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Subject: {ASSM} Infidelity, Part I: Ache [MF, rom, slow, oral]
Date: Thu, 3 May 2001 16:10:04 -0400
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Infidelity
Part I: Ache
By H. Jekyll
(MF, rom, slow/deliberate, oral)
Copyright 2001 by H. Jekyll. Permission is given to
repost on any web site that does not charge a fee for
access, as long as the author is prominently noted.
Please do not read this if you live in a place where
it is illegal to read sexually explicit stories, or
if you are under the legal age to read such stories.
Net writers post stories for feedback, not money, and
I am no different from anyone else. I dearly love
comments, complaints, and conversation, at
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com.
The H. Jekyll stories are archived at the Alt Sex
Stories Text Repository:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/
===================================
She is a long woman, lean and pale. Long legs pull
your eyes up to where they meet. Her long neck
carries them further, to her face, that sweetly weak
chin, her mouth. Only her lips are full bodied.
She has never liked her body, thinking that she is
much too tall, that her hips are too wide, that her
butt sticks out, that her chest is too flat; but
men, and some women, enjoy watching her walk past and
turn to look when she can't see them, to imagine her
naked, imagine crawling between those never-ending
legs, imagine her eyes swollen and half closed with
desire. Many a man or woman has sighed with a
private disappointment after she has passed, the
strength of the sigh depending only on the strength
of imagination. She is right, though, at least about
her absent breasts. Her chest is flat: two peas on
an ironing board, as some men used to joke. No one
will move his (or her) hand from chest to breast and
delight in the smooth curve, because there is no
curve. No one will feel the rubbery texture when her
breasts are pushed up from below.
She could fix this, she supposes, by having a doctor
insert gelatinous bags beneath her nipples, but it
wouldn't any longer be her. It might even -- one
might think -- take attention away from her neck or
her mouth. Perhaps her breasts would grow larger if
she had a child, though she is unlikely ever to know.
People come as complex packages. This is what comes
in hers.
What else comes is fascination. She watches the
breasts of other women in her dance classes surge
forward with centrifugal force during their steps,
then bob around; furtive looks so well camouflaged
that no one has ever suspected her, mixed with chatty
commentary on technique but full of longing, enough
longing to make her ashamed. She sometimes gossips
about how men talk about tits and bazooms, but that's
an excuse. She has seen her own reflection in the
studio mirror often enough, and found nothing
noteworthy there.
She is certain she couldn't attract a real lover and
hasn't a clue as to how her husband came to want her.
She thinks it couldn't have been her looks. Now that
several years have passed since they married, and his
interest has diminished, she understands that he must
be tired of having to work himself up for someone who
lacks a true woman's body. Along with that
understanding, she has almost convinced herself that
she is reconciled to a life of little passion.
That reconciliation is an illusion: while standing
before the mirror after bathing a few weeks back, she
suddenly made a despairing cry and began smacking her
chest with her hands. It took almost an hour to
regain composure, to fix her face, before she could
meet people with her usual gracious smile, backed by
an inner light.
---------------------------
In any event, while a life of little passion defies
longings it doesn't banish them. Hers is as deep a
well of desire as anyone's, producing forbidden
fantasies that entrance like visions of water on the
desert, but being a good Christian woman she isn't
going to act on them. It shames her a little that
she even has them. Hers may be a liberal church,
full of good, open-minded people, but she struggles
to be morally straight. Judge not. Only judge
yourself.
Her fantasies slip into her mind at night when she is
most vulnerable, forming from the swirls of almost-
sleep thoughts, little universes of lust growing out
of nothing, brushing her belly, awakening her body.
She doesn't feel she deliberately calls them out, but
there they are, and they are insistent, full-color
images of sex with this man or that from her job,
movies, even her church. Sometimes he is anonymous.
It really doesn't matter. They didn't used to
include full naked bodies on display.
Ever more during one of these fantasies her hand will
slip from her side to her waist to her pubic mound,
over the almost hairless mound to a spot where she
can stroke herself with stealthy fingers. On
occasion she resists. When she does touch herself
she moves the fingers slowly between her labia,
circling her clitoris, getting high, afraid of waking
her husband while surrendering yet again. There are
times that she can't keep herself still or quiet,
when she'll finally go into the living room or
bathroom to finish.
The acts she conjures once came mainly from R-rated
films or the explicit romance novels she has taken to
reading, but that ended when she stayed alone at a
hotel that had a pay-per-view adult movie channel.
On a whim she picked a movie almost at random and was
devastated. Which was stronger, disgust or desire?
She probably doesn't know to this day, but her
repertoire of fantasies began growing that night.
After masturbating, once her breathing has slowed and
she considers the visions that have driven her
pleasure, she feels vile. Shame is her other secret
burden; so much of it for such a good person. She
certainly wouldn't ever cheat with any of those men.
Once or twice a man from work came on to her, just a
little, and she cut him down right away.
---------------------------
For awhile there was one man in her fantasies more
than any other, a dance partner in their little
community ballet. They've teamed on and off in "The
Nutcracker," practicing once a week, then meeting
daily during performance week. She is a principal
dancer. He is a volunteer from the community who
replaces a non-existent male dancer, there being no
senior men in the company.
They've enjoyed playing dress-up, dancing,
pantomiming. They've held hands. He has kissed her
hand, often, often. He is actually the only man
besides her husband whom she has touched regularly in
any way for years, and one evening last Fall the hand
kiss suddenly made her wonder what it would be like
if he kissed her mouth. What if he pulled her to him
and ... did what? That. All of that.
She had been expressing amazement at the dances of
Herr Drosselmeyer's toys, paying attention to the
actions and positioning of the party goers, but at
the thought her vision was obscured by quick flashes
of fucking. She wouldn't use that word, but it's
what she saw. It was followed that night by a
detailed fantasy of degenerate sex that wouldn't make
her feel guilty: what if he kidnapped me and forced
me to submit? What would he make me do?
Please don't hurt me. You don't have to hurt me.
I'll do anything you want.
The intensity and the pleasure frightened her, enough
that she decided to avoid him, to talk only when on
the floor, but the thoughts recurred throughout the
season, finally fading only after the performances
ended, when she wouldn't see him for eight months
because their lives are completely separate and he
too has a spouse.
How many little ballet troupes are there, hundreds?
All performing "The Nutcracker"? How many
fantasies are generated by them? How many come to
nothing?
---------------------------
One shouldn't think that hers is a life of quiet
desperation. She keeps telling herself it is a good
life, economically, religiously, intellectually, and
much of the time it is exactly that. Every life has
some issues, she argues persuasively. She keeps
herself busy.
And yet.
She has growing periods when can't stand to be around
other people. She withdraws to her room to think and
be alone, to trace the passing of the years, to
fantasize and to wonder what happened to her life,
how at one time everything had seemed possible.
Along with her romance novels she has started reading
poetry from her old college textbooks. One Sunday
afternoon she read "To His Coy Mistress." When she
came to the line" time's wing'd chariot hurrying
near," she threw the book across the room.
=================================
That was her life until this evening, when something
happened.
What was it? As winter passed, her fantasies had
shifted around to focus on some stranger she saw at
the grocery, when she unexpectedly saw him -- *the*
him. It is out of season for him, late spring, but
there is a party thrown by a couple who turn out to
be friends of friends of each. It's how a small
world works. It's also how her God shows His sense
of humor by -- just for the fun of it -- setting the
stage for her seduction. Or perhaps He has another
wager with Satan.
The earth is enjoying one of its magic times, the air
rich with unimaginable varieties of blooms. The
flowering began weeks ago and will continue another
month, first early bloomers like forsythia, fruit
trees, and daffodils, then the later blossoms to
carry springtime along. The azaleas and their kin
are colorful; the dogwoods, though, are achingly
white and this is dogwood country.
It rained earlier today. The air is still sweet with
it, the walk damp underfoot, and isolated drops still
fall from the oaks, but the sky is almost clear and
there is the slimmest crescent of a moon. Lone baby
clouds scoot low in the sky, hurrying to a place
people never see. Down below, the trees and shrubs
have been waving to the sky all afternoon, a physical
hosanna to whatever deities of Spring they worship.
She first saw him when she looked up from the walk,
her mind filled with patterns of mud and raindrops,
smelling the rain-cleansed air, aware of the clouds.
He arrived in a sudden gust, without his wife, and
when she saw him she felt the earth lurch, or the
time, or something. Her husband was with her, but he
groused about these boring parties and finally asked
if she could find a ride home later, so that he could
leave. Then *he* gallantly offered a ride.
So the air was charged from the beginning, exactly
the same as always, but different in that indefinable
way known to shamans, as though an invisible wave had
washed away the part that was familiar, leaving a
world that is alluring but strange. Jamais Vu. She
feels shaky, physically ill at ease, and she thinks
if she has a bite to eat it may help her. Or if she
gets away from him. She doesn't want to think about
him.
He walks to the table with her.
They have to talk, of course. She comes up with
something interesting to say while he spreads baba
ganousch on pita, nothing really, but they are able
to chit-chat. It may all amount to nothing. She
takes fresh vegetables and some kind of dip. It may
be easy. She feels nothing special, and is about to
relax when he takes her hand to pull her away from
blocking the kitchen door.
Yes, the hand feels the same. It is a large hand,
warm, not rough, and without warning there is the
memory of rehearsal, of how his hands always did feel
especially warm to her.
She hadn't considered his hands when they first met,
when his daughters took ballet and he spent his time
playing with the smallest children, helping them do
backward flips and giving them airplane rides. She
had just thought he was funny, still a big kid though
much older than she.
His hands. They announced themselves later, when the
two of them had played husband and wife so long that
they could casually hold each other's before going on
stage, and his would help warm hers until the lights
heated the air.
There is another, related memory, the one she doesn't
want to remember, the one of yearning and remorse.
It is of that first, really cold night of dress
rehearsal last December, how she had been shivering
and huddling backstage, and how he had seen her and
put his tuxedo jacket over her shoulders without
being asked. When she had hugged it around herself
she had smelled him and been suffused in his body
heat. Though this was after her decision to avoid
him, the smell and the feeling and the fact that he
was so thoughtful had made her think about him all
night long and want him to hold her.
It was bad, so bad that she had forgotten a step
during one of their dances together.
She couldn't not think of him, but she'd stayed away
from him as much as she could and she hadn't really
thanked him. She knows she was cold to him and once
again feels shame.
The memory arouses fantasies and regrets from
wherever they have been resting, leaving her shy,
making her wish she could extricate herself, making
her want to stay. Oh, why did her husband have to
leave?
She puts aside the plate of vegetables. He gets her
a drink and their hands touch when she takes it.
Someone asks them to show a step from the ballet.
This inspiration is doubtless generated by higher
powers: these are arts people, sure, but there is no
reason for this. The question leads to discussion of
which step to show, a hasty improvisation, and the
required holding of hands. The kiss on the hand.
She tries to look lighthearted.
There is real improvisation when he spins her under
his overstretched hands, catches her, and lets her
lean down in his arms like a swing dancer. Their
bodies touch, brush, catch on each other. For a
second his face is right over hers and he looks her
full in the eyes while she leans against his arm and
body and tries not to look back up at him. She is
frozen. She thinks he may kiss her right now.
An epiphany: all at once and without words she knows
that he desires her.
Why doesn't she laugh and get up, move away? She
could. It would be easy, if only she and her body
weren't so busy betraying each other.
So she lies back in his arms and looks up at him
blankly, swallowing, unable to muster the coquettish
look she would once have used, telling herself not to
be stupid but out of the blue feeling those
sensations, the tingle or spark or subtle movement
about her sex, the sensation like a tiny electrical
current, the odd stirring in her lower belly. She
knows them well, just hasn't felt them from contact
with a man -- not like this -- in a long time. She
feels herself growing vaguely damp where her vagina
touches her panties. She thinks she can feel a bit,
just a tiny bit, of trickling, a minute tickle along
the walls of her labia, before finally he lets her
up.
He wants me. He does. Me.
The thoughts echo, circle, blend with the fragments
of fantasy and the sensations in her belly, and tell
her that something is happening to her. Can anyone
else tell? She looks around at the other guests,
laughing and clapping or not paying them much
attention at all. Thank you, Lord.
She needs separation and self-control, so leads him
to a couch where she sits in a corner, but her leg
touches his because all the seats are taken. She
crosses her legs and her arms and leans as far into
the corner as she can, to make herself invisible, to
sort her feelings and get control of them.
There is general conversation. He is telling stories
about major blunders during their performances, about
prima donnas and untied Pointe shoes. She makes just
a small comment now and then. She's normally active
in these things, but she needs to look at him closely
and can't do it while people look at her.
Why does she feel this way? Is there a clue in his
flesh? If he acts childlike sometimes, and he looks
younger than his years, how can his eyes be
surrounded by fine wrinkles that form folds upon
folds when he smiles, and why does one eyelid droop a
bit more than the other? Was he injured once?
The hostess announces a fresh plate of canap s. She
calls them "munchies."
Our good woman is not hungry now, not at all. She
looks around the room. The picture window is framed
with a deep green cornice and drapes. She tries to
watch the man via his reflection, but there are ghost
figures behind him. When she focuses on them they
become two teenagers who must belong to people
inside, embracing just outside on the sidewalk.
Their foreheads and noses touch as they talk, then
they kiss deeply and open-mouthed, pasturing on each
other.
Her mind flicks instantly to the political campaign,
how Al and Tipper Gore had kissed at the Democratic
convention. She hadn't liked it at all, because it
was so hard and unmoving -- a fifties movie kiss.
Back flicks her mind and she is again being held by
her dance partner, but this time he does bend to her
and start to kiss, the kiss of the teens, lips and
tongues, a kiss that goes on and on, lovingly and
sensually, until there is one final flash and she
realizes two things: that they couldn't kiss like
that in front of everyone and that the hostess is
holding a tray of munchies out toward her.
The conversation is all party talk, never turning
toward anything serious, but twice, when someone asks
about her husband, she says, "Oh, he's fine," in
*that* voice, the one that says she doesn't want to
talk about him. The second time, her dancer friend
turns just a little to look at her with a serious
expression.
"Isn't it stuffy in here?"
Yes it is, suddenly. He asks if she would like to
walk on the deck out back.
Thank God? There may not be such an easy opportunity
to stop this later. He hasn't been obvious, but she
saw how he looked at her. She knows he wants to be
alone with her, and that he knows that she knows, and
all that. They understand each other completely, so
when she says 'no' he will understand that, too.
"Just a minute. I have to find my shawl."
---------------------------
It is time, time for time to accelerate. Not the
clock, but the experience. There is a sense of
something rushing, of movement in the earth, though
the wind has gone away to rest, and the air is
finally still. Expectant. Naturally the night is
empty for them, as though prepared in advance.
She feels it. Does he?
It is cool enough for her to pull her wool wrap
tightly, but the night doesn't seem to affect him a
bit; he doesn't even wear a sweater.
What's he saying? There's some flowering ajuga just
below the deck. There, see? He leans out over the
rail of the deck to make his point, standing closer
to her than he should and she can feel the heat
pouring off him. She looks, but she's too aware of
his closeness to pay attention, so just says" Um
hmm."
It isn't that she's thoughtless. She's thinking the
whole time, setting scenes and conversation,
visualizing possibilities. How would he take it if I
put my hand on his arm, if I simply rested it there?
I could lay it there only for a second. What would
he do? Would he freeze? Get shy? Take it as an
invitation?
She almost does it. No, no, no? This is getting
absurd. It's time to go back in.
They don't. Different music begins, something slow
and familiar that she can't quite place. He asks,"
Dance?" and takes her hand at almost the same
instant. Inside her the alarm bells go off, clanging
in the night, warning her that this isn't any longer
fantasy, telling her to refuse as she turns toward
him to look, first to his mouth, then up to his eyes.
She sees the party inside through half-open blinds,
only for a second before the view is blocked by his
body. Say no thank-you, she tells herself. She
doesn't say anything at all.
This is how it happens, not to everyone but to her.
She hasn't decided in her mind to let this man fuck
her. She probably couldn't make such a decision, not
coldly, not in advance. There is simply a flow to
events. One would think that she would get help with
her resolve.
So they begin to dance. It is slow motion. It is
like lightening. She puts her free hand on his
shoulder, feels his hand on her waist, lets him begin
the step, judges his stride and his rhythm. They're
too far apart, dancing like children, so ludicrous.
She is talking to herself, trying to understand what
is happening, though what seems most important is
that she shouldn't stand so awkwardly apart from her
partner, so she steps closer and lets him slide his
hand around to the small of her back, to pull her
gently to his body. He is large; he almost
envelopes her.
Her face is at his shoulder. It brings the memory of
December, how his tux jacket felt, the heat, the
faint smell of Mennen now replaced by the real thing.
She can feel his real heat with her cheek. Then,
without any internal argument at all, she lays her
head on his shoulder and leans her body completely up
against his. It is a big step, her first one to push
the situation along, and it scares her to death.
Their hands had been almost at his left shoulder and
her face. He lets her hand go to put both arms
around her, and she puts both of hers around his
neck, so that as they rock slowly together on the
deck their bodies touch all the way down. She makes
a tiny grunt, scarcely a high-pitched whisper, that
she hopes he doesn't hear. She makes it because she
wants him and she is afraid to want him.
Good Lord, I'm thirty-five, almost middle-aged. Why
am I acting like a fourteen year old?
She's skidding on her straight and narrow. Does this
make her guilt more pleasurable? Or a greater
barrier? She wants to stop everything; she can do
everything except make it stop. No, she might yet
break away. What is he doing? He is leaning his
head to her. He kisses her hair, making her shiver,
beginning a little frisson that sweeps all the way
down her back from her scalp to her ass and brings a
catch to her breathing.
The next thing isn't a single thing. It is two, more
than two, some number, something kaleidoscopic.
There is no order that she can recall later. She
smells him again, with her cheek feels a muscle move
in his chest, feels herself pull him closer, for the
first time feels his penis as a hard shape against
her belly. She holds her breath again, memorizes the
outline of his cock on her body.
She can feel herself growing wetter, hotter. The
feel of wetness seeping is obvious now, so beautiful
a sensation, so perfect a mark of longing if he would
touch her there. He kisses her hair again and
inhales her. She can feel his breath. His penis.
His face. A hand at her chin, lifting her face. He
is erect against her. They begin a kiss.
Only then does she step back, all at once, gasping
out her regrets.
"No. Please. I'm sorry." What can she say? "What
are we doing?"
---------------------------
Almost everyone knows that passion in the night can
be frightening with its power to push aside all
daytime considerations and lead people to a world in
which there's no wrong or right, only hunger. How
many know its other characteristic, its fragility,
how a word can stop it dead, break it like a light
bulb, leaving only useless remains? He lets her
stand apart from him but he doesn't let her go. She
could walk away but it would have to be her choice.
She wants him to talk, because she has run out of
things to say that wouldn't make this worse. Maybe
he can end it gracefully, in a way that will salvage
their friendship. Perhaps, so she waits, but he
doesn't answer for a moment.
What he does is take an enormous breath that comes
back out as a slow breeze, like exhaling cigarette
smoke, and only then does she realize how deeply he
is affected.
Finally, hoarsely:
"I'm sorry." He looks away from her, then back, as
though unsure what to say.
"No, I'm not." Another stop.
"I am and I'm not. Oh damn. I *am* sorry I did
something your weren't ready for."
He pauses.
"But I wasn't alone in it, was I?"
She decides, without deciding, to be flippant in her
defense, and a little cruel: "Do you always come on
this fast with other women?"
He drops his hands and jerks away.
No, no, no, no. I didn't say that. Say I didn't.
There is no place to hide out here. One hand rises
to cover her mouth before she knows she is doing it.
He starts to say something in an angry tone, then
stops himself and turns toward the railing. She
thinks he might just walk away, which she won't be
able to stand, but instead he stands almost perfectly
still for a moment, then turns around slowly toward
her, takes another large breath and finally starts
talking in a very quiet voice, so softly that it is
not at all accusing, so long that it is almost a
monologue.
"How long have I known you? A decade? More? Have
I ever come on to you before? Do you think I never
wanted to?" He laughs a little self-deprecating
laugh, though there's no amusement on his face.
"I've wanted to for years. Well, some things you
know are never going to happen. I knew I wasn't ever
going to try to seduce you."
He pauses for an instant.
"Anyway, before tonight I knew it. So I decided I
had to stop thinking about it. I thought maybe I
could just enjoy being with you for a bit, and let it
go."
He leans against the deck railing and looks out to
the lawn, while she pulls her wrap around herself
more tightly and looks at the floor, knowing she has
ruined everything. Her mind flicks back to the
fantasy of the kiss; the hostess interrupts as an
omen, the munchies are symbols of dread. He is
talking.
"It didn't work. After awhile I realized that, yes,
I'm sure there are people who can do that. Mother
Teresa came to mind." He makes that little laugh
again.
"Not me, though. I couldn't keep from looking at
you. You must have noticed."
She is about to say something but can't bring herself
to talk. She stares at a post of the deck rail, as
though it is the unmovable center of all creation.
He continues.
"Last fall I think you were upset with me. I
guessed I was being too obvious, so I tried to stay
across the floor from you as much as I could.
Anyway, it was actually a relief when the Nutcracker
ended, because I didn't have to see you all the
time."
He takes yet another enormous breath, exhales, goes
on:
"Then tonight, you were different. I ... I
don't know how exactly. Willing. There was
something in how you looked at me. Hell, I probably
imagined it. I'm sorry I put you on the spot.
Anyway. You can say I'm inappropriate, wrong,
whatever. Just don't say I'm fast."
She listened quietly during most of it, not moving,
not even taking her hand from her mouth. Only her
eyes changed, growing wider and sadder and then wet.
The exception came when he got to the part about her
being upset with him. Then she squeezed her eyes
shut and wiped them with her fingers. Now that he
has finished, she has to say something:
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that. Please
believe me. I've just been ... I mean I was ...
I'm afraid. I am. I was afraid of where we were
heading. I can't do that. We had to stop."
She wipes her eyes again and looks at the ground so
that he won't be able to see her face. Her voice
becomes so quiet that it scarcely rises above the
music filtering through the closed door:
"And, no, you weren't in it alone."
It is done. So why, as they stand on the deck
looking at each other, each reluctant to go back to
the party, each knowing they need to, does she hope
that he will stall a little longer?
Jumbled lines from some poem steal upon her like
ground mist, telling her that her whole world has
rolled up in a ball, moving her toward an
overwhelming question, and that because she was
afraid she couldn't give the answer that might make
her happy. For one brief moment she had almost been
happy. But now it is time to go home.
(to be continued, if there is interest)
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