by Penny Wylder
That word, “baby,” jolts me. Our sex is anything but clinical, so it’s easy for me to forget why we’re here. Now that he’s mentioned it, I feel self-conscious and pathetic. It’s so easy to delude myself into thinking that Chaucer and I are in a relationship, but the fact is, I’m paying for this experience. If I hadn’t handed over my credit card to Mosaic, Chaucer would be in a room with another woman, maybe even having this identical conversation. In fact, this building is full of women like me, losers who couldn’t find a partner and had to resort to paying for sex to have a baby. How did I get here?
“Hey,” Chaucer says, interrupting my spiral of self-pity. “Where’d you just go? It’s like you drifted a million miles away from me. Did I say something wrong?”
He has true concern in his eyes, and I know he wouldn’t think less of me if I were honest with him and shared my concerns. But being too honest would just make this whole thing more complicated, and why ruin a perfectly nice afternoon in bed with reality?
“I’m just thinking it’s getting late,” I lie. “I mean, you must have someplace to be.”
“Actually, I do have something very important to do,” he says.
As I try not to let my disappointment show, I notice that devilish grin spread across his face, and then he’s lifting me off the bed and heading toward the bathroom.
“The shower. I can’t possibly let a filthy, filthy girl like you leave this room before being washed thoroughly. By me.”
He sets me down outside the shower and turns on the water. It’s a beautiful marble shower inside and I can’t help but be impressed again by the detail Mosaic put into this clinic. Perhaps if she’d made it a little less plush and like a five star hotel, I’d have an easier time keeping my feelings in check when I’m with Chaucer.
Inside the shower, I adjust to the hot water. Chaucer steps in after me and rubs my shoulders with a soapy washcloth. It feels amazing and I can feel the tension drain from my body. I let myself fall into the fantasy that we’re just a normal couple, enjoying a shower together before we head off to work in the morning.
“Turn around,” Chaucer says.
He spins me and tilts my head back. He uses the handheld showerhead to start wetting my hair, running his fingers through it so it’s completely wet. He squeezes out some shampoo into his palm. The shower fills with the scent of lavender and mint, and when he starts massaging it into my scalp, I can’t help a small moan from escaping my lips. I’ve had my hair washed dozens of times at the salon before, but I’ve never had a man wash my hair. The intimacy is so intense that I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. This is what it feels like for someone to take care of me, I realize.
After he rinses the shampoo from my hair, Chaucer doesn’t place the showerhead back in the wall mount. He takes special care to clean me from head to toe, running the sudsy washcloth all over my body and rinsing after it with the water. My breath hitches as he runs the washcloth up my inner leg, but I’m disappointed when he gets to my inner thigh and switches to the other leg, completely avoiding my pussy. When he washes up my body, he pays extra attention to my breasts until my nipples are hard and pert. I step back into him and can feel his erection digging into my back. He brings his mouth down to my ear, and I feel his hot breath on me as he whispers, “You know you’re still pretty filthy.”
Then sparks flash in my eyes as he points the jet toward my pussy. He holds the showerhead in one hand, and loops his other arm around my waist. My body jerks at the contact, and I can feel Chaucer’s laugh vibrating through his chest against my back. If it weren’t for his arm around me, I wouldn’t be able to stand at all. He angles the water so it makes direct contact with my swollen clit, and I hold still, afraid to move an inch and lose this amazing feeling. It’s a constant, slow building, and I realize I’m holding my breath. But then the feeling is gone, and the hot water streams down my breasts, teasing my nipples. Without thinking, I move my hand down to pick up where the showerhead left off, but Chaucer stops me by grabbing my wrist.
“No, no, no dirty girl. This is my game.”
I let out what only can be described as a whimper, and this seems to please him. As a reward, he aims the showerhead at my pussy again. It’s hitting me in an entirely new spot, and I know I’m going to come any second now. My knees are starting to buckle as I’m hurtling toward my orgasm, and in one swift motion, Chaucer lifts my leg to the shower ledge and enters me from behind, his cock filling up my wet and swollen pussy. The combined feeling of the water vibrating against my clit and Chaucer’s cock easing in out of me brings the world crashing down around me. I feel my pussy clenching around him, and he must too, because he drops the showerhead and grabs my breast, pumping furiously into me.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Chaucer says through gritted teeth. “I could fuck you like this forever.”
He angles himself so he’s hitting me deeper, and his words combined with the tip of his cock rubbing over my G-spot bring on the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever had. I reach out and brace myself on the shower wall as he fucks me faster, his pace becoming erratic and his ragged breaths echoing in the small shower. In just a few more strokes, he’s shooting his hot cum inside me.
Chaucer plants a few appreciative kisses on the back of my neck while we pant and recover in the steamy shower. It feels like time has stopped, and I wish it would. We aren’t a normal couple having a quickie before we go our separate ways to work in the morning. We’re strangers, and this is the last time we’ll see each other for a few weeks. It may be the last time we see each other…ever. Saddness washes over me.
“Let me get you into bed,” Chaucer says. He steps out of the shower and grabs a gigantic, thick towel. He wraps it around me, scoops me up, and brings me to the bed. He lays me gently on the bed and places a pillow under my hips, ensuring that his semen stays inside me. I watch him towel dry his hair and dress. I try to memorize every beautiful curve of his body, never taking my eyes off his strong thighs, perfect abs, bronze chest, until they’re covered in clothes.
“I guess this is goodbye for now,” he begins. “These appointments with you have been the best part of the last couple of weeks.”
I agree, but I can’t trust myself to speak, afraid my voice may crack with emotion.
He’s looking at me intently, but not speaking. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Hell, what does a person say in this situation? Thanks for all the fucks. Tell my kid I say hi.
He walks to the door and we make eye contact again. Neither of us speaks. There are things I want to say. Things I imagine he might say. Instead I smile at him and lift a hand and wave goodbye. He breaks eye contact and walks out the door. Walks out of my life.
I want to cry. Tears sting the backs of my lids. Why does it hurt so much to watch him walk away? It’s not like I know him. It’s not like we’re a couple. And yet, through this experience, we’ve developed a bond. There’s no denying that.
He leaves and I lay on the bed staring at the closed door. I know it’s against the rules, but I want to know him, who he is, where he’s from. The urge is too strong to fight. I grab my phone and Google Chaucer Briggs.
I wish I hadn’t.
6
When Google comes up with his name, I don’t want to believe it. At first I think it isn’t him, but a picture comes with it and there’s no denying that the Chaucer Briggs in the article is the same man who just left this room.
The article says that Chaucer Briggs—also known as Dirty Money Briggs—is an ex-con who served time for money laundering. The article also alludes to the idea that Chaucer killed his business partner, framing it as a suicide, but it doesn’t go any further than that.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath until I’m gasping for air, trying to breathe through the confusion. How is this possible? How can Mosaic let someone like that into her club? No woman would want to have a baby with a criminal. It’s been proven that behavioral traits can be passed down. The men here are clearly
not vetted as well as I was told if a simple Google search yields these results. I want to say something, to complain, but then I’d have to admit that I broke the rules. Maybe that’s why the rules were put in place, to keep women from looking into these men and learning they are cons, maybe even sociopaths. Maybe this whole baby-making club is a scam.
I’m so mad that I’m shaking. I shoot up out of bed to get dressed. I can hardly grip the clasp to put my bra back on.
I don’t know what to do. The women of this club should know … But if they knew, would this be the end of their chances to have children? While some studies say that behavioral traits can be passed down, that’s not always the case. Most bad men are that way because of the way they’re raised. Is Chaucer the way he is because he lacked a strong male role model in his life? No, I know plenty of single mothers who raised good kids.
I put my hands on my head. I’m spinning out over this news. I don’t know how to process it. Not only am I angry that I’ve been lied to and cheated, I’m also heartbroken and concerned. What if his dirty dealings somehow come back on me? What if we do end up having a child and it comes back on him or her? This kind of thing could haunt my child for the rest of their life.
My teeth chatter even though it’s not cold. Suddenly everything about this room, the smell, the ambiance, makes me feel sick. I need to leave. What have I done? This situation was strange to start with, now it feels dark and dirty. I want a baby in the worst way, but I don’t want the lies of the father to come back and hurt me or my child later on.
As I leave the clinic, I can’t help but realize that despite Chaucer’s criminal history, I still find myself thinking about him. About the look on his face when he left me. About everything he didn’t say. I care about him after everything I just learned. It’s stupid, I know. But I can’t help it.
Later that month, the phone calls start rolling in. At work, I have to turn off my phone to keep from annoying my co-worker at the desk next to mine. At the end of the day, there are several messages from Mosaic. I don’t want to listen to any of them. I want to forget about that entire part of my life. But later, when I’m at home alone, my curiosity gets the best of me. I need to know what she has to say.
The messages don’t say anything other than “please call our offices.”
That’s kind of scary on its own. What does she want? Has she somehow figured out that I learned who my partner was? Did I ask him too many questions? Did Megan tell Mosaic that I was actually attracted to him? I think this even though I know she would never do something like that. She’s my friend. I’m being paranoid.
My phone rings while I’m contemplating all of this and nearly scares me to death. I fumble, practically dropping it. Mosaic’s number comes up on my screen. I try to control my breathing as I answer the call.
“Hello, Mosaic,” I say.
Her voice is that of anticipation when she speaks. She asks if the pregnancy took. She doesn’t seem suspicious one bit. Perhaps she doesn’t know after all.
I assure her that there is no pregnancy news. I haven’t tested and my period is due soon. So we’ll see. I’m just very busy at work and haven’t had time to check in with her. It sounds like an excuse, but Mosaic doesn’t mention that. But she does make a comment that gives me pause. She says—more as an off-handed comment than something that is supposed to carry much meaning—that my baby-making partner has become somewhat obsessive as of late. He constantly calls her and wants to know if we’re confirmed for future appointments.
My chest aches and tears prick my eyes. I wasn’t expecting that. I figured once I moved on, Chaucer would move onto the next woman looking to get pregnant. Knowing that he wants to be with me again makes this so much harder.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I give Mosaic an excuse about my phone battery about to die and that I will call her later. Then I hang up with no intentions of ever calling again. I’m done with the baby-making club. As much as it hurts, I have to be done with Chaucer. There has to be another way.
7
At work the next day, I’m sitting at my desk, looking at baby pictures again to try and make myself feel better when Megan passes by.
She sighs loudly to let me know she’s there. I look up at her. She already saw the pictures I was looking at, so there’s no sense in trying to hide them.
“Did the pregnancy not take?” she says.
She thinks that’s why I’m sad, but it’s not. I’ll let her think that because it’s too difficult to explain the real reason. I don’t want to give her the details and let her know that the man I’d been partnered with was a criminal—and worst of all, that I still have feelings for him despite all that I know of his past. Those kinds of details might make her question her own baby maker. Right now she’s happily married with a child on the way. I’m not going to take that from her.
“No, it didn’t. I got my period.”
“I’m sorry, but it will happen next time. Mosaic won’t give up until it takes. Maybe she can find you another guy with stronger swimmers.”
I cringe. I don’t want another guy. I want Chaucer. I can’t even imagine going into one of those rooms and trying to make a baby with someone else. All I would do is think about him the entire time and wish it were him in my bed instead. I can’t do that. If I’m going to make a baby, it needs to be with someone I love and want to spend my life with. Joining the club was a mistake.
“You need to get out,” Megan says. She claps her hands and gets all excited. “There’s a new bar on the edge of town with live music. We should go tonight.”
I raise my eyebrows. “You want to go to a bar?”
She rolls her eyes and looks down at her swollen belly. “Obviously not to drink. But there’s a band there that I like, and Nathan and I have been saying we need a night on the town before this baby comes and ruins our social life. It will be fun.”
Getting out and getting my mind off of Chaucer for a change really does sound fun. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
She squeals with excitement. “Wear something sexy—I’m talking tight and practically see-through—maybe we can get you laid and pregnant without the help of the club.”
I laugh. Though I’m not ready to have sex with someone else right now, I say, “Okay.
People look at Megan strangely when we walk into the bar. Her pregnant belly is through the door before she is. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. Nathan orders her a cranberry juice at the bar and a Long Island iced tea for me. He’s not drinking either, but I have no intentions of staying sober tonight. I want to drink my problems away and dance all night.
The band is really good and plays a mix of originals and covers of some of my favorite songs. The alcohol hits my blood stream with full force and I’m feeling pretty good. I dance with a really good-looking guy, but I find myself comparing him to Chaucer, who is much taller and thicker through the chest. With Chaucer I would have to stand on my toes to wrap my arms around his neck. This man, while he does smell nice, his scent doesn’t make me automatically smile and swoon. When the man starts getting too close, I back away. I’m just not into it. I apologize to him and leave the dance floor.
Megan is at a table, singing along with the band and guarding our drinks. I drain my glass and I’m ready for another.
“You guys want anything?” I yell above the music.
“Nothing for me,” Megan says, swaying as the music shifts to a slower song. She’s adorable, all big and pregnant and dancing. Her husband thinks so too. He can’t keep his hands off of her. I’m jealous. I want what they have. It hurts to watch them.
“Me neither,” Nathan says. “Actually, I’m getting tired. I think I should probably get home.”
“Yeah, me too,” Megan says.
I laugh. “You two aren’t fooling me. I know exactly what you two are going home to do.”
Megan giggles. “Busted.”
“You two go enjoy the rest of your night. I’m not quite ready to leave yet. I’ll fin
d my own way home.”
“Are you sure?” Megan says with concern. “You seemed really upset today. I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I’m fine. I’m actually having fun for a change.” It’s not true but I don’t want her to worry about me. “If I go home now, I’ll just sulk the rest of the night.”
“Okay, but if you need anything, you just let me know. And text when you get home so I know you’re all right.”
“I will.”
She hugs me. When she pulls away she has a smile on her face. “And no calling in sick with a hangover. I can’t get through the workday without you.”
“I’ll be there, hangover and all. Nothing a few aspirin and a thermos of water won’t cure.”
She looks skeptical. “We’ll see about that.”
When they leave, I head toward the bar to get myself another drink. People bump into me. I’m like a ping-pong ball being tossed around, but it doesn’t really bother me. My mind is somewhere else. Back in that room at the club. A small and happy universe of its own, until reality shattered the dream. I hate that I can’t keep him out of my thoughts.
About halfway to the bar I stop dead in my tracks. Blinking, I try to clear my vision. Did that one Long Island iced tea get me so drunk I’m starting to seeing things? I know I’m a lightweight, but I’ve never hallucinated before. I rub my eyes—probably smearing my eye makeup all over my face—but it’s not a hallucination or a mirage. Sitting at the bar, with another man, is Chaucer.
I scramble to hide around the corner.
The man he’s with is attractive with light hair and dark eyes. Both men have a similar build and could be runway models for Calvin Klein. But all I can focus on is Chaucer. They’re deep in conversation, talking over tumblers of what looks like whiskey neat. Women surround them and toss glances their way, but the two men are deep in conversation and aren’t paying attention to anyone around them. I wonder if that’s the man who called Chaucer while we were together. Chaucer has that same strained look on his face as he did when he was on the phone.