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Passion & Perspective
copyright 2013 Chapter 23 This is a chapter of a novel. Click here to go to the first chapter |
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It was late, very late, on a Friday night, Nick and Bobbie and Molly and I were yawning around the coffee table, recent participants in a pleasurable tryst. My alter ego observed the scene, wondering at the lack of zeal. Oh, the four of us had squirmed and prodded, Bobbie had been delighted in the manner of which I'd draped her over the arm of a couch, sticking it to her with confidence and aptitude, she'd orgasmed pleasantly and a few minutes later I'd let myself have the indulgence of oozing, but the whole act had been, for me, a simple movement, no more important than the insipid adaptation of a superb novel we'd seen on the big screen earlier. I hid my emotions from my partners of course, it wouldn't do for them to realize my other lover was a level or three above them. Earlier in the week, for example, Amy had brought a tube of extravagant massage oil. We'd slathered it all over each other, and when Amy had realized I was enjoying the attention to my rear end, she'd lingered there, dipping an oiled finger inside to massage my prostrate while she took my manhood into my mouth. I wanted to orgasm into her mouth, but sensing my imminent release, she clamped my testicles, denying me the intensity, and then rolled on her stomach, playing with her own ass, knowing I'd get the idea. Her anus became my playground, I enticed it with finger, and tongue, and then, while she begged, I penetrated her. She screamed as I pelted the alternative wellspring, pushed back to me so I could enter as deeply as I dared, and when I steamed into her, the tightness of her rectum enhanced my orgasm, I was completely drained. No, this group of four I was in could no more match that mountaintop than a hamster could discover nuclear science. They simply had not a clue.
Amy and I had been seeing each other for a bit over two months, almost weekly, sometimes if the stars aligned properly we'd bump into each other for a hour, two, and those unplanned experiments were, in a fortuitous coincidence, the loveliest of all. Our 'regular' tete-a-tetes normally consisted of a meal, none so heavy as the French feast we'd engorged, then a visit to a local hotel where we'd destroy the bedclothes and each other. After that first planned experience in my home we understood it wasn't the proper locale for complete abandon - Amy felt it necessary to restrict her bellows, I continually listened for any sign of my wife's interference, even if I knew she was supportive of my huddle. And Amy felt that any movement towards using her home would cause confusion in her husband, he might misunderstand it to include an invitation to join our play. As a result, we decided a hotel was the optimal berth for our affair, we became practiced at using Priceline. That isn't to say that if the stars aligned, if a spouse went missing for an afternoon or evening and the other had a way of escaping his or her duties, that we wouldn't sneak into one home or another and spend a delicious hour in the art, a little voice whispering 'danger' in our hearts, making our erotic dance the more lustful. It was a wonderful affair! One night it happened that we were lying together on a king-sized mattress in a beige colored room, an amorphous work of 'art' on the wall, the pillows decorating the rug, our torsos collapsed and heaving. "I was thinking," I began. "And here I thought it was simple inspiration," she joked. "Where did you come up with that position?" "I'm a student of Kama Sutra. Got my black belt a couple years back." "They have black belts in those?" "Maybe it was a merit badge. Well, anyway, I read about this resort on the coast of Central America. There's only six bungalows, each one has it's own butler and cook, a beach a mile long, no one gives a damn if you wear clothes or not. We should go there for a week." "Oh, wouldn't that be lovely," she agreed. "We could sun ourselves during the day, make love on the beach, in the ocean, and then at night we'd get our servant to make us our favorite dishes and then we'd listen to the night birds under our net, we'd never have to worry about a thing." We discussed the locale, dreamed of it's possibilities, and in the dream we resurrected our desire.
The next week I met her at the hotel, I had prepared a picnic, wine and cheeses and fruits, and after a spate of rapture, I opened my laptop and showed her the haven. "We could hit the airport for a 7:35 flight, connect in Atlanta, land at noon, we can take a helicopter to the resort, by two we'd be on the beach." I showed her photo galleries of the resort, complete with cost estimates, itineraries, the travel documents we'd need. "You've got a passport, don't you?" I asked. She hesitated, seemed to ponder where she kept it, then responded, "You thought this all out, didn't you? Like there was really a chance it might happen. Oh, I'd love to go away with you, but I can't leave Luke for a week. He'd never let me go, not for that long. Have you talked to Molly about this? Would she let me take you away?" "I'm pretty sure she'd be okay with it." "Really? If you were my husband, I wouldn't be. I wish we could make this happen, I really do, but you can see that it's just impossible, don't you? Not a week. No. Maybe I could talk him into a night, or even a weekend, maybe. I'd have to get him at just the right moment, even then I'm not absolutely sure of it." We dropped the subject then, painfully, and pressed against each other, but the emotion simply didn't return that evening, we parted forty-five minutes later.
The next week at the Marriott, I was ready with the alternative I'd researched, a luxury B&B, we'd leave on a Friday, I'd have her back by Sunday evening. She listened until I wrapped it up with a summary of the plans and a plea. "Please think about this, I think I need it, a weekend away with you, I'm in love with you!" Her face dropped in amazement, even fury. "What? Did you say you love me?" "I do," I reiterated, "From the first moment I saw you I was in love with you, I know you feel the same way." She started to put her clothes on, gather her things. "Don, I'm sorry. I hope I didn't mislead you somehow. You know this was never about that. I mean, you're a wonderful guy, and you're the best lover I've ever had, but this started out as just sex. I love Luke, I always will. And you love Molly. Think of the years you've spent with her, of the commitment you've made to her. You need to think about this, very hard." As she was walking to the door, I asked, "Does that mean we're not going away this weekend?"
She called me Monday of the next week, asked to meet at a strip mall coffee shop, and when I arrived she revealed, "Don, I told Luke about what you said, and he wants me to stop seeing you, at least for awhile, and I agree with him. I'm going to miss what we had, it was great. But we're not going to see each other anymore." "Never?" As she expected, I was devastated. "Not for a good while at least. I got Luke to agree that maybe, after a few months, we'd see where we are. He understands that you turn me on like nobody else ever has, and he's fine with that. He just wants to make sure you know it's just sex." She rose, gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself. If you want, call me after the holidays. I'll always remember you." I watched her walk out of the cafe, I saw her enter the right side of her sedan. As it pulled away, I could see Luke driving. I drove around for awhile, looking for vistas of rivers and the bay. After dark, I found myself drinking at the Marriott bar, thinking of what this edifice had meant to me, how it had changed my life, intensified it and then destroyed it.
The next morning, the alarm clock sounded in my bedroom, Molly spun to hit the snooze button. I groaned from the chore of waking, then the shock of my new life without Amy hit, I felt the churning in my stomach, the sharp headache. This couldn't be a hangover, I'd been fairly good, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, only three beers at the bar over a period of two and a half hours before I finally gave up, headed home to find Molly asleep. Then the churns migrated to something more, I flew to the bathroom and retched. I couldn't stop, Molly got me a wet washrag, held my back as I fed the toilet. Twenty minutes later, when I'd apparently hit a resting place, Molly handed me a tumbler of water, asked if I was all right. I waved her away, she headed to the guest bathroom for her morning shower. "You should stay home today, I hear the bug is going around." "This one's evil," I sweated. "Do you want me to stay with you?" I really didn't, I wanted to be alone in my misery, physical and mental. "No, I'll be fine, I've had the flu before." I spent the day commuting between the bathroom and the bed, where I turned Netflix on and watched a season of a sitcom that didn't particularly amuse me. When I wasn't too sick to think, my rumination was of Amy. How could she be so stupid, to throw away this wonderful love we had, how could I possibly live without her? I thought about texting her an evil message, couldn't find the strength to hit send. A slice of toast I forced myself to swallow became hideous in my stomach, I disgorged it quickly. Molly called twice, ensuring I didn't need to head for the emergency room. That evening she made me chicken soup out of a packet, a sick meal I remembered from my childhood, I drank half the broth, it stayed down, I slept as if drugged. The next morning I felt somewhat better, but I hid my resurgence from my wife, told her I was still too sick to work, the day was spent worrying about how my life was going to continue now that I no longer had the love of my life. I sent her three text messages, apologizing, cajoling, she returned only one, 'stop it don't contact me again'. I was showered and somewhat better that evening, Molly made a salad and soup, I wasn't hungry but managed to keep a cup down. For a week to ten days I moped, Molly assumed it was a hangover from the malady, I couldn't tell her that Amy had broken up with me. A couple of times I drove past Amy's house, looked for any sign of my lover, suggested by text we should meet at the Marriott, my plea was ignored. A fortnight after Amy's devilish decision, I picked myself up, took a long walk, decided that if she was going to act that way, I didn't need her. I took up jogging, first a half mile a day, eventually making it through a two-mile loop. Molly wondered at the twelve pounds I lost, Bobbie teased that she didn't have an inner tube to hold on to anymore. By the time of the Superbowl, although every once in awhile an image of Amy's smile, blond hair or wonderful breasts would flash through my brain, I was over her. I began to appreciate the physical charms of my wife again, I participated with pleasure in a threesome with Mark, when we got together with Bobbie and Nick I gave every bit as good as I got. I sent Amy an Easter card, funny, and in the enclosed note I apologized for my dereliction, told her how much fun I'd had, admitted that I would miss her charms but understood her points, she had no need to fear I'd bother her in the future. |
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