- Mon Jun 18, 2018 5:52 am
#104790
I was still not clear myself what to do with Chris. The truth is, given the ability to do anything, the limitation did not rest on what Chris could be made to do, but, rather, what I would want to do. Were there limits? And how would I be affected by the choices I made? I had already gone to the edge of my comfort zone. I had her remove her panties and present them to me for inspection. I had fingered her until she had left a wet spot on the cushion of the bench seat in the restaurant booth. I had had her deep throat me and take a load down her throat and in her face, then paraded her through the restaurant in her still soiled state. Within recent weeks, I had shared her with my best friend, Rick, who DP’ed her ass while she rode me. She had shared amazing details of her past before we met, things I should have known, but did not know. And, I felt with a sickening, gut wrenching, but growing certainty, she had cheated on me with Rick, not only in the last weeks which could scarcely be called “cheating,” since she was now my EX-wife, but during our marriage, as well.
Perhaps I should have been angrier, but my knowledge of her infidelities, already told here before (boss, co-worker, customers) could not appreciably change my assessment of her character by adding one more to the list. Yes, Rick had deceived me, but our history was long and rich, and I was not one to deny an entire friendship because he had been caught in the gravitational well of her beauty. After all, I had been as well.
Those who have seen her have felt it. How many men have been captivated by a woman whose beauty was such that clouded the mind into attaching all manner of virtues to its possessor? “Truth is beauty, beauty truth” said one poet named John (Keats). “And swear, no where, lives a woman true and fair,” wrote another poet named John (Donne). Even the poets couldn’t agree! It was difficult, very difficult, to look at her and see past her beauty.
My conscience, my relentless conscience, was clear in terms of our marriage. If she chose the route of the cheater, the liar, the whore, the slut, it was not because of ill-treatment by me. I knew that. She did it because it was in her nature. In my heart, I still had not quite extinguished the hope that she could be reformed. In my head, I knew that that hope would lead to despair. Some men, of a different stripe than I, would have no problem sharing a wife of such beauty. But couples that share in a respectful way can do so because they can distinguish between love and sexual pleasure. To love one’s wife was, I felt and feel, one of the great gifts of human life. But love takes honesty, connection, and commitment and it was not clear that Chris was capable of these things and, now, I doubted we had ever achieved them. Though even saying this hurts, because I remembered those sunlit days and moonlit nights when it certainly seemed as though love was ours. When we would be in one another’s arms and fall asleep that way and wake up that way. When, long ago, things were simple. When, long ago, I was happy.
Now as we waited for the valet to bring the car by, I saw my blonde ex-wife shiver in the cold. I put my jacket around her shoulders and she looked up at me with that pretty face and light blue eyes that had launched a thousand dreams, only to set them ablaze and sink them in the ocean of her vast infidelities. Those who know me know that I have reacted to salvage my manhood from the thousand humiliations inflicted upon me. I had been a faithful, even doting, husband. I had been in love with this woman. But, in the end, did I ever know her?
Heaping indignities upon her. Having her spread for strangers, get fingered in bars or fucked on the cold dirty linoleum floors of public rest rooms, having her screwed by customers deceiving her into believing that sex with her would close the sale, none of these things would prove anything. Such acts could answer nothing.
So, being the man I am, but being a man nonetheless, I reached a compromise. I opened the door to the car for her as though she was a princess. I took the keys from the valet. I drove to a dark road away from any street lamps or houses. There, I stopped, ordered her to get into the back seat, but first to strip absolutely naked. In the shadows of night, I saw her shiver, the curve of her firm breasts and upright nipples, her impossibly perfect stomach curving inward from her ribs, her tiny waist, and toned legs, the curve of her neck, her back, her throat, and even the mound of her pubis. I could feel her warm breath and her willingness to please. Her desire to seek forgiveness in the only language she knew.
I pushed her down on the back seat and ran my hands deliriously over her breasts, tight stomach, firm thighs, trim hips, and thrust my tongue into her blonde pubed muff and discovered the sweet abundant lubrication of a woman ready to be taken. Then, being the man I knew myself to be, I unzipped my fly, pulled out my cock and fucked the shit out of her.
For the second time that evening, she left her juices on the seat beneath her. This time, however, on leather.