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Babymaker LLC


Ever since I was a little girl I, Amy, wanted to be a Mom. I played with dolls every day, my large ornate dollhouse was my best present ever, I loved babysitting for neighborhood or family kids, and I was unabashedly feminine. I guess that I was a throwback. I honestly -- I cannot repeat this more -- honestly am proud of all of the women who are great athletes and those who have phenomenal careers like doctors, lawyers, Senators, CEOs, etc. I'm just not built that way, and I couldn't change if I wanted to.

Even though I'm not an athlete I am genetically slim, and have really nice brunette hair. The only regular exercise I do is walking and Kegel exercises (the latter virtually every day). I'm not really that good looking, and don't have really big boobs (although I do have nice puffy nipples) or a bubble butt, but I have an open and friendly face, dancing blue-green eyes, and natural femininity. At the real start of this story I was twenty and worked as a teller in a bank.

At twenty one I married Justin Boston, a guy that I had gone to community college with and who I seemed to be very compatible with. I really thought that I loved him -- but I may have loved the idea of marriage and having a family more than him, even though I know that in hindsight that wasn't fair to him. He wanted to hold off having kids for a few years, but when we were both almost twenty four years old I talked him into starting a family. When I wasn't pregnant after six months -- my Mom was very fertile and given her seven kids I think that she got pregnant just when my father lasciviously looked at her -- I experienced a mild panic. I talked Justin into going in for fertility testing with me.

Justin was at a weekend golf outing with some friends a few states away when I was at the clinic and got the results. He had a normal sperm count but I had fibroids located in my uterus in a place which made it unlikely that I could conceive. Fibroids can only be identified as the single cause of infertility in 2-3% of cases; unfortunately I was one of the "lucky" ones. I was told that my fibroids were such they would adversely impact the movement of the egg, embryo, or sperm through my reproductive organs so even artificial insemination wasn't an option.

I was so distraught that I had to call two friends to come together to pick me up; one drive me home from the clinic, and the other my car. I called Justin on his cellphone. When I reached him and cried into the phone he was sympathetic -- somewhat. I begged him to come home but his clinical approach of "If it would change things I would -- but I paid in advance for this trip and nothing I can do will help" was disheartening. I pretended that I would be OK for the forty eight hours until his return, but I wasn't.

After wallowing in self-pity for the better part of twelve hours I bitch-slapped myself and said "Do something." What I did was to look up other doctors/clinics to make arrangements to get more opinions, and searched the Internet until I was too exhausted to see. What I didn't do is answer the phone when Justin's cell number was on caller ID.

When Justin got home he was a little sheepish -- but not as much as he should have been. He tried to smooth things over, but I was blunt in response. "You know that being a mother has been the most important thing to me since I was four or five years old. You needed to be more sensitive. I accept your apology but you have to get more compassionate or else."

"Or else what?" he asked, this time with an appropriate amount of sheepishness.

"You'll find out; I'll start dinner," was my emotionless reply.


Over the next two weeks I got second, third, and fourth opinions. Unfortunately they were all approximately the same, and surgery was not a good option according to those three opinions (I was too distraught to have even asked the first doctor about surgery). As I dissolved into tears at the fourth doctor's office he did his best to comfort me, and asked his nurse to help me recover before leaving. After he left Nurse Laverne had some advice.

"Amy, Dr. Burton wouldn't tell this to you because he is loath to recommend any technically non-medical alternatives. But, if you're interested, I can give you information about a consultant who has been successful in some cases like yours," Laverne said while patting my shoulder.

I immediately perked up -- "any port in a storm" flashed through my head. My tears almost instantly dried up as I enthusiastically beseeched "Please tell me more Laverne."

"Well there's a consultant who -- if his approach is right for you -- has had success. For the six people I've sent to him, one he told he couldn't help, two weren't interested after they talked to him, and three are now proud mothers of healthy kids. I know he's had lots of other women he's consulted with, but the only results-information that I have is with the six that I recommended," she replied with a sincere look.

"Do you have his card?" I excitedly gulped.

"Just a second -- while you finish getting dressed I'll get one," she smiled.

I dressed quickly, and by the time that I was ready to leave she was back. The card read:

"Babymaking, LLC; Consultants

Sean Platte, General Manager

Call xxx-xxx-xxxx for a free initial consultation

Check out our services and limitations on our website --------."

"Thanks," I gushed as I gave Laverne a big hug, and then hurried out as her brilliant smile beamed the way.


I checked out the website as soon as I got home. There were lots of disclaimers, including -- repeated at least five times including once in grossly large print -- that Babymaking LLC was not a medical facilitate, offered no medical services, and did not accept medical insurance. The caveats didn't faze me and the information about the possibilities intrigued me; I was especially intrigued that his treatment was considered a trade secret and that I would have to sign a confidentiality agreement to not tell anyone the details of the treatment (although I could the results). I called for an appointment as soon as I finished reading the entire website.

I got an appointment in the early a. m. before work two days after my call; I was hopeful but apprehensive as I entered a standard glass and steel suburban office building. As I walked along the first floor I passed a law office and "Child-Brite Furniture, Inc." before I got to the door that said "Babymaking LLC."

The young gum-chewing, but well put-together, receptionist (her nameplate read "Dante"), who had obviously just arrived herself and hadn't yet had a cup of coffee, lifted the phone. I heard her say "Mrs. Boston is here to see you -- should I sent her in?"

Three seconds later the door to the inner office opened and out walked a guy who couldn't have been more than thirty years old who said "Hi Amy; I'm Sean Platte; please come in."

I was really taken aback by Sean's appearance. He looked like a professional athlete, well over six feet tall, curly blond hair, piercing blue eyes, biceps bulging outside his short sleeve shirt, and pectorals readily visible under the shirt. His hand was like iron and soft at the same time as he shook mine.

I was surprised that Sean's office was very large, seemed to have another entrance, and had all sorts of child-specific stuff. I sat across from Sean's desk and we chatted about nothing for a few minutes, obviously Sean's attempt to settle me down. He was probably used to the wide-eyed look that I must have had when I first saw him. Then he got to the point.

"So, Amy -- why are you here?" he asked in a professional manner.

"I've been told that I can't conceive because of uterine fibroids -- one of the 3% or so of women who have them to such an extent that they adversely affect the movement of all conception elements through my passageways," I responded.

"Do you have an ultrasound or any other images?" Sean asked.

"Yes -- I've seen them but I don't understand them," I nodded.

"Great; what I will need is your complete medical records before our next meeting. You'll have to get them yourself and have them delivered to me because since I'm not a medical professional I can't obtain them myself. After I review them I'll tell you what the chances are that I can help you."

"OK," I softly replied. "Exactly what can you do to help if I'm a candidate?"

"I find it best not to go into details at this stage. Let me just say that my techniques are unconventional. About ½ of the women that I could help decline my therapy for a number of reasons. Of the roughly ½ that accept it, almost 80% end up with a healthy baby and are capable of conception again -- in fact I've had four clients who have had two children, and one two sets of twins," he proudly proclaimed.

"I guess that it's probably not possible -- but can I possibly talk to one of the clients you've had success with?"

"Actually, there are five that are willing to share their experiences -- to a point. I've asked them not to provide details until I do, but here are their names and contact information," he continued, taking a standard size sheet of blue paper out of his desk and handing it to me. "The three with stars you can even visit if you set it up with them. I just ask that you be respectful of their time."

"Thanks," I said standing up.

"I look forward to receiving your medical records," he said with a smile, standing up himself and again shaking my hand. This time his touch sent an electric charge through my arm, down my body, to my -- well, "nether regions."


I got my medical records -- including an "all clear" STD test that Sean had insisted upon -- the next week, and personally delivered them to Dante. As I was leaving a beaming attractive woman with a baby came out of Sean's office, with him close behind. Sean noticed me handing my records to Dante and perked up. "Hi Amy; while you're here meet Janice; she's one of the people on the list that I gave you. Janice, Amy -- I'm hoping that I'll be able to help her."

"Hi Amy," Janice gushed. "I hope that Sean can do for you what he did for me. This is Brian, the light of my life," she continued lifting her blond blue-eyed baby's hand.

Sean took my medical records from Dante, politely excused himself, and went back into his office. Janice walked out with me. I took the opportunity to ask her about her experience.

"Sean has asked me not to go into details at this stage; just let me say that in addition to being effective, his therapy is exceedingly pleasant. It makes me want to have another ten kids," she laughed.

"Why were you here today?" I asked.

"Sean hasn't seen Brian in two months, so I just brought him in for a quick meet," she replied with a diabolical grin on her face.

I thought that odd -- but continued with a few more questions which she candidly answered.

When we parted I had a good feeling despite being somewhat puzzled.

The next day I got a call from Dante. "After reviewing your records Sean thinks that he can help. Can you come in first thing Monday morning?"

"Sure," I replied, feeling a tingle electrifying my body.

I was there bright and early Monday morning -- Dante had obviously arrived a little earlier than last time, and had a cup of coffee on her desk. She smiled and said "Go right in."

I walked into Sean's office and he greeted me warmly, this time with a quick hug not just a handshake. He was obviously buoyant.

"Let's first talk about your ultrasound, then about therapy," he said.

While he made it clear verbally, as he had on the website, that he was not a medical professional, the way that he analyzed my medical records sure sounded like he was one (I later found out that he dropped out of medical school after 18 months). To the extent that I could understand it, I did -- his explanation was very clear. Basically while my fibroids were definitely a problem he felt that there was the possibility of success -- but that it required "perfect timing."

"Now for the part where the rubber meets the road," he chuckled.

"Wha...what does that mean?" I hesitantly inquired.

"This is the point where ½ the women that I can help bow out. I have found it best to be clear and blunt about what happens, give you some time to think about it, and form questions, and then we'll talk again. But before I continue you'll need to sign the confidentiality agreement on the website, and which we briefly discussed the first time."

"OK..." I responded having looked the confidentiality agreement on the website over several times.

Dante came in with two originals of the confidentiality agreement. I looked it over again and noticed no changes from what was on the website, then I signed both copies and Dante notarized my signature. She gave one copy to me, and Sean put the other in a file on his desk. After Dante left he got down to brass tacks.

"My therapy is literally hands on. I have special techniques and creams that I use to relax your uterus, and then I impregnate you in the old fashioned way," he said as he handed me his "all clear" STD test. "It is necessary to time my therapy so that I practice it on the three consecutive days when you are absolutely the most fertile. Therefore I need to determine those dates, and to be sure you need to come in for a quick evaluation about five or six days in a row -- unless we get lucky."

I was a little stunned. "You...you...impregnate me, not my husband?" I croaked out.

"That's normally the sticking point. It can only be done with me -- it of course depends upon your relationship with your husband, how badly you want your own baby, and other factors, whether or not you want to proceed," was his deadpan reply.

"Uh...well...what...uh...percentage of the ½ that accept the therapy are married?" I stammered, my mouth suddenly dry.

"About half of them; Janice is one example. After you leave here talk with her again about her relationship with her husband and his relationship with Brian," was his nonchalant reply. Then he continued "Unless you reject this outright then you need to take some papers with you to look over." After a pregnant pause he asked "Do you want to take them with you?"

"Uh...sure," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

As I got ready to leave Sean hugged me again -- this time a real hug, not a brief one like when he greeted me. Looking down at me, staring eye-to-eye, he said "I know that I can help you...please let me."

I was completely spaced out when Dante handed me the papers in a sealed envelope. I'm not really sure how I got to work, and one of my co-workers had to give me a pep talk to allow me to perform at least somewhat normally.


I had lots to think about. I was kind of in a stupor for four days. Then I approached the situation as clinically and intelligently as I could.

--I talked to all five women on Sean's list, four of whom were married, one the woman with the two sets of twins that Sean had told me about. All of them could not possibly be more positive. Three of the four married women expressed some feelings of guilt and regret that their husbands were not the biological fathers of their kids, but all husbands were thrilled that they had kids because they never thought that they would. None suspected anything "hinky." I also visited each of their children -- who all seemed to be a joy. "Really good genes," Janice chuckled.

--I interacted as much as possible with Justin and objectively examined our relationship to the extent possible. I came to the conclusion that I didn't have anything close to mad passionate love for him. I actually felt badly when I recognized for the first time in my life that I was much more concerned with having kids than with a traditional, or even happy, marriage.

--I carefully examined my own feelings. Every woman would find Sean physically attractive. Was this just an excuse to cheat? I thought not.

--I looked over the documents carefully, and had an attorney who was an old friend of our family -- and who I trusted implicitly -- look over them too. My friendly attorney told me what I already knew -- the documents exonerated Sean from any child support or other liability in a clever way that had an 80% chance of being legal, required my complete secrecy, and what might be a problem for me required a payout of $1,000 to start treatment and $10,000 if I had got pregnant and $10,000 more if I delivered a healthy baby.

It took me a month to evaluate things and come to a decision. Sean called me on my cell phone once a week; he didn't pressure me. He just asked if I had any questions. I liked the sound of his voice and looked forward to his calls.

I called Sean's office the very day that I decided that I wanted to go through with it. I got an appointment for two days hence.

After another big hug I posed my problem. "Sean -- I want to go through with it; but I'm not sure that I can pay the money required without my husband finding out."

"How much can you pay?" he quietly asked.

"$1,000 now, of course, but $5,000 if I get pregnant and $5,000 more when I deliver," I hesitantly replied.

Sean thought for a minute; then what he said surprised me. "Amy, one thing I have rarely told anyone; but I love sex with a pregnant woman. If you agree that if you get pregnant that outside of our agreement we have intercourse once a week during your pregnancy -- health considerations controlling -- I can agree to it. Of course we can't put that in writing, but it will be our understanding."

I was blown away -- could an Adonis like Sean really want to fuck me?

"OK," I responded.

"Great," he smiled. "What is your belief about where you are in your period?"

"If everything is normal I'll ovulate two days from now," I replied; my periods are normally pretty regular and on a standard 28 day cycle.

"Let's check," he said. "Please move your panties to the side or take them off."

I quickly took them off.

Sean took a device with a meter and probe out of his desk. Without exposing my pussy he fingered me gently until I got wet, then inserted the sterilized soft probe into my vagina. After about two minutes he had a reading. "From this it looks like you're dead on. Just to be safe we should test again tomorrow and the next day."

I came in the next two mornings, with the same testing procedure. The second day Sean confirmed my ovulation. He smiled. "We have to arrange a time tomorrow at my apartment -- less than a mile away. We need an hour. What works for you?"

"7:00 a. m. OK?" I replied, in an automaton voice.

"Sure is," he smiled.


I was somewhere between anxious, frantic, doubting myself, hopeful, and excited when I arrived at Sean's apartment at 6:57 the next morning. I had made sure that I had showered, shaved (including my crotch), and spruced up. While this was not a romantic encounter, there was no reason not to look my best.

My angst almost immediately started to slip away when Sean responded to my knock on his door with a big smile, a warm "How great to see you Amy," and a big hug as he ushered me inside his apartment. His living area and kitchen were tastefully decorated, except for some child care items inexplicably hidden behind a couch.

He served me a cup of tea and lightly touched my hand as we chatted. Once it appeared to him that I had relaxed he ushered me into what was obviously a second bedroom. Inside an otherwise sterile room was a contraption that looked like a comfortable padded birthing chair except that it was tilted backwardly so that someone sitting in it would have their vaginal passage extending downwardly, and it clearly was adjustable since pneumatic cylinders were on the sides. A small table with what looked to be creams or lotions, a hollow object with a large end and small end, and a thin rubbery-looking phallus, sat next to one of the footrests.

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