To Make You Feel My Love

Tears of shame streaming down my face, I struggle to inspect my reflection in the mirror of this ninth floor women's washroom; my nipples still standing at attention under my blazer, my sopping wet skirt failing to conceal the rivulets of liquid which originate somewhere above to stream down my stocking clad legs. The mirror shows a woman distraught, humiliated, afraid to leave this room. A woman terrified to follow the trail of droplets on the floor of the hallway back to the conference room she left in disgrace. Deep inside, however, I am absolutely seething at my ex-husband. Given the opportunity, I would rip the very breath from his lungs, as he has torn my life and career from me.

We'd been married over four years when I started cheating. I know, it's my fault, and I deserve his animosity, but the tragedy he has left me stranded with is unbearable. I hadn't gone all the way, but I was failing the wife test at least once a week. I had become far too comfortable with a coworker, sharing secrets, looks, and glances that ought to have been reserved for my husband. I suppose Larry sensed I was pulling away, because shortly after I started flirting with our new associate Glenn, he started a grand push to recover our relationship. Sadly, as is typical of his pragmatic nature, even that effort seemed stilted and performative. Then again, what did I expect when I started dating a psychologist candidate in university? Regardless, I did not return nearly as much enthusiasm as he was trying to create.

My husband renewed his attention, booked evenings out, prepared intimate dinners, bought flowers, and took me clothes shopping. Though it was all well intentioned, and I enjoyed these times immensely, they never really 'landed', they never produced the thrill or tingles I got from Glenn at work. I was a living example of familiarity breeding contempt. The relationship I already had was cheapened by that familiarity, so I strayed further afield to replace the excitement I had stopped creating at home.

Even so, Larry's efforts involved lots of great attentive sex, and little departures from our slightly stale relationship of the past year. He'd always have playlists, and spend what seemed like hours building up to my earth shattering orgasm. I thought he planned our encounters by the playlist, because the music would end almost immediately after we collapsed together. Even so, it always seemed to end the same way, with me fully primed for a massive orgasm and with him laying over me, grinding in to stimulate my clitoris and g-spot as he leaned down beside my head and growled "Come for me, Heather". I think through the haze, I eventually registered that it always seemed to be Adele, but that seemed insignificant in the midst of the mind blowing orgasms while I squirted all over him. Over the months, these sessions extended, and after I screamed Larry's name into the throes of my 'little death' while he whispered in my ear, he would shrink from my center, then lower himself to lovingly tongue me to another, more debilitating explosion. I asked him the second or third time this happened why he had started eating me after sex. His response seemed sweet at the time. He smiled and said "I don't particularly enjoy it after sex, but I think of watching you convulse and erupt, and I know it will be worth it."

If only I had been thinking when he said that, rather than failing to even acknowledge the efforts he was making to satisfy me.

Blinded by my contempt, I carried on with Glenn unabashedly. The looks progressed to a stroke of my arm, or his shoulders, and the secrets to heartfelt discussions of our aspirations, hopes and dreams over long lunches. Predictably, these came to include innuendo and titillation, which for several months seemed to benefit Larry. He often recognized when I was all wound up, and would take me to bed, and drive me to the most incredible orgasms, often only with his mouth. With the music playing softly, and his tongue eagerly stimulating both the softest and the most sensitive parts of my core, he would admonish me "Not yet!" every time I got close to orgasm. He would hold me back over and over before finally launching me into bliss.

It was almost three years from when Glenn and I met that I sacrificed my honour, and my marriage, to our careless whispers. Though I did not frequently travel for work it happened often enough that a two day trip to New York wouldn't raise alarms, or so I believed. Glenn booked a room where I had stayed previously, I gave my usual travel briefing to my husband, and I spent two weeks quivering in anticipation. Larry leaned into that, being ever more attentive, providing the most intimate and rewarding sex of our relationship over and over during the lead up to my absence. The Monday night before I left he cleared his schedule to prepare a fantastic romantic dinner with an incredible Chianti, professed the depth of his love for me, and took me to bed for not just more than one climax, but more than one multiple orgasm. He started with an incredible massage, whispering sweet nothings the whole time, telling me to let go, let him take control, and relax. For what felt like an hour, he soothed my whole body, continuing to calm me, repeating that I should 'relax, let go, just enjoy, a little deeper...'. The prelude completed he drove me to sexual heights I had never seen before, and when we were finally done, lifted me out of the puddle formed beneath me to the spare room to rest while he dried the bed and changed the bedding. I awoke the next morning back in our master bed, to a note on his pillow.

Heather,

I love you more than you know.

I hope your meetings in New York all result in triumph.

I will be impatiently anticipating your return. These past weeks have brought me immeasurable joy.

I'm sorry I couldn't be here. I had to leave early this morning.

Always keep my love in your heart,

Below was his flourish of a signature, the little trails of his fountain pen connecting the fluid strokes.

I was an idiot. I read the note with his carefully penned words, thought briefly that the phrasing was odd, and tucked it into my phone case to keep with me. I was blinded by my own hubris. As he worked primarily through language, he often phrased things differently from many people, and it was another of his habits I'd come to ignore.

I languidly arose, showered and dressed for the day, then packed a few of the sweet things that I hadn't wanted my husband to see when I packed over the weekend before heading out for my cross-country flight.

We arrived in New York behind schedule, with just enough time to check into the hotel, freshen up, and have the Doorman hail us a cab for a lovely Italian dinner at Becco. Glenn could not keep his eyes or hands off of me all evening, and I was tingling with excitement. I could tell from the admiring glances we received in the hotel lounge while we had a nightcap that my blue satin cocktail gown looked every bit as good as I had hoped it would. As the attention overwhelmed me, we ordered a bottle of champagne to be delivered to the room then took the elevator up to satisfy three years of accumulated desire.

By the time room service knocked on the door, I was dripping wet and naked beneath my dress. Glenn laid naked and recovering on the bed. I answered the door still vibrating with temptation, wiping my face, wondering if the young man pushing the cart could tell that I had just swallowed Glenn's first orgasm.

Sadly, that was the apex of our evening. As excited as I was, and as eager as Glen was, nothing he could do would push me over the edge. He was kind, caring, and dove between my legs for what felt like an eternity, but I just couldn't quite get there. Finally, I dragged him up and into me. I quivered as he slid inside, and begged him to fuck me. He started gently, became more insistent, then more demanding, while I hovered on the precipice in frustration. He held out as long as he could before erupting inside me. But I was unable to meet him at that summit.

As he lay catching his breath, he apologized, suddenly uncertain of himself. I assured him that both his body and his effort were more than adequate, but that did not seem to make him any more confident. He asked if this was normal for me, if I just had a hard time reaching orgasm. When I stuttered a shocked and halting no, it looked like I had stabbed him in the heart. Eventually, I asked him to just hold me as I slept, but after a long period of trying to get comfortable on his shoulder we each rolled to our own side and slept for the night.

We were awakened in the morning to room service banging on the door. It had been a fitful night, and I shrugged on a hotel robe from the bathroom to go answer. When I opened the door, a kind looking middle aged lady stood calmly holding her purse and asked if she might speak with Glenn, it was urgent. I went and roused Glenn. He quickly slid on last night's pants and rushed to the door. As he got to the door, the lady asked "Are you Glenn Jones?"

When he said "Yes, why?" she quickly placed a manila envelope in his hand. She said "You have been served" as she snapped a photo.

We spent the day struggling to understand how we got caught, reading his divorce proposal, and fearfully trying to predict how bad it might be when we return home. The divorce was citing irreconcilable differences, so we guessed that his wife might not know any details. That night, we had a subdued dinner in the hotel lounge after which Glenn slept on the couch and I in the bed. The next morning, neither of us having the stomach to go sightseeing, we simply checked out and went to the airport to await our flight. Still blinded by selfishness, I thought perhaps I had gotten away with it.

The time zones worked against us on the return flight. I arrived home in the wee hours of the morning, surprised to see Larry waiting up for me in the kitchen, a cup of chamomile tea ready. He looked me over.

"You look weathered. Were your meetings all you expected? Was it a successful trip?"

I took the tea, then mumbled something about unexpected surprises. I said that I was exhausted due to the time changes, and asked him to come to bed with me. He said he would be up in a little while, which was unusual, but he explained he just wanted to clean up.

As I laid nervously in bed waiting, I thought I heard Larry's phone buzz, but decided there was no way at this hour that he would be receiving messages. When he came to bed, I snuggled my head into his shoulder and crashed.

The next morning Glenn came to my office and closed the door behind him, in the clothes he had travelled in yesterday.

"She knew everything! When I got home, her parents were there, and her dad wouldn't let me in the house. I had to stay in a hotel last night with only the bag I brought to New York."

"How?"

"I don't know, she wouldn't even talk to me. All her dad would say to me was your lawyer can talk to her."

It was a busy day catching up on the two days I had taken off, and the uncertainty was eating me, so by the time I went home I was exhausted. I walked into the house, and Larry had take-out on the table. I considered his thoughtfulness, and was grateful that though there was sure to be fallout from Glenn's divorce, it did not appear to be impacting me.

As we sat for dinner, Larry brightly asked "How was your day? Anything interesting?" We often had these discussions over dinner, so I couldn't brush it off, but as I had been so distracted at work, I couldn't really think of anything else to say.

"A little personal drama with an associate, but, not much else." I muttered.

"So Glenn came to work today?"

That took a moment for me to process, when it did, I choked on my lasagna. Larry sat calmly waiting for me to catch my breath.

"You know?"

"How do you think Glenn's wife found out?"

"It was..." He cut me off, placing an identical manila envelope on the table.

"I don't care what it was. I don't care what it is, and I don't care to hear excuses. I had hoped you'd come to your senses. The fact he was served in your room tells me otherwise. I think you'll find this is a fair agreement. Find a lawyer to review it, and have them arrange a meeting at my lawyers office to sign it. I'll see you there."

The next time I saw him was at the meeting with the lawyers. It had been weeks of him ignoring my calls, blocking my number, refusing any advances I could get through to him. The third time I tried to call him at work, the secretary in his office told me that if I kept calling her, she would file a complaint for harassment. My lawyer said that it seemed unusual for him to call this meeting, as he had set the terms and seemed uninterested in negotiations, but I wanted to speak to him and this seemed like the only way.

He was waiting for us, seated facing the door in a boardroom at his lawyer's office that day. A staff member walked us in, making friendly small talk with my lawyer. I burst into tears at the sight of him, begging forgiveness. Larry just sat, staring impassively until I settled down. The lawyers began a brief process of discussion, as I was willing to do anything to save my marriage and get Larry to take me back. Larry was hearing none of it. Finally, Larry's patience ran out.

"I was hoping this could be polite. I was hoping you would agree to be civil and go our separate ways."

He rose, made his way around the table, put one hand on my shoulder, and whispered in my ear.

"You will always come for me, Heather."

That was the first time. I was already wracked with sobs, so hiding the throes of orgasm was manageable. Eight weeks of frustrations including the night with Glenn melted me into a shaking mass. When I had once again calmed, Larry's lawyer stated that it seemed we were done for now, and mine gently took my arm to escort me away. My face flooded scarlet with shame at the small dark circle where my skirt met the chair. As we left, I tried to convince the lawyer that I was simply overcome with grief.

As my soon to be ex-husband was refusing to have any contact, I decided to force a face-to-face meeting of sorts by petitioning the court for counselling. I knew this would anger him, but I was grasping at straws. I tried to cover the dark eyes and worry lines with makeup and chose a sharp embroidered peasant skirt and blouse that I had worn out on date nights only a few months ago. When Larry showed up to that first counselling appointment, he sneered at me with disdain. The hour and a half long session consisted mostly of me telling the counsellor how sorry I was and how badly I wanted to make things right, and Larry responding to the counsellor's questions with brief, enigmatic snips that seemed to be skirting any real issues, and certainly avoiding any emotional opening or response to my emotions. Fifteen minutes before the session was to end, he stood, slipped on his professional blazer, and said

"It wasn't enough, though I tried everything I could to make you feel my love. You could have come for me, Heather."

He was through the door and leaving the office before the orgasm ripped through me. I quivered, moaned, and flooded the chair while the portly man across the desk looked on in horror and shock. I was defeated as I sat listening to my fluid drip from the chair to the wood floor below, feeling it already cooling where it trickled down my legs. Loathing and dread settled into the room as I gathered my things in a clump and fled, the cotton sticking to my calves as I tried to run from the doctor's revulsion.

I did not contest anything at all any further. I never wanted to see Larry again. I signed the papers, and carried on with my now lonely life. Glenn was also alone, but trying to convince his wife to take him back, so other than required work interactions, he wouldn't even look at me. Once I had accepted that I could never have my love back, I did try a couple one night stands. They were, of course, unfulfilling, but to make matters worse, I couldn't get over the top, no matter how much effort I or my partner put in.

Then one day about six months after the divorce was signed, I was wandering a clothing store. I felt the signs, but there was nothing I could do to stop the impending orgasm. There was no stimulation, no interaction, no reason. I quivered, shook, buckled, and almost collapsed in between racks of skirts and dresses. I left a puddle between my feet, and my slacks were drenched. I had no idea what set it off, but it was almost welcome after half a year of frustration.

The next time was in a club. I was with friends who were trying to 'draw me back out of my shell', but it wasn't working. I was standing beside a high top table when I heard Adele, and thought how much I loved this song. Then I felt the impact. As the sensation rushed through me, I ran to the ladies room. Once again I fled, this time through a back door, and prayed that I could get into my building and up the elevator without anyone seeing my condition.

Once I had identified the trigger, I would use it occasionally to satisfy myself. All I had to do was queue up a playlist with the right song at the end, and I could bring myself to orgasm any time I wanted. It still did not help with relationships, as I was completely unable to explain to a lover that I needed them to time their climax to a song in my playlist, and have that make sense to them. I did try getting one to repeat Larry's command, but for some reason that still didn't seem to set me off.

There have been a few other times I have embarrassed myself by coming in public, but I've learned to recognize the triggers, the first couple notes of the song, in time to escape before humiliating myself.

Until today.

I had been sitting in the formal boardroom of our district office, for an 'all-heads' meeting presented by several C-suite executives flown in from Wall Street to almost forty of us from a five state territory. As one the executives was delayed, we were all kibitzing over pastries and coffees brought in while we waited. I was distracted by the anxiety of what was clearly to be a major announcement. I had let my guard down in an environment I had become comfortable enough in, as there was rarely, if ever, music played in our office. I was overhearing the group next to me discuss a trip one had taken to London when a lady spun to the table and started something on here computer, exclaiming that her companion had to see some presentation, because it was incredibly powerful. Then one of my group asked a financial question which returned my attention to our conversation for a moment. Through the technical discussion I recognized the opening lyric, but 18 seconds wouldn't have been enough time for me to politely excuse myself before fleeing through the door at the far end of the room even if i hadn't physically run into the overdue Vice President just inside that door, knocking me down. He stood shocked as the entire room turned to see my ungainly collapse, just as Adele reached the end of the first verse.

To make you feel my love.

Author's note:

This was conceived as a 750 word story, with far less detail in the middle. If there's interest, i may make an attempt to strip it back and post the original concept.

I welcome all comments, especially those with constructive criticisms of writing techniques or conceptual development.