shit," he then said, spacing the words. She cringed. "No, John. Noooo, noooo! It is true. I was so ashamed of betraying you and being a horrible mother and, and…you must believe me!" He shook his head. "No, Olga. I don't have to believe you. I'll never have to believe you again. You see, I had eight years to think over what you'd done. And six years to compare what you called love with what my wife calls it. I may never know why you left us, Olga, but what you tell me now is bullshit." She winced when he used the word "wife." She must have seen Manda at the terrace. He guessed the actual finality of hearing he had married again could still shake her. Whatever, he thought and was surprised by his indifference. "Olga," he went on when she didn't say a word. "I came here to hear you explain. I came because you never gave me or Christopher a chance to understand why the most important person in our lives forsook us, left us and never even tried to explain herself in over six years." There were new sobs, but he went on. "And now what do you do? You insult me with a load of crap. I loved you, Olga. My god, how I put you on the pedestal of my pathetic love. Tell me, did you ever not laugh about my stupid silliness?" She started to protest, but he didn't hear it. "Post natal depression they called it. I should understand and be patient. It happens a lot, they said. Until you ran, taking a very level headed selection of our most valuable things with you and cleaning out our savings. A distressed new mother in panic? My ass, Olga! My stupid, gullible ass!" She started to rise, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. "You won't leave until you tell me the truth, whore," he growled, sticking his face into hers. She winced at the name he threw at her. "Let me go!" she whined. "I told you I'm sorry. More sorry than you'll ever know. My life is a mess, my body is a ruin and it is all my fault. I can't go anywhere, okay? You go to your sweet new wife and your wonderful child, okay? Go make a nest full of new ones with her and forget about me! I am a cheap two-bit whore, dragging her drugged-out body from one fat tourist to another, okay? I am lost, John! I am over." She broke down crying, her head on the table. A concerned waitress came by asking if anything was wrong. He told her everything was fine, but she insisted on hearing it from Tasha herself. The waitress obviously knew her well enough to use her professional name. Olga sniffed and confirmed that all was fine. "Let's get out of here, Olga," he said, when the waitress had left. He handed her a tissue to clean her face. Then he helped her getting up. He was amazed how thin her arm was. They walked out into the cool hotel lobby, then into the soft Caribbean night. The low wall bordering the beach was still warm to the touch. The moon's silver sliver sparkled in the sea below. They sat down, neither of them appreciating the view. "I am sorry to hear you have a lousy life, Olga," he said. "But as you said it is all of your own making. I fear you'll have to clean it up by yourself too." She nodded, then shrugged. "What happened?" he went on. She sighed, staring down and burying the tips of her sneakers in the sand. "You don't want to know, John," she whispered at last. The hissing surf almost drowned her words. "It would just be psycho-babble -- the useless remorse of a selfish woman who went insane because people started depending on her. First you, then little… Christopher. I just couldn't handle it." She sniffed and blew her nose in the damp napkin. Her red nostrils and teary eyes gave her the face of a small child. It made him smile in spite of everything. She echoed it with a spasm of her lips. "Tell me anyway," he said. "I can't," she sighed as her hands nervously rubbed up and down her upper arms. She shivered, though the air was warm. "I have to go…work. I need the money. I can't, eh, go without very long." He looked at her and once again saw the skull shine through her skin. "You don't look well, Olga," he said. It made her chuckle. "You can say that again." "You should stop this life you lead," he went on, touching her hand. "It'll kill you." Her chuckle turned into a nervous laugh. "John, oh sweet John," she exclaimed. "I pray every night it will do just that, honey! Every goddamn night. And soon, I always add. God, make it soon!" *** "So you think she lied?" Manda's voice was close to his left ear. His hand slowly caressed her belly. They had made love after he returned. First he had licked and fingered her pussy and after she came, she had ridden his cock. Now they lay silent, sweat evaporating from their skin. "I don't know if she lied," he said. "I think she hardly told me anything, really." Olga had left him pretty soon after they went outside the hotel. He understood that she was hooked on drugs and needed to whore herself out to buy them. He tried to be indifferent about that. He had asked her how it had come to this and if she worked for a pimp, but she had evaded all of his questions. Soon after that she had disappeared into the night. Now he lay in bed with the woman he loved, but still could not get Olga out of his mind. "She calls herself Tasha now, you know?" he said into the twilight of the room. "She is a drugged-out whore, having to score every day." Manda slung her leg over his body and rolled on top of him. Her mouth found his. They kissed and he enjoyed the sensuality of her sweet, lazy tongue. After she let go of him, he hugged her naked skin against his. Sleep was closing in. "John?" she whispered from the furry dark. He groaned a sleepy yes. "You still don't believe my opinion of her, do you?" The question pulled him away from sleep's hazy entrance. He knew what she meant, but it was too painful for him to admit. "If you were me, honey," he answered, "If you had loved her like I did, you'd know that I could never believe that." Manda stirred in his embrace. Then she rose, leaning on one elbow, her face close to his. "One thing I'll never understand," she said. "How could she have you, then leave you and end up like this?" Her fingers ran through his moist hair. "I don't know," he said, "she didn't explain." They kissed again. Then she said: "I won't ever leave you, John. Do you hear me? Never." He hugged her and cried. She ran her tongue over his salty cheeks. *** It was already late in the afternoon when they came off the boat, the next day. It had taken them to the other side of the island where they swam and snorkeled all day. The water was crystal clear. John had shown Christopher the colorful fishes and crawling creatures of the Caribbean. They'd had a great time while Manda lay on deck to get an even deeper tan. She just dove in to refresh herself once in a while, or to play with them after they returned from their explorations. When they returned to the hotel, there was a message for them in reception -- for John, to be more precise. It was signed "Olga". It only held two lines, hastily jotted down: "Eight tonight, beach wall. Same place, please be there." John showed it to Manda. She frowned. "I thought she was done talking?" He shrugged and started to crumble the paper up, but she covered his balled up fist with her hand. "Let's go and listen." He looked up, wondering. "Us? It says only me." She took his hand and pulled him to the elevators. "And I say we," she said. They had planned on a romantic night for two. First some drinks, dinner and dance -- then whatever developed. "Let's have those drinks, then walk to the spot she mentioned. We'll have some time till dinner," Manda said. She smiled and asked him to zip up her sundress. It was a maize-yellow cotton dress that not only set off her well- earned tan, it also showed quite a bit of it. No tan blushes as deeply as a fresh tan. He kissed her neck. "You are beautiful," he whispered. After the sitter arrived, they went to one of the many beach bars for a colorful cocktail and a relaxed view of the emptying beach. The last rays of the sun painted everything a glowing orange. "What do you think she wants?" Manda asked. They had avoided the item until then. "Maybe she wants to explain, at last?" John wondered. "There must be more to the story than the bullshit she gave me yesterday." Manda silently sipped on her straw. Her hand slowly straightened her skirt. "I always thought there must be a lot more," she said. "But why would she want to tell all now?" He shrugged. "She looks like a ghost," he said. Manda caught his gaze. "You think she might..?" She never ended the question. John shrugged once more. "She can't be very healthy," he then said, emptying his glass. "Not the way she lives." He rose, stretching. "Anyway, let's go see her." Olga was on time, even early. She stood beside the beach wall, hugging her chest. Unlike yesterday she was clad in full professional war gear. Her prominent tits were on display in a lycra half-top that left her midriff free, but covered her arms. Her ribs almost poked through her skin, so did the hip bones, over low cut tights. A glaringly white pair of platform heels stood on the low wall. "Hi again, Olga," John said when they were close. She looked at him from the dark caves of her painted eye sockets, then turned to Manda. "I thought…" she said. "I know," John interrupted. "But I wanted you to meet my wife." He made introductions with a flourish. "Manda? Olga. Olga? Manda." A skeletal hand slid limply into a pro forma handshake. "I don't know if I…" Olga started, letting the sentence die unfinished. He finished it for her. "You don't know if you wanted to meet me in the presence of my new wife? Is that it, Olga?" His voice rang rather loudly. She just let her eyes wander from Manda to him. "If that is a problem, why bother?" John went on. "I don't need this meeting, anyway; neither does she, so it's up to you." Olga sat down on the wall. Her hand waved non-committal. "It's all right," she whispered. "I'm sorry, it's all right." John saw her tremble. Her painted fingernails scratched her upper arms through the thin layer of lycra. He sat down beside her. He saw Manda sit down on the other side. The contrast between his glowing, healthy wife and the almost transparent wreck next to her was dramatic. "John," Olga said. "I um… I don't think I shall live very much longer. The, uh, drugs and uh, my work will take care of that, I'm sure. Doctor says a year tops, if I don't kick the habit. Maybe two. I'm strong, he says." There was the ghost of a smile. It didn't last. "I was shocked when I saw you here, John, you and your eh, wife and little Christopher. I had done my utmost to bury all memories -- not deep enough, obviously." John felt the urge to say something, but Manda's headshake stopped him. Olga went on. "As I said yesterday, I am very sorry that I left you like I did back then, you and the boy. But I haven't been really honest with you when you asked me why." The far away surf filled her silence. "I don't think I'll ever get another chance to answer the why, though," she went on. "So I have to do it now. You see…" She suddenly started coughing. It was an ugly, raw sound from somewhere deep down her chest. Manda's arm went around the girl's crouching frame. Her hand softly tapped her back. She produced a tissue and gave it to Olga. The attack took minutes and when Olga at last looked up, her black make up ran freely down her face. "You need to see a doctor, Olga," Manda said. "You have to go to a hospital." But Olga vehemently shook her head, making the strands of her ash-white hair dance. "No," she croaked and coughed some more. "I'm all right again. Tip-top shape!" She grinned. It turned her face into that of a squirrel monkey's. John remembered that face -- memories overwhelmed him. "I have to go on," she said, chasing away the monkey. "Must tell the story." Her breathing seemed back to normal. The exertion had caused one of her fake breasts to pop out of her top. She routinely pushed it back in. "I must answer the why." "You see," she resumed, "I already had a lover when we met, John, and even after we had been living together, I kept seeing him. No, I should be more precise. He wasn't just a lover. I was his real wife during all the years of our marriage. And then I followed him here." John stared at her as she fell silent. He suddenly found himself on top of a thousand-foot high tower, looking straight down into a boiling sea. The debris of a million futile questions jammed his brain. The world tightened into a pinpoint. He saw Manda slide off her seat, putting her arms around him. Her voice was in his ear. "I'm here, John." "I'm so sorry," another voice said. A far-away seagull laughed. *** She told him all he didn't want to hear. He vomited once. He ran to the sea twice and cursed the darkening sky. Manda kept him from strangling Olga at least three times. "You only married me to have the money to sustain your real man?" he asked. "Then you killed our first child because it might have been his and exposed your secret?" She nodded, tears running down her face. "You ran away from our second child because it was mine?" he went on. She nodded again. "You must have hated me. You never loved me." She hesitated, then slowly nodded. "Sorry," she whispered. "I never hated you, but I loved him. I was his. I still am, even after he's been dead for two years now. I can't help it. I couldn't betray him." John jumped up, eyes wild. "Betray him?" he screamed. "What about me? What about Chris?!" "I'm sorry." She sounded as though she were reciting a mantra. "I really am sorry." John jumped up and started walking from left to right and back. "My God!" he exclaimed. Then he laughed -- not a pretty laugh. "My God, she is sorry. What a fool I was. You must have had a ball all those years!" His back was to the women on the wall. "I had no choice," he heard the hoarse, ruined voice whisper. "I loved him. I had to do what he wanted. He said he had a wife and children. They needed money or she would take them away from him. He said he'd die if she did that. I loved him more than myself. So I found you for him and I married you for the money to keep him. I am sorry, John, but I could not lose him. I loved him. He was my true love." As if bitten by a snake John whirled around. "Love? Love! Do you even know what it is? I did everything for you. I paid for your courses and your new career. I took you to the corners of the world. I… I paid for your wardrobe. I paid for your tits!" He had closed in on Olga. Her eyes were down. "Everything! I did everything for you, 'cause I loved you. And all you did was fuck him behind my back. You poured a shit load of guilt over me because I didn't save you from being raped, when in reality you fell into my arms with his goddamn goo running down your goddamn thighs. I broke my back trying to give you our child and all the time you were on the pill! For nine long months you cheated me out of the most precious memories a man and a woman can share." He once more burst into insane laughter. Manda took him into her arms, but he pushed her away. He saw the hurt in her face. He took her back, muttering "sorry". "It's all right, honey," she said. Olga stood aside, looking away from the embracing couple. She didn't know where to look or what to say. Then she said with a flat, lost voice: "I, eh…I'll leave now. Please forgive me -- not now, I know you can't. But please forgive me later, when you hear I'm dead. If you ever hear it." She took her heels and turned to go, but Manda grabbed her shoulder. "Your lover made you leave with him when the child proved not to be his, didn't he?" she asked. Olga nodded. "He told you to take the money and run -- and you did." Olga nodded once more. "Let me guess," Manda went on. "There were no wife and children. But there were other women -- whores and clients and drugs." Olga stared away, saying nothing. Manda turned her so she could see her face. "Go see a doctor," she said. "You are young, Olga. Don't throw away your life." John was shocked by her words. He looked from his wife to his ex-wife, the whore, the slut, the life-long traitor, his cruel humiliator. Olga still stood with her back halfway turned to them. Shadows made her shoulder blades stand out sharply. "Olga, please listen," Manda said, pushing her back to the wall, sitting her down. "Before we go back home, we'll leave you an airline ticket at the travel agent in the lobby of our hotel. It is for you, any time you decide to pick it up. We'll also have living quarters on hold for you, back home. And an appointment with rehab facilities." Olga just sat, shaking her head. Manda took both her match stick wrists, demanding her attention. "Do this for John, Olga. He hates you because he can't stop loving you." Manda's voice broke. The two women cried in each other's arms. Then Manda rose, wiping her eyes. "Also do it for Christopher," she said. "One day he'll want to meet you. One day you'll want to meet him. And through John and Christopher, do it for me. They are my true loves, I'll die without them." She just stood in silence then -- even the surf seemed muffled. Once more her voice rang out. "Tell me you'll do it!" John didn't know what to say or where to look. He felt pissed at Manda for never asking him if he agreed with her incredible action. But at the same time he admired her for what she did. Trying to save a ruined creature from death, because she was human. She said he still loved her. The notion shook him. Was she right? Was his hatred a sign of love? The acid pit of his stomach churned with a vicious cocktail of hurt, jealousy and humiliation. What are you doing, Manda, he asked himself. What on earth do you hope will come from this? He didn't agree at all with her promises. Let the whore rot. Let her get what she deserves! He wanted to spit it out, but Olga beat him to it. "Leave me alone, Manda!" she cried out, with a sudden anger. "I don't need your mercy. Go back to your vanilla life with your stupid hubby and your bastard child. Go make a few of yourself, what do I care? I don't need your goddamn mercy!" She rose, turned and walked across the darkening sands, the whorish shoes dangling from her hand. True Love Pt. 03 *** Manda told him she was sorry for not discussing beforehand about what she'd offered. "I couldn't," she said. "I didn't know myself, it came at the spur of the moment. It was just what I thought we had to do." "Well," he'd said, after calming down. "I guess it was very stupid and very sweet of you. Admirable and all that, but as you see: she just pisses on your kindness, just as she pissed on me all those years. No need for us to go on with it." He'd been wrong assuming that Manda wouldn't do it, of course. When they checked out, she asked him to wait for a minute and she walked over to the travel agency, where she collected an envelope, checked what was inside and handed it back to the girl behind the desk. "Now we leave," she said, smiling. She put her arm through his and laid her head against his shoulder. He sighed and shrugged. "You're mad, Manda," he said. "Yes," she agreed. Within weeks after they returned, John was over his head into work. The pressure was on ever since he stepped back into his office. Most of what had happened on the island sank to the remote niches of his mind -- even the tan soon disappeared. So when he came home one night, he didn't guess the source of Manda's low spirit. "What's happened, darling?" he asked. "Ah well, " she said, shrugging. "I guess you were right all along." "About what?" he wondered. "Olga cashed in the ticket," Manda said. There were tears in her eyes. John needed a moment to understand. Manda came into his arms. "I called the travel agency," she went on. "They told me that Ms. Olga Jensen came for her airline ticket three days after we left the island, but that she returned two days later to sell it back. She took the money and walked out. They never heard of her after that." John kissed her eyes. They tasted salty. "Honey," he whispered. "You are wonderful. I love you, only you, and I beg you to forget her. Promise me." She looked up. They kissed.