A Fertility Tale Pt. 02

2. The Ram

All three of the Italian women were pregnant by the time Richard arrived in New York, though he didn't know it immediately. A friend had found him an apartment on Wooster Street in SoHo, and he received Eleni's email while moving in. "Congratulations. They're pregnant," it said.

"Who?" he replied, though he knew the answer, and anyway, why was this Greek lesbian bothering him now?

"You remember the Italians," she chided him.

"Which one?"

She replied, "All of them."

It brought back his ill-starred week in Cyprus, but also the incredible three hours at the end of it, in which not one but three attractive, mature women had shagged him senseless. Now all three were pregnant? He remembered Yia-yia's promise -- that he wouldn't get them pregnant, he would just make them fertile -- and dismissed Leni's email uneasily. So they were pregnant, congratulations, so what? That's what they wanted. Three more photos for the wall at Pandemos.

His uneasiness had to do with disturbing changes in his own body. Most of his body hair fell out after he left Cyprus. His prick had grown (he thought). Especially when hard, it just seemed a lot bigger. His balls were unquestionably bigger and heavier, his scrotum fuller, the skin was darker, near purple and thickly veined. Now and then he got incredibly horny -- he had to have a woman, and if he was lucky enough to find one, he just had to fuck. At such times it was almost embarrassing how desperately he needed sex. Sometimes he chalked it up to Yia-yia's 'treatment;' other times he scoffed at the idea and told himself that he just had a naturally vigorous libido.

Overall, he felt good. Great, actually: confident, strong, virile, and attractive. Work was going extremely well. For the first time in his life, he joined a gym, then a Cross-fit program, and tried out boxing, then martial arts. He started running and lifting weights. He grew his hair longer, combing it back to show off a widow's peak, and cultivated a stubble that he thought complemented his lean physique.

Women noticed. He didn't bother with dates, but frequented bars and clubs, remembering occasionally, as he danced in loud basement clubs, the hills of Cyprus and the Greek dancer, Leni. Now he could dance, too. His pubic hair grew back wavy, dark and lush, not coarse or kinked -- he could brush it and sometimes did so -- while the rest of his taut body remained mostly hairless.

There could no longer be any doubt about his cock and balls -- they were bigger. Every time he ejaculated, his penis burned and afterward his balls ached. Eventually, the ache was tolerable though it lasted for a couple of days; the burning was always intense -- he hated it -- but it went away quickly.

He was normally a believer in condoms, but the first time he used one, it disintegrated. Pulling out of an exhausted, satisfied, tattooed partner, he was shocked to notice the rubber melting or dissolving or something before his eyes. Shit! He hid it and scuttled to the bathroom to scrape the mess off his burning prick.

Despite his problem, it was some weeks before he saw a doctor; he was new to the city and didn't know any. When he mentioned his main complaint -- the burning penis -- he was seen right away. The doctor took a history and did an exam, said it was likely just a UTI, but he would also test for STDs. Richard was asked about sex partners and advised to abstain for now.

Within two days, he heard back from the doctor, good news! -- he was negative for both UTI and STDs. Richard asked warily, okay, so what is the problem? The doctor seemed unconcerned but asked him to come in and give a specimen, then they would talk. That meant, it turned out, that he had to jerk off in a plastic cup, which he hated, and which again burned.

Three nights after surrendering the specimen, he was at home playing a video game when the doorbell rang. Perturbed, he paused the game to answer the door. A short bald man in white shirt and black slacks stood outside his door. "Meester Pratt?" he asked. Richard nodded dumbly and the man stepped aside to make way for a tall blonde.

She wore a long coat cut from soft black leather and cinched at the waist. She was extravagantly perfumed and absurdly beautiful. Stepping into his apartment, she pulled his face to hers and kissed him hard on the mouth. "We have to hurry," she said. "My plane is at the airport. Carl will hold the car." The accent was European, but she hadn't said enough for him to identify it. Stunned, Richard leaned to look out the window and saw a silver limo at the curb.

When he turned back to the woman, she had removed her coat and was naked except for heels and gold jewelry. And perfect pubic hair, if that counted. She attacked him. Her hands were all over him, tugging, almost ripping his clothes off, determined to reach his penis, then stroking it with one hand as the other sought his hairy balls.

She continued to kiss him aggressively, expertly. Her perfume was intoxicating. She sank to the level of his knees, apparently intending to suck him, but saw he was already hard. She pushed him onto the sofa, stuffed him into her vagina and began fucking. Vigorous, determined fucking. "Give it to me!" she whispered urgently, "You must give it to me!"

Richard responded -- anyone would. He didn't exactly fuck her back -- he was too surprised -- but he cooperated and soon enough was spurting into her greedy cunt (again, it burned). "Yes!! Yes!" she cried, and remained impaled until she was sure he was spent.

She patted his cheek before looking for her coat. From a coat pocket she extracted a pair of black panties and pulled them on, followed quickly by the coat itself. From the other pocket she withdrew an envelope. "Adieu, mon vieux," she murmured, and dropped the envelope on a table by the door as she left, already checking her phone. The envelope contained nothing but a packet of $100 bills. He was dumb with shock, still half undressed, but very impressed.

His subsequent medical consultation was vexing. Dr. Osborne declined to discuss anything on the phone and asked him to come into the office again. When Richard did, Osborne admitted that the clinical picture was puzzling. He informed Richard that he was "profoundly" infertile and he was referring him to a specialist.

No matter how many questions Richard asked, no meaningful answers were forthcoming. Osborne just kept repeating, "Well, we really don't know -- let's see what Dr. Bancroft says..." He left Richard at the receptionist's desk with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Jodi here will schedule an appointment with Bancroft and don't worry, we'll get it sorted out. Probably nothing serious." Dr. Bancroft's first availability was weeks later.

Fortunately, work continued to go well. Two partners in the firm invited him to a party at a summer house in the Hamptons they had recently designed. Richard was flattered and surprised to be invited as he'd had nothing to do with the project. The house was finally completed, and the owners were having a party to show it off before closing it for the winter.

The party was nearly as fancy as the house -- substantial sums had been spent on both. The food was excellent, the booze plentiful, the music tasteful, and there were happy, attractive women milling about in party dresses. Richard was sipping his second flute of champagne when a woman of about forty beckoned him. She had auburn hair and wore a blue frock that matched her eyes; she had already kicked off her shoes. "Are you Mr. Pratt?" she asked. "You must be."

Richard nodded, happy to hear his name. "I am. And you are...?"

"Gloria Harbison. I'm the owner. Please come with me, Mr. Pratt. I'd like to show you the guest house." He set his glass down and followed her outside and across the new lawn. On the way, she raved about the work his firm had done -- she and Stephen loved the new space; it would completely transform their summers. Now she intended to renovate the original house, for guests. Would he have a look at it? Of course, gladly.

He wondered as she opened the door and flicked on the lights why she had corralled him rather than one of the partners. As she led him through rooms on the first floor, she talked about her recent trip to Europe. "Wouldn't you know, I kept hearing about a special American architect named Pratt. When I saw your name on the firm's website, I thought it must be you. Is it?"

Richard blushed and stammered, thinking it must be someone else; he was too young and unknown. Gloria continued, "Well, your firm does such fantastic work, and they did hire you after all, didn't they? I thought maybe I should, too." She smiled again and might have winked at him. They entered a small study lined with dark wooden bookcases. "By the way, I understand you were recently in Europe, too. Cyprus, I believe. Is that correct?"

Now he was really surprised and nodded cautiously.

"Wonderful. Then perhaps you'd like to help me."

Richard gestured professionally at the house. "My pleasure. It looks interesting, Mrs. Harbison; good bones. Tell me how I can help."

Gloria narrowed her eyes. "The commission is yours, Mr. Pratt, as soon as I am pregnant." She dangled a key before him, then dropped it in his hand. "I am here every other Wednesday."

The subsequent tryst with Gloria Harbison was heady fun. She was rich, experienced, matter of fact, and lusty. She openly ogled his fit young body -- his pecs, abs, glutes, quads, calves -- and was utterly forthright about what she wanted. Richard didn't worry about Mr. Harbison; he figured that was her problem. Nor was he shy. He undressed her confidently and treated himself to an inspection of her tanned body, boldly groping her as she had him. She welcomed it; they both relished it.

When the time came, they coupled missionary style on a king bed with her legs up, her knees spread wide and drawn back to maximize his penetration. "Come on, Richard, fuck me! Hard!" she urged, even though she was already getting the fucking of her life. They were loud. Richard pounded without fear or mercy. Gloria's breath burst from her lungs with each thrust. "Uhh! Unh! Uhh! Unh!..."

Richard was in one of those states in which he craved sex -- it was perfect timing, really -- and made no attempt to hide it or prolong it. When he muttered, "Now," she clawed his buttocks to pull him deeper into herself and gasped when she felt his steaming emission. "God, it's hot!" she hissed. Richard nodded with satisfaction. It was no longer a surprise to him. His cock still burned and his balls still ached, but he knew exactly what he was doing.

Two weeks later he returned to do it again. Gloria was waiting for him in the house, glad to see him but looking more subdued than sultry and dressed in jeans. Instead of making straight for the bedroom as before, she led him to the study in which they had first chatted. She offered him a seat and a bashful smile. "You know, Richard, I didn't really think this would work. I, um,...well, I don't know, I just figured what the hell." Then she almost laughed. "But I'm pregnant!"

Richard raised his eyebrows -- he was a little surprised, too. Gloria nodded emphatically, happily, over and over. She sat in his lap and hugged him. "I can't believe it -- can you? -- that old woman was right..." She laughed again. "I must have seemed such a bitch, Richard -- I'm sorry. I'm so happy! Thank you." She kissed him, then got up and did a happy little jig on her way to the desk.

Richard replied, "I guess she was. Congratulations." He looked around uncertainly, not sure what to say, then rose. "Well...okay then. I guess I'll be going..."

Gloria read his mind. "No, no. I know I promised you a commission. But you agree, surely, this place doesn't need renovating."

"No, I guess not."

"I'm going to need a nursery instead!" she exulted, as she opened the desk drawer and pulled out a check book. "Here's a check for what I would have spent on plans -- and mind you, this is for you, Richard, not the firm. Take it. Believe me, this is such a bargain -- much cheaper than renovating." She finished writing the check and tore it out with a flourish. He folded it without looking at it. She went on, "Richard, this is a miracle. I'm pregnant. I can feel it. And if Pandemos is right, it's Stephen's!"

Richard kept nodding and Gloria kept laughing and talking. "You're a walking miracle! And just by the way?" she said slyly, "...a superb lover. I almost wish we had to keep trying! I want you to keep the key for the winter, Richard. Use the house whenever you want -- whenever you need someplace, you know, special. It's vacant but we'll keep the heat on all winter." She winked. "I'll be sure to keep the linens fresh!"

In his Uber back to the city Richard looked at the check. It was for $20,000, drawn on Gloria Harbison's personal account. On the memo line was a heart.

With that, Richard plunged into the fertility business. The basic proposition sounded dubious, even sketchy: a woman desiring to become pregnant needed to have unprotected sex with him, Richard Pratt, after which she could cavort and conceive with her 'real' partner. In short, fuck Richard, then copulate with your husband. He realized it sounded like a total scam. A perverted, sophomoric scam. Why would any sentient person believe it?

Nevertheless, word spread, and women came. He never needed to proposition anyone. Women approached him. Rich women. Some, he figured, had heard something from Gloria, God bless her, who had obviously heard something in Europe, as had the blonde in the trench coat. Was it all because of Leni? He thought it must be, so was intrigued when he received another email from her.

Hi Richard, this is Eleni Vitalis from Pandemos. I learned some things about my grandmother's fertility treatment and thought you might be interested. Can we zoom?

Their Zoom call began awkwardly. Cameras on, they blinked shyly at one another before Eleni blurted, "Wow, you look great. Um, how's it going? How's New York?"

Richard allowed that New York was fine, work was fine, then waited for her to take the lead. After hesitating she said, "So, those ladies from Milan are pregnant."

"So I heard."

"One of them is having twins."

Richard cocked an eyebrow. "Which one?"

Eleni shrugged. "Does it matter? I don't know, but Yia-yia got all excited. She said it's working." Richard was silent and Eleni said, "Okay, let me back up. I decided to stay on at the spa, so Yia-yia started teaching me about fertility and, well, you're sort of a big deal. The stuff she gave you makes women fertile, like super- hyper-fertile. Anyone you have sex with? Well, the next guy she has sex with will get her pregnant, pretty much guaranteed. According to Yia-yia, even a crippled one-eyed Turkish great-grandfather could do it. So, the bit about twins makes sense -- hyperfertility. And contraception, even the pill, won't stop it. Sex with you totally changes their cycle, ovulation, chemistry, everything. It makes them ready to make a baby like right now."

"For how long?"

"Well, until they're pregnant, I guess."

"You guess? Jesus, what are you guys even doing?"

Eleni was defensive. "Well, duh, that's why women come here, in case you forgot."

"Okay, fine. Give them the Kool-Aid. Why me?"

"She's done that, and it helps, but this is better because the stuff she gave you isn't botanical."

"What does that mean?"

"At first, I figured it was the usual: mountain herbs, roots, flowers. But it's not. It's enzymes and proteins, maybe hormones -- I don't know, I'm not a chemist. She extracts it from sheep testicles, and sometimes goats..."

"And let me guess, Zivania for flavor," Richard said sarcastically.

Eleni ignored the remark. "She gave it to you because of the enzymes. Your body can't produce herbs, but it can do things like enzymes and proteins. She's been trying to figure that out, how to get the body to do it automatically. But it wasn't working. Guys always threw up, every time...until you, that is."

Richard was not happy. "Great. So Yia-yia decided to experiment on me -- without asking me -- and now my doctor tells me I'm 'profoundly infertile.' Was that part of the plan? She knew it would happen, didn't she? She even told you I couldn't get them pregnant."

Eleni became defensive again. "That was after. She didn't think it would work. She had given up on it. She figured you would vomit like everyone else. She was just pissed and trying to make you barf. It's not her fault."

"Bullshit."

"I'm sorry, okay? Yia-yia is, too. Anyway, it should wear off, unless your balls are sore; I mean were sore. The whole idea was to get testicles producing the stuff. But Yia-yia said the inflammation would hurt like hell and you always said your balls didn't hurt. So we're thinking it didn't happen, which means whatever did happen should wear off."

Richard remained silent.

"When Yia-yia heard about the twins she got excited all over again. And, well, I think she might have mentioned your name to someone."

"No shit. She did. Or you did."

"What do you mean? What happened?"

"Oh, we're having a regular baby boom over here," Richard retorted. "It's epic."

Eleni responded nervously. "Really? Oh God." Then she said, "It wasn't me, I swear."

"Yeah, right."

Richard's feelings after the call were jumbled. He was angry with Yia-yia and Eleni, mostly Yia-yia. But he now knew a little more about what had happened and was more determined than ever to make some money. Real money. His old bank account in Switzerland would come in handy. He decided that a woman who wanted his service would first have to deposit twenty thousand Swiss francs. He reasoned that Gloria was right -- it was a bargain. The kids these women conceived would have nannies, go to private schools, have tutors, probably get a fucking Tesla on their 16th birthdays. His fee was a comparative pittance.

He thought about using Gloria's guest house for his business -- it was an impeccable address -- but decided he didn't need it. He would instruct the women to get a hotel room, a good one, a suite. He considered whether he would he have to guarantee results. Should he offer their money back if they didn't conceive? A do-over? On the other hand, if what Eleni told him was correct it might not matter, and in the end it didn't. On the contrary, he decided the fee would be non-refundable: take it or leave it.

The biggest surprise, actually, was how many women were interested in having their husbands participate -- not all, or even most of them, but still... One of the earliest rules he made was no husbands, ever, and no 'bodyguards' (these women could afford security). Basically, no men anywhere, anytime; if you bring a man the deal's off and you lose your 20K.

If Richard's arrogance was breathtaking, his performance lived up to it. Invariably, his women wound up pregnant. As more did, more sought out the uncanny Mr. Pratt. In his own mind, he styled himself Richard the Ram and instructed clients to designate their deposits to his Swiss bank as being for 'R. Aries.' Not only did women get pregnant, but word spread in awed, whispered confidences that 'R. Aries' was a mind-blowing fuck...life-changing. Some socialites added R. Aries to their bucket lists whether they wanted to be pregnant or not.

He understood this when an incredible bitch (though to be wholly fair, she was dazzling,) cornered him at a swanky cocktail party and whispered that she knew about R. Aries. "And I heard the price," she said. "Why so expensive? Maybe I'm good, too," she said with a coy pout. "Maybe you should pay me, hmm?"

Richard evaded the hand covertly seeking his crotch. In fact, he was desperately horny just then, but not too horny to be careful. "I don't think you understand..."