Chapter 5 – Part 3, Bastard Baby

This is chapter 5, part 3 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here.

Chapter 5 – Part 3, Bastard Baby

After the gang rape, María felt many of her friends distanced themselves from her, including Terri. María thought she behaved shamefully at the party, but she didn’t know what she had done, she didn’t remember, and she was ashamed to ask. María and Terri did talk on occasion. Terri told her she and Drew broke-up, and he moved-out to his own apartment.

Drew now worked at a coffee shop near our house. I went by to get coffee there from time to time, and we talked about small stuff, sometimes about María, her pregnancy, Terri, and the gang-rape.

Drew explained that Terri broke up with him the same day as the gang-rape, and he didn’t see her for a while. Terri turned strange after the gang-rape, maybe traumatized. She invited him over to what turned-out to be a multi-fuck – four men + Terri. Since then, she invited him several times, each time with two-to-four men fucking her serially as long as the men could repeat – sometimes all night. He said Terri felt guilty and responsible for María’s gang-rape.

Drew wanted Terri back exclusively, but she was too strange and heavily into vodka, coke, marijuana, and dangerous sex. “She’s damaged, fucked-up”, he said but he’d still take her. Drew said she had problems at work and with her friends. I could see he loved her.

My guilt of the gang-rape ate at me. I can’t remember what convoluted logic led me to get a vasectomy. Maybe the same logic that put me in the line to rape María. Or maybe my guilt level peaked the day I passed in front of the family planning clinic. I went in to ask about vasectomies, and they took me on the spot. Bunk and Josey protested loudly, “You won’t be a man anymore”, “María doesn’t want this.” An hour later, I waddled out with five stitches in my shaved, itchy scrotum. And I still felt guilty about raping María. That was a supremely stupid decision. I continued to use condoms with María on her fertile days as if nothing had changed, another stupid decision.


I told María I was certain we’d have a girl, and I was hopeful for identical twins that would be perfect clones of her. I secretly feared the girls would inherit my dirty blue eyes, big nose, or funny earlobes. Looking in the mirror, I realized how average, how ordinary, how bordering on ugly I was. I hoped for a moment a deity might actually exist – no deity would allow the gross injustice of putting my features on my baby girls.

María wasn’t so sure a girl or twin girls were guaranteed. She’d be happy with either gender. I wouldn’t hear of it, and refused to discuss boy names at all – why waste our time? The girls would be named María María, the first one out, and María Pura. María objected to both names, especially the second. She had been called María Puta in her teenage years, and would never allow that name. I told her the universally accepted protocol for naming babies is the fathers choose girl names and mothers choose boy names. Their names were decided and absolute. Period.

A few weeks into her pregnancy, we went for an ultrasound. The technician, a second generation Mexican, talked in Spanish with us. She showed us the first images inside the womb of my María. Black and white dots and lines swirled around until we saw quick movement, the beat of a tiny heart. A longing to own that creature seized me. To love and nurture it. Can you already love just a beating, blurry swirl of lines?

I told the tech to find the second heart. She found only one, not two. The nurse moved the wand around, and showed us the outline of her body – discernible arms, legs, and head. And a penis bump, she was a boy.

Awe swamped that millisecond of disappointment. At that moment, all my doubts disappeared – the boy was mine with 100% certainty. María and the medical technician commented on the features of the fetus, then María was quiet. I realized she waited for me to say something. She wouldn’t look at me, just at the image, and she waited. I said, “La imagen es la más bella cosa he visto en mí vida, tan bella como tú.” (It’s the most beautiful image I’ve ever seen, as beautiful as you.) The room lit up as if the sun had entered the room. I was blinded by her smile, deafened by joy in her laughter.

The prattling and bubbling started again. Woman talk, baby talk. Their voices tinkled like wind chimes. La música de mujeres. I let their music wash over me, washing away my sins and guilt for the abuse of this beautiful woman.

Why hadn’t I given her what she wanted before? I wanted it too. She knew, but I couldn’t see it. I had been a fool, we could have done this years ago.

But finally, here was my son. I lay my head on her belly, worshiping the two most precious objects in my world: my son and the womb in which he grew.

As we drove home, María said, “I’ve chosen his name – Brett.”

“That’s a good start, but we need to think this out. A boy’s name shapes his personality, we can do some research.”


“That’s a very English name – we should choose a name that’s meaningful in Spanish also.”

“You said the mother chooses the boy names – Brett.”

“Of course you get to choose the name. How about Martin? Martin is a good name in both Spanish and English, and has a solid feel to it.”

“That’s a good middle name, you can choose the middle name: Brett Martin.”


“Brett Martin. Period.”


I pampered María as much as my work and studies would allow. I showered her with flowers and small gifts. I took her on trips around the bay and photographed her everywhere:

María feeding the seals on Pier 39, María; María sipping wine in Napa Valley, María; María ocean wading at Half Moon Bay, María; María walking the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, María; María flashing her panty on the Golden Gate Bridge, María; María at street fairs and flea markets, María; María shopping in Sausalito, María; María, María, María, … and we were deliriously happy. I was happy, not just for Brett, but because I had finally, indisputably, pleased María.

María’s pregnancy was difficult – she was petite and the baby was large. She had problems of fluid accumulations in her body, swelling her ankles and feet. She loved the baby within her but hated the changes to her once-perfect body. Her hormones swung wildly during pregnancy, and she alternated between depression and joyful mania. When down, she cried she was fat, misshapen, and waddled when she walked. She needed constant reassurance she wasn’t ugly, that she was still desirable. I reassured her easily of her beauty – it was true, pregnancy became her. I took nude photos of her every week as her pregnancy progressed. One of my finest moments occurred when in the 8th month, she came out of the shower – her body and hair dripping, her face drawn, holding up her belly with both hands. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

After the first slight bump became noticeable in her abdomen, María stopped all extramarital adventures and all sexual activity except oral sex with me. She said she didn’t want to take any chances. While I was OK with that, it frustrated me since she was so beautifully pregnant. We developed and perfected several new oral techniques for delaying orgasm to build greater tension. This helped me control early ejaculations and I gave her screaming, convulsive orgasms. I almost made the mistake of telling her the jerkings and stiffenings of her orgasms were more likely to stress the baby…

She said she received more attention, men hitting on her and trying harder, than ever before during early pregnancy, when her belly was small; the attention diminished as she grew larger. She collected names and contact information of the interested and interesting men, and would use those to get back into circulation after our baby was born. She discussed the list with me, and we chose a few of the most promising men.

But something else happened that day of the gang-rape, when I realized María could have been impregnated by another man. As my baby grew in her, another strange seed grew in me. I realized it wouldn’t have mattered much if another penis won the race, or whose genes my child carried. While I knew, or at least hoped beyond hope my son carried my genes, my son had María’s genes and I would cherish and take care of him as if he were my own blood. My son would not be a bastard.

María’s beauty as a woman, quite beyond her substantial physical beauty, attracted me, distracted me. I watched her every move, the sway of her hips, the glancing collisions of our eyes, how she combed her hair, the gentleness of caressing her baby bulge – I couldn’t not watch her. The barbed hooks she embedded in me in the first few months of my existence came back to life, zinging my body. She punctured me anew with barbs the size of harpoons, their four-sided razor flanges cutting into my flesh. I followed her around the house, afraid to lose her presence, watching her. I didn’t want to go to work, couldn’t focus while there. She skewered me so deeply I lost my sense of self. “Could this be love,” I thought, “Maybe love is losing your sense of self into somebody else.”

So I finally confronted why the genes of this slut would matter so much to me? And for the first time in my stupid, oblivious, self-centered, useless life, I realized my trophy slut-wife María had defined my existence, far beyond her beauty and sensuality, the hot and kinky sex. She defined me, she made my life bearable, she was, in fact, my life. The trite cliché, ‘The woman makes the man,’ was true. Shame at my treatment of María replaced my guilt.

My slut-wife became my wife-slut, and I knew I had no real chance at any meaningful existence without her. The pattern of our life was already set, María would continue to have other men, but it was now my life duty to please her. And also my duty to honor those other men simply because they inserted their penises into her mouth and vagina, because they left their semen within her, because they pleased María.

We indeed had a boy. Brett came two weeks early while I was away on an contract. I was relieved to be away from San Francisco for the child birth. Her sister had come from Guatemala to help, and María cursed my very existence during labor. I would have collapsed with stress.

Everyone said Brett looked like María except for my crooked smile. Even many years later, I still didn’t know if he was my seed. In my heart-of-hearts, I think Larry’s deep and extensive exploration of her vagina made him the winner. I’ve seen my adult son’s erect penis several times, and it’s slimmer and appreciably longer than mine. But I never wanted to find out. How could I ever explain to María our son wasn’t my genes, or the circumstances in which Larry had impregnated her?


María thought she was fat, but she looked perfect to me, actually better than before the pregnancy. But she was right. Her tight dresses and pants were tighter across her hips and derriere. Her hips were a little wider, not unexpected, but her buttocks now protruded slightly more. Her exercise regime took her waist down to pre-pregnancy size, so her wider hips accentuated her waist. I studied her body and saw although her classically beautiful proportions had changed, the net effect resulted more sensual than ever. The girl’s body was gone – she now had the body of a woman, a fully ripe woman. The combination of small waist and protruding derriere produced an effect known years later as ‘booty’ – not the grotesque affection of the modern celebrities, just the slight suggestion. I was least among the men that noticed this. Men commented her hips formed the perfect cushion for a man to lay upon, and her derriere provoked wild fantasies of power-fucking. Regardless, María continued serious workouts at the gym attempting to lose this ‘fat’.

María also despaired over the ‘gross stretch marks’ on her abdomen which I could find only with a magnifying glass. She found a special cream, incredibly expensive, which she claimed softened her skin, matched her skin color, and hid her stretch lines. The cream contained micro-particles of a glitter substance. I installed special lighting in the bedroom that accentuated the glitter – seeing her sleek nude body glittering, stretched out on a bed excited me, and her lovers ate her up.


I finished my masters degree, took a contract as a software systems engineer, and began grad school at night. Since I was out of the house a lot, we hired a part-time nanny, an illegal from El Salvador that lived in an apartment hovel with about 20 other illegals and desperately needed work. She loved Brett from the first moment she saw him, and she loved the idea of a Guatemalan woman married to a gringo – her American dream. We tried several times to explain to her María would have lovers, sometimes in our own bed. The idea I would allow this was simply unbelievable to her. What we could afford to pay her was shameful , but we tried to include her in meals and other activities to brighten-up her life. She was gold.

After our son was born, María was always home alone or with the nanny. The nanny discreetly disappeared with Brett as required, so fucking an occasional man in our house was easy. We joked the baby’s needs caused a lot of coitus interruptus. María claimed she was fat and misshapen, so her affairs happened infrequently, and Brett partially filled that hole in her life. María went to the gym regularly, and started meeting her girl friends for coffee and gossip. She decided against organizing tours to Guatemala for the moment, she wanted to stay close to Brett.


Almost two years after Brett was born, we dined at the Seal Rock Restaurant for my birthday celebration. María bubbled over in great spirits, saying she prepared a special present for me back at the flat. When we arrived home, she was hyper, laughing and smiling. She stripped-down to the sexiest lingerie and said, “Let’s go to bed now, and skip the condom. I’m getting pregnant tonight with a wavy-haired, olive-skinned girl.”

She ruthlessly excited me to a quick ejaculation, and we lay embraced. I stupidly decided to tell her the truth, always a bad idea. My courage flagged, so I decided to blurt it out, “Mí amor, I have to tell you something. I’m sterile. I had a vasectomy about two years ago.”

She squirmed out of my embrace, fire rising, “You cut your tubes? Without asking me first? How could you do that! You knew I’d, that we’d want a girl soon. Explain, and this better be good!”

“I don’t know why I did it, I must have been depressed, I felt guilty …”

“Guilty of what? Guilty for giving me Brett? You didn’t want children with me, I’m too big a whore for you – not one of your frigid white sluts?”

“No, no, Brett and you are the only good things in my life, I don’t know I felt bad or something and I did it without thinking. Please …”

She slapped me hard, opened her legs, grabbed my hair and yanked my head towards her vulva. She said, “Clean me out.”


“Clean me out, I’m getting pregnant tonight, and I don’t want your useless slop in my body.”

As I licked away my own semen, she continued, “You’ve been wearing condoms all these months, lying to me. I’m going to have a girl. The man, the when, starting tonight, and the details of my pregnancy are totally my choice. You’ll find out when you see the bump in my belly. And if you don’t like it, I’ll give the girl the man’s name. And if you don’t like that, I’ll leave you.”

“Can we talk about this? How about adoption…”

“Get out of the house, I’m getting pregnant tonight, and I don’t want you here screwing that up.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go. Can we talk calmly about this? It’s my house and my birthday…”

“Remember that – your birthday, the day I got pregnant with another man. Now get out. I have to make a call. Now!”

“I don’t have anywhere to go, I’ll hide out in the back bedroom…”

“He’ll be here all night. You’ll manage to screw it up like always. Get out or I’ll leave, and I’ll never come back.”

While she talked on the phone, I dressed and left. I called Drew from the car and stared all night at dirty windows from his couch. In the morning, I returned early to our apartment. María was gone.

She returned in the late afternoon, cheery and bouncy, “I’ve fucked three men and I’m loaded with sperm. I’m still in my best days and I’m not done yet. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She showered and went out again.

She had her period again, and she blamed me for clogging her with my slop.


We settled-in again, awkwardly. She stopped telling me about her lovers except when I directly asked, then only said she had been fucked by a real man. She didn’t let me clean her vulva, she wanted to keep the sperm inside.

I fought back, bombarding her with pampering and compliments, trips and dinners, flowers and photo-shoots, and she loosened-up after a couple of weeks. I assured her I’d love to have any man’s baby, and swore on my knees to care for her and the baby with complete devotion.

She started talking to me again, and we discussed her lovers. I argued I had the right to help her choose the father of my daughter, and she agreed. We discussed her lovers, their hair color, facial features, possible genetic problems, and so on. María was open to other races – in particular, a cute, curly-haired black girl. I loved the theoretical idea, but thought life might be difficult for our daughter as she grew up. I volunteered to check out the sperm donors first, “I’ll suck them off to see if they taste right.” She laughed and forgave me a little more – we moved back to 75% bliss. We lined-up her dates for her fertile period, four-to-six men per month. Then she had her period again, and we repeated the next month.

Her adventures in our house became harder because Brett grew more observant. María became more sexually intense, no doubt due to the effect of the hormones in the semen the men deposited in her vagina. After a year of trying to get pregnant, she secretly went to the doctor to discover she was probably infertile. Her fallopian tubes constricted for unknown reasons, perhaps from an infection or genetic anomaly. She saw her lovers more often and they poured more hormones into her. She said the more she fucked, the more she wanted to fuck. She finally told me she was infertile. We both cried together, we really wanted that baby girl.


While we lived in San Francisco, the first news of a new, mysterious disease, called AIDS, began to circulate. It was reported to be mainly confined to intravenous drug users and homosexuals. I was sure it was somehow related to the unhygienic characteristics of anal sex. María and I didn’t worry about it, she restarted condom use with new men, and she convinced her regular group of casual lovers to test for the disease as the tests became available. As for the other venereal diseases, we had been lucky over the years, María had caught something perhaps a dozen times, all of which had been quickly cured with a shot of penicillin or a handful of tetracycline pills. When she was treated, I took the same treatment, and life was good.

María’s casual lovers in the USA were a small group of men she felt safe with, and she had more sex with fewer partners. We kept to the same rules, no long-term or overly affectionate lovers for her, so she rotated around her small group of lovers, and it was just sex. María told me none of her men, including me, satisfied her completely, so I wasn’t worried about someone stealing her away. The encounters in the USA were never threesomes – the American men would be terrified to have me watch them fuck María. I waited until they left to clean her vulva and kiss her clitoris to another orgasm; it wasn’t nearly so exciting as in Guatemala. More often, she would shower and douche and I would fuck her as she described her encounter with the lover.

As María’s English improved, she took odd jobs, then more serious positions as she built her job skills and resume. We bought and managed a small rental property in San Francisco, and María found a position as a manager for a large apartment complex. The apartments rented to a large population of Hispanics, so María’s Spanish skills made her quite valuable. She easily manipulated the male owner and guests by her beauty and charm, so she had a comfortable job. I thought she was overpaid and found out later she provided additional services to the owner. That was not a surprise, and we needed the extra income.

After our son was born, María lost her perfect shape, and she hated it. The doctor told her her figure might return with moderate exercise, but María couldn’t wait, she had always been super shapely and much of her personal identity was tied up in her appearance. This is when I first realized she was quite vain. She signed up at a tony gym in Pacific Heights, and went religiously three times per week. Even after several months, she insisted she was fat and misshapen although she looked perfect to me, and she continued at the gym.

End of book content.

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