Into The Middle Ch. 03-04

INTO THE MIDLE/IN MEDIAS RES

Unfolding over ten chapters and an epilogue at a slow-burn pace, this psychological erotic drama takes the reader on the protagonist's emotional rollercoaster.

Reading the story chronologically will lead to a better understanding of the narrative.

The erotic scenes do not cross into extremes that might offend or distress anyone; all characters are consenting adults above the age of eighteen.

Editor volunteer MikePaulWrites deserves a great deal of credit for this story. I could not have published it without him, given that English is not my native language. His patience, support, and knowledge are invaluable.

THIRD CHAPTER

Of the dead, speak no evil/De mortuis nil nisi bene

It was six o'clock in the morning. I was still sitting in the kitchen with a second cup of coffee, and who knows how many cigarettes, submerged in memories. My knees hurt more this morning than yesterday evening. The pain in my spine was sharp as though someone was constantly slicing me in half with a Katana and coming back for more. The movie in my head continued reminiscing.

We found each other the next day. I learned that teeth don't get in the way. I wanted to try that position I'd seen through the open door--a sensation of such deep fulfilment, both literally and figuratively. I discovered that he cums much faster when I say, "who's your filly now," riding him, actually when I say anything at all. I'd shiver with pleasure when, during the rhythm of lustful movements, he'd say, "my pussy, my sweet pussy" or "that's my cunt" or "come on, filly, take it, however you like it." Actually, I loved everything he said. It was passionate, sincere, uninhibited, full of desire and full of attention to how I'd feel and that was new to me.

We were preparing dinner, sweetly exhausted, showered, and completely naked when the phone rang. It was the caregiver. She informed me in a professional voice that Mum had died twenty minutes ago. Her heart couldn't take it. It's a strange feeling when you learn of the death of both parents over a phone call. We dressed. He drove me home, stayed with me while we waited for the coroner and undertaker. Mum looked completely at peace. Her face had never looked so calm. I wondered how it was even possible that her heart had lasted this long and endured. When we were finally left alone and collapsed exhausted, he simply embraced me, wrapping his entire body around mine.

"You know, there's nothing wrong with crying."

"I don't know how. I don't remember how to do it."

It seemed to me that I felt his teardrop on my face. I thought about how his bodily fluids always somehow ended up on my face. He stayed with me. He was beside me until the funeral, at the funeral, after the funeral.

I bought a new suit. This one was for Mum. I had to endure all those expressions of sympathy from people, most of whom came as some kind of showing of respect toward my father, not my mother. Toward my father! I counted those same black pearls to get through it. Some unknown man came to express condolences and said, "Your father was a great man!" just like that, and in that moment the necklace broke and the pearls scattered. There was no point in collecting them.

He slept beside me every night, just embracing me. I think he took this whole situation worse than I did. He insisted only on embracing and tenderness and said he didn't want to selfishly exploit my vulnerability. I had no idea what he was talking about, so I mounted him because I knew he wouldn't be able to resist. With his last ounce of will, he stopped my hips that had already begun descending on him in hunger to slip into me.

"Explain to me why it's bad if we fuck if we both consciously want to?"

"Out of respect for your feelings."

What feelings? I wasn't sure how he'd perceive me if I told him I had absolutely no feelings whatsoever. That usually frightens people. People have feelings. I disconnect from mine if there's any chance I'll experience discomfort. I prefer the sensation of emptiness to something that could hurt me. The only feelings I had at this moment were related to my desire for his passionate touches.

"I don't understand." I said nonetheless.

He sighed. "Maybe this isn't the time for us to fuck like hungry beasts, shorty. Maybe this is the time you need me to make love with you."

"I don't understand the difference. You're still putting your cock in my cunt, aren't you?"

"Geez, sometimes you're as subtle as a chainsaw! Women sometimes need much more tenderness. That's what I'm saying. Maybe we should slow down. Maybe you should let me caress you, pamper you with more tenderness."

"Is that more exciting for you?"

"For fuck's sake, Nina! No, it's not more exciting for me. I don't know. Maybe it would mean something to you."

"Because I'm a woman?"

"Yes, for fuck's sake, because you're a woman and you don't always have to be so bloody strong and controlled."

"So, I should be tender and fragile and fall apart now because I'm a woman?"

"Don't be cynical, I'm just saying you could allow yourself to be, just for once, simply a woman, nothing else."

"So if I want to fuck you passionately, I shouldn't because society dictates that women should be weak when something shitty happens in life."

"Geez! That's not what I said, and something "shitty" didn't happen to you, your mum died, both your parents died in your twenty-fourth year! Break, scream, cry, let those bloody emotions out!" There was anger in his voice. I controlled mine. Maybe I should let it out, because that's what I felt now, and it could hurt less than other feelings.

He tried to move me away from him, but I held him tightly with my thighs. I could feel his arousal rising together with my anger.

"I don't break!" I lowered myself forcefully onto him and began riding in a wild rhythm. "I don't whimper, I don't scream and I don't cry!" I slowly began to lose breath from the rhythm I was accelerating and the words came out in spurts.

"I fuck because I want to fuck! I want your cock inside me because that's what makes me feel alive!"

I'd never seen him so aroused. He cried out, moaned, gasped, holding me firmly by the hips, and gave up the desire to restrain or tame me. He thrust deep inside me and, holding me firmly, stood up, leaning my back against the wall.

I wrapped my legs around him. I needed that force, that force matched my need. It was the most intense orgasm I'd experienced with him. We stayed leaning against the wall for a long time. I can't estimate how long. He still held me firmly, as though I'd run away somewhere. After some time, he laid me on the bed and wrapped himself around me. That night we exorcised ghosts from my flat.

"Weirdo." he said after our breathing had calmed and settled into even respiration.

"Don't control me, just... Please, don't control me."

He embraced me tighter and kissed my forehead. We fell asleep.

The days passed quickly, far too quickly. I didn't let him postpone the trip. I didn't let him argue. He was packing.

"You've got under my skin, shorty, you know? In my life, I've never felt the need to care for anyone... but you... you're fragile, and you don't even know how fragile you are. I have an almost painful need to care for you."

"It'll pass. After some time, it'll become routine. What interests you now will become ordinary. And then you'll reproach both yourself and me for not leaving on the trip you've wanted so long."

"I'm not just talking about the trip now, I'm talking about what could happen when I come back."

"Nothing will happen when you come back. I'll be buried in my doctorate, studying for exams, if I enroll in psychology, and the business I need to develop. That will bore you. I'll be in my books and you'll have your parties. I won't have time for you, you'll lose patience at some point, and then we won't look at each other this way anymore. We'll look at each other with cold eyes."

"That's what you think will happen?"

"Yes. A fucker doesn't easily turn into a lover. You said so. And I know myself when my brain has a new task; there's nothing else. For you and for me, this is just an excursion into something new and different."

He didn't answer. He turned away, so I couldn't see his face.

"Come with me, Nina. Feel a bit of life outside your books."

"I can't. That's not me."

He stayed like that, turned away for some time, leaning against the shelf. His muscles contracted and relaxed several times. I heard the change in his breathing. When he moved, he took out a huge jewelry box from the drawer, wrapped in decorative ribbon. On his face, you could see him suppressing sadness. Good, I thought, better to do this now than later when I get used to his presence and attention, and when the time comes for him to leave me behind.

"For you, until I come back. Open it at home when you're alone.

I'm always alone.

He left. He'd return in three months, or it might take longer. It took longer. We saw each other again after six months. For two days. He's travelling to Australia. He met someone on the way. They clicked on some special level. He'll try.

Before he leaves, he has an unbearably painful need to spend one more night with me. She knows, she's okay with it. He asked if I had a special wish and if I'd finally started watching pornos. I had, they were boring and fake, without sincere pleasure. That wasn't sex. That was just a job. I brought the box he'd given me, full of various toys for my pleasure.

"I've gotten used to them, can we include them?"

Never before or after was there as much passion and emotion in this flat as that evening, and I realised that in my desire to protect myself, I had irrevocably broken the only warm thing in my life.

He travelled, and I didn't try to stop him. They tried, they succeeded, they became parents.

We stayed in contact regularly, and for the first time in my life, I had not one but two friends--on the other side of the world. Their joint photographs showed happiness after the wedding and after the children were born, and today, still, after twenty years. Only once I dared to fantasise about what would have happened if I'd let him cancel the trip and stay with me or if I'd gone with him, but I forbade myself that fantasy. It's irrational, it leads nowhere, and causes a feeling of tearing my heart out of my chest. This way is better. For both of us. I don't know if I know how to be a wife, but I certainly know I don't know how to be a mother. My business is the only child I dared to "give birth" to.

FOURTH CHAPTER

Said and done/Dictum Factum

Six years after his departure, I stuck to the plan. Doctorate, another diploma, and preparation for a master's degree in psychology, developing the business. My brain is like a shark that has to keep swimming to stay alive.

After the doctorate, there was too much good, unused material left, so I published a book--maybe it'll help someone. I rented my house by the sea, sold the cottage with the small vineyard (inheritance from Mum's side), the car (I wasn't driving it anyway), a few paintings (they never inspired me), and Dad's massive work desk (gorgeous, substantial, antique piece that still triggered panic attacks at the prospect of a pile of work tasks looming on the edge). It was enough until the business started making money. The money started coming in.

I celebrated my thirtieth birthday only because someone at the firm decided it had to be celebrated. I found it exhausting and I'd never celebrated a birthday before so didn't understand the importance of it, but I understood the team at work needed entertainment. They deserved it. I got through it by sitting in a corner, counting pearls on some new necklace. I wore exclusively suits. After Mum's funeral, I wore nothing but suits, except in summer by the sea when it was absolutely sweltering and you can't walk around naked.

I don't know if it was self-fulfilling prophecy or conscious decision or simply that no one had turned up who attracted me enough that I'd want sex with him. There was, of course, sex in those six years. My box became too small for all the toys. For a while, I thought that need would pass as the vivid memory of his touches faded. It didn't pass, it intensified.

After the second year, I'd already grown accustomed to not aching for the touch of another naked body. Toys were quite all right. Ultimately, everything came down to the mere experience of an orgasm, didn't it?

I wish he'd never shown me the embrace--because it's the only thing I've truly missed in my life--painfully! The therapist kept asking: "How are you feeling?" It seemed completely pointless to waste an hour a week talking about what was evident: controlling father, emotionally unavailable mother. I didn't learn what I should have learned. I had no one to learn from. I needed to create an entirely new building of my being, but the material for the foundation wasn't available.

And I quit. Maybe someday in the future. Instead, I took up Ki Aikido--an excellent foundation for grounding and finally an effective breathing technique so I didn't have to count pearls anymore. I started wearing ties. They're more predictable than pearls.

Then, one day, at the market, an apple fell out of my bag, and I bent down without thinking, backed my butt into someone who was standing behind me in the queue. It was a man, definitely a man. I was wearing platform shoes--another fashion compromise and more mobile than heeled shoes. If I hadn't worn them that day, I wouldn't have hit him with my butt where I think I hit him. I would have hit lower, and maybe nothing would have happened.

In a second, a flashback of pleasure from this position rushed through body memory--something I hadn't been able to achieve quite as successfully with my toys. I turned around and prayed to God I hadn't rammed myself onto some respectable grandpa and given him a heart attack. He wasn't grandpa, he was an attractive thirty-something man with dilated pupils and parted lips.

"Pardon!" I said.

"No problem. Are you sure you haven't lost another apple?"

And then the laughter came back. I never know when it'll come; it just appears without warning, and surprises me.

"Well, I could shake the contents of my bag on the floor. I think I have pears too, only... I'm afraid that might result in an arrest."

"Breach of Public Order Act, Article 14: offending and disrespecting the moral feelings of citizens."

"Splendid! Counsellor, that's precisely who I need!"

We moved out of the queue. He pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

"Very official and professional, an interesting choice." I said, and handed him mine, though it took some time to find it in this bloody bag. "How long do I need to wait before I ring you to finish what we've started?"

This time his lower jaw literally hung open. It took him several seconds to recover. He looked at his watch.

"Two hours." he said somewhat uncertainly, as though he didn't believe this was actually happening--and I don't think he did.

I took back my business card, which he still held in his hand. Again, it took time to fish out a pen. I wrote my address and returned the card to his hand.

"Splendid! I'll be waiting. The apples and pears will be scattered across the entire flat as you desired." I turned and left.

As far as I was concerned, everything that needed to be said had been said. Now it was simply a matter of doing it. I arrived home, showered, and put on black and white lace underwear and stopped, looking in the wardrobe. What a change! I need to stop buying lingerie. If there was once a shortage of these seductive sets, they now gave notice that a serious shopping addiction was beginning to develop.

I thought for a moment about whether to add a shirt, but I'd take it off faster than it would take me to put it on. Two and a half hours passed, he didn't show. Probably too intense for him. I imagine it's not usual for something like this to happen. People generally don't say what they want and think. As for me, dictum, factum was my watchword. I settled on the bed and took out my favourite G-spot vibrator without much preparation or fuss--foreplay had already been done with that sinful apple. Just as I was starting to feel those familiar tingles beginning to spread through my body like a delayed explosion, the doorbell rang. My knickers remained on the bed, the bra was still on me, the vibrator remained vibrating on the bed.

With some nervousness, he looked into the intercom camera and said, "Parking Nightmare! It's impossible to find parking here!"

"First floor." I said and pressed the button that opened the building's front door.

It took him half the usual time to reach the first floor. He was probably skipping two steps at a time. I'd left the door ajar and headed toward the bedroom but didn't make it. The door closing, decisive footsteps, and I felt hands that from behind embraced my breasts.

"The bra's there, but no knickers?"

"Well, yes, that's what happens when you're late to the party. The fun's already started."

He slipped one hand under the bra and gave a slight moan when he felt the nipple under his fingers.

It occurred to me how risky this actually was. The man could have an STI. Fuck, okay, what is it with me that every time someone touches that nipple, my brain decides on some rational debate? But his other hand sorted out the situation by slipping between my lips to my already quite wet cunt. She was hungry for the feeling of skin, hungry for flesh, silicone was beginning to become tedious.

"And where are those apples you need to pick up?"

I bent down enough to open a passage to my hunger and leaned on my hands against the wall somewhere between the hallway and the entrance to the living room. The sound of a zip, the sound of trousers with belt falling to the floor, and then... silence for too long until I heard the sound of a condom being unwrapped.

Thank God! At least one of us has sense in this situation. The moment he thrust into my depths released six years of suppressed passion. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful; it was passionate, vigorous, with a strong masculine energy. I heard by his breathing that he was approaching climax. I was barely halfway there--damn.

One of his hands held my nipple tightly, his other was placed on the lower part of my back and I realised he had no intention of honouring my clit with his attention. All right, I can manage myself. The moment he felt my hand trying to bring me to his level of arousal, he released a deep tone that vibrated somewhere in his throat.

Soon I caught up with him. My clit was cooperating and offering itself to my touch with an unstoppable hunger for orgasm in the company of another human being. I cum in sweet convulsion perhaps a couple of seconds after him--enough that in the right moment he felt how my walls wrapped around him in a spasmic rhythm. He didn't move, he just moaned and tried to catch his breath, collapsing with his chest onto my back. This was a sprint. I wasn't complaining. His fingers still held my nipple firmly. It was nice. It wasn't quite an embrace, but it was closest to that feeling.

After some time, he began pulling away from me and literally slipped out.

"Bathroom?" he asked in a voice somewhat proper, as if he'd come visiting someone and needed the loo, not as though he'd just massaged the inside of my being with his cock.

"Straight to the end of the hallway. Towels are on the shelf. You'll see it."

I heard him pick his trousers up off the floor. He didn't put them on fully, just enough so he could walk down this absurdly long hallway, and enough so I could enjoy the view of his muscular, beautifully sculpted butt. He closed the door--pity.

I took off the bra, went to my room, and switched off the vibrator. I didn't put it away. "He" and I would keep each other company a bit later because this was looking like the end of a potentially good story that had no sequel. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water and heard him come out of the bathroom.

"I'm here. Follow my voice." I called out.

He came after some time.

"In these old flats, you really do get lost. How many rooms are there?"

He stopped for a moment and looked closely at my naked body.

"Too many." I said, and added, "Did you expect me to get dressed?"

"Maybe... actually, to be honest, I somehow believe you're the sort of person with whom you simply have to give up expectations immediately and let yourself be surprised."

"Probably. What can I offer you? Water, something stronger, another apple, perhaps?"

That brought a smile to his face.

"Gladly, but I need to get back to the office," he said, then paused again, as though debating whether to speak or not. "I googled you, you know, before I came. You're quite a fierce little creature. I should have connected the look. Not many women wear such a strict tailored cut and tie. I remember seeing you on that show when you dissected the Prime Minister's body language before the election. Brava! I thought, this woman's got balls."

"Oh, darling, no, I wouldn't know what to do with balls, I've always been fascinated by how you manage it without crushing them. I've got a cunt, and I raise hell without balls. And that show cost me a major contract, but at least I didn't jump into the ranks of the armchair brigade."

I'd made his jaw drop another few degrees. This man had serious problems with his temporomandibular joint.

"May I call you again?" he asked after some time.

"Yes," I said without much expectation. "And one more thing--when you tell your mates about this, I want it made crystal clear that I fucked you!"

A pause of one and a half seconds longer than it should have been, and a small twitch on his face said everything.

"I would never..."

I raised an eyebrow. They say I look rather dangerous when I do it.

"You would, and you will. In fact, you're already seeing yourself telling them in your head."

"How...?"

"You know what I do for a living, don't you?"

And then he leaned forward slightly, old-fashionedly, as though the ghost of this old building's era had poured long-discarded manners into him. There was no embrace, no kiss. I didn't walk him to the door.

I went to my room and finished what I'd started with the one who can keep up with my desire.

We met once more. It turned out he was married, but allergic to metal, so he didn't wear a ring. He wasn't lying.

"I'm curious why it was important to you that I have to say you fucked me?"

"Because your ego likes to say with whom you've had sex, not just how you've had it, and when women, particularly a businesswoman and public figure initiates sex the way I initiated it and gets fucked, then she becomes a whore, a slut, a horny bitch, and a sperm tank. But if you manage to say that I fucked you, you'll say it with some kind of admiration and respect, and then I'm just a naughty bitch, and I can live with that."

He swallowed hard and said quietly, "I said it really with admiration and respect."

He wasn't lying.

"Good!"

We had coffee, a pleasant chat, and that was the last time I saw him and the last time I picked someone up on the street with my butt.

FIFTH CHAPTER

Time flies/Tempus fugit!

Between thirty and forty, I concluded that I needed to change something. Time had suddenly accelerated. One of the decisions was to get rid of all the toys that bored me, that had overstimulated my clitoris, that were impractical or worn. I stopped expecting I'd experience some wildly explosive or different orgasm. Tantric lovers aren't exactly found at every corner, and what did exist had largely identical, predictable scenarios. I desperately needed something to surprise me.

I crossed embraces off my list of wants. Not a single one, if it happened at all, provided that warmth and security I'd felt with him. It's like you're hungry for steak, and they put tofu from the grill on your plate.

Education never stopped. I needed something to keep my mind occupied. I took up transactional analysis training--one of the better uses of time and money--and finally resumed therapy. We touched on many painful questions, such as why I don't allow myself to simply be a woman who is strong but also emotional, vulnerable and sensual. Why I constantly have to be like a general before battle in armour with drawn sword. Oh, that dismantled me into atomic fragments!

I continued wearing suits and ties. They'd become like my second skin, but something tender began opening up in me, and it wasn't so unpleasant. Once I almost cried. Almost. One moment it was there; in the next it was gone.

I also discovered that my brain doesn't function in quite the usual way. Synesthesia can be a really tricky thing--like perceiving a scent as a taste, or a sound becoming as intense as a touch. My skin has a strange memory and recalls touch very vividly. That's wonderful when the touch is pleasant, but very unpleasant when, for instance, you get a cut. It feels completely natural and normal to me.

Dyslexia definitely placed me among neurodivergent people, but they wanted to pin other labels on me too, only they didn't quite know which category I fit into--a bit of everything, yet with too many deviations. I refused to be shoved into a labeled box here, either. My brain is just different somehow, and I can live with that.

The other training was tantric sex. I needed it, needed to allow my body the full softness of surrender in a completely safe environment. But of course the main reason was to learn that wonderful brain orgasm and finally fuck my own brain.

Perfecting oral sex technique and cock massage were useful additions. I needed that feeling of being a goddess whilst something hard and hot melted under my hands and in my mouth, though with the latter, never entirely.

Maybe at one of the future therapy sessions I'll discover why the very thought of the taste of sperm is so repulsive, to the point of a gag reflex--and that's not pleasant for anyone. The thing is, I never tasted him on that night of my first time, but I was at our last night, and perhaps I simply didn't want anyone else's taste to replace that one. Maybe. Although, I still think that taste is like stale glue with a pinch of high-frequency sound.

The first tantric orgasm released what I least expected. Instead of laughter, which now regularly happened after every self-induced orgasm, tears came. They simply came, as though they'd never been forbidden. I cried, I think, all that day, and was held. It wasn't quite the same, but it offered at least some sense of safety. The warmth of his embrace was missing--warmth I'd since discovered was actually the feeling of being in love. It was strange to call it anything other than "warmth." It was strange to discover that I'd been in love and loved, only I didn't know that's what it was called and what it felt like.

I began allowing myself fantasies. At first they caused enormous guilt, like when you have a deadline and you're wasting time. The same fantasy kept returning. I wanted the experience of watching someone else's pleasure, quietly, in a corner, without interference in their touches. I found them. It wasn't easy, but once you learn to research, there's nothing you can't find.

She was an exceptionally attractive woman. She radiated some smooth energy. As she moved, as she spoke, as she laughed, it was as though she constantly wrapped you in silk. Maybe that's what "simply a woman" looks like. Maybe I could learn it from her. He was, to my taste, somewhat over-pumped and very focused on his appearance. I don't know what drew them to each other, but if it worked for them, no one else had anything to say. We finished dinner she'd prepared.

"Food and wine are the best foreplay," she said smoothly and noticed the intensity with which I was looking at her, completely misinterpreting it.

"Darling," she asked, moving like a cat, "have you ever thought about trying it with a woman?"

I gave myself proper time to consider. I found nothing that confirmed that need. Women are wonderful, our bodies are so different, but a cock is a cock and a male chest is what I wanted beneath my palms--of that I was certain. The only female body I wanted to touch was my own.

"No, I haven't, but if I can explore, I won't refuse." I said. That was another decision for the future.

She straddled me on the chair, very feline, and kissed me, putting my hand on her own breasts. Under a light, sheer summer dress, she wore nothing. She put her hands on my breasts. Her touch wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't "it." It was missing the breadth of the palm, masculine energy, this was somehow like you want to listen to Debussy but hear Stravinsky. Her hand on my breasts triggered only all the data my brain had collected, both practical and theoretical experience, to give her maximum pleasure. There was no special arousal, unlike her, who was visibly excited. All right, this could come off the checklist. The only question was how to finish this as quickly as possible without hurting her feelings and so we could get to what I'd actually come for. At this point, it felt more like I was fulfilling their fantasy.

He moved to the sofa to watch us better, stroking his cock, and if we're being honest, it was the biggest and thickest cock I'd ever seen in my life. This monster was nice to look at, but not to fit inside me. When you're only 156 centimetres tall, you get the feeling this size would enter your cunt and end its journey somewhere around your thyroid.

My intention was to satisfy this wonderful woman so we could move on. The thought of her descending on my pleasure was as attractive as a traffic sign; it's there, gives information and signals, but it's hardly thrilling.

Which is odd, given that the only pornography I could watch was between two women, probably because no one mercilessly pumps them into every possible hole of the body simultaneously without any sense of the complexity of quality female orgasm. An orgasm is easy to achieve, a quality orgasm, the kind that leaves you feeling whole afterwards, isn't so easy.

Pornography with men looked like they had a Porsche in front of them but were driving it like a mobility scooter. Porn with women at least gave the impression someone knew what they were doing, and sometimes genuine excitement happened.

Anyway, one of us two would do something soon, better that it be me, because I'd be uncomfortable if I didn't have an orgasm, I'd never tried faking one, and judging by how my brain is reacting, that would be too much maltreatment of my clit. Fuck it, I needed a man. Where I'm soft, he's hard. I lifted her onto the table. Easy when you learn to use your leg muscles to lift weight, and she wasn't that heavy anyway. I positioned her somewhere between the bread and the salad bowl and got to work.

It was an interesting experience. She wasn't particularly distasteful, but she wasn't tasty either. I could've done without it. What was interesting was exploring a vagina from this closeness. Interesting--you have one, but you never actually look at it. At this moment, I was enormously grateful for the tantric experience. All that massage of the outer part of the cunt and knowledge of all the points. All right, I couldn't quite reach the cervix so easily, and I didn't like the thought of massaging her G-spot with nails that aren't too long but are long enough to leave painful micro-scratches that'll probably start hurting tomorrow. I stayed on the outer part.

It didn't take her long, although I wasn't exactly rushing intentionally. I mean, if I'm already there, at least she should get a quality orgasm. And honestly, it was interesting to observe what changes happen to a cunt throughout the entire process. She convulsed quite strongly. At the last second, I caught the salad bowl before it fell on the floor.

I turned towards him. He was more than ready.

"She's ready for you." I whispered, not wanting to interrupt her moment.

I took my glass of wine, went to the bedroom, and settled comfortably in an armchair. He carried her to bed as though she were a feather. Now I see the benefit of those muscles.

She looked at me over his shoulder and only with her lips, silently, said "thank you." I smiled.

Honestly, my fantasy was completely ruined. Unexpectedly, I'd become a participant. The fantasy was supposed to involve only observation, without a single touch, and that's where the excitement was. Bloody hell, some of her fluid remained in my mouth, and wine no longer tasted good. At one of my therapy sessions, I'll definitely have to deal with this repulsion towards human secretions. Maybe it's just my twisted brain with mixed sensations.

Something was happening there on the bed, and I was thinking about how I needed to arrange with the gardener to come trim the hedge this week; tomorrow early morning go to the market for shellfish and fish. It wouldn't be bad to go to the hairdresser either. The ends needed trimming, and then suddenly--flashback.

The moment we headed towards his room, though brief but very vivid images of half-naked people who touch and satisfy each other with complete pleasure and without shame, without worry about who'd see them, those two in that room...

I groaned with pleasure, a powerful brain orgasm and then the memory of that first time. Each orgasm grew stronger and stronger. I didn't even need to touch. I think my sounds excited them further, because, thank God, soon they collapsed on top of each other. I stood up, after my body stopped trembling with pleasure, approached the bed, kissed him on the cheek, caressed her cheek, said warmly "thank you," and left with a strange cramp in my stomach.

I promised myself I'd never masturbate to our memory. it seemed so inappropriate, like I was forcing myself into their marriage, and their marriage was the kind where children laugh together with their parents.

In one of the following days, while watering the garden, it started as a painful feeling from my abdomen towards my chest with an unstoppable torrent of tears. It was sadness--genuine, real, fucking painful sadness for the man I'd actually loved and pushed away so he'd find his happiness somewhere else. I think I allowed myself a full thirty minutes before I began using diaphragmatic breathing to stimulate my vagus nerve and pronounced myself a pathetic blubberer engaging in self-pity.

And then something wonderful happened, my inner voice stepped in to defend myself, without self-criticism, without cynicism. That day I allowed myself to be a woman, simply a woman. What disturbed me later was that I can't remember the fucking date. I cried for the first time in my life. Conscious that I was crying and conscious of why. Those tears after the first tantric orgasm were a cleansing of the entire organism. This crying was for a woman, for me. Pathetic? Probably, but it's healing, and I can't remember the fucking date.

Soon I found another couple. No improvisation, with clear rules. Everyone knew their place in this fantasy.

What that man did with his tongue... it was artwork! Constant variation in quality of touch, such sweet teasing. I can't say which of the two enjoyed it more, such dedicated work. It became harder and harder to restrain myself from touching, but by now I'd already mastered edging with stubborn patience, so that it became a huge pleasure rather than a torment.

The dam almost broke when they took it to the next level. She stood close enough to me that I could feel the warmth of her body, yet far enough away that she wouldn't accidentally touch me. She put one leg on the armrest of my chair, a hair's breadth from my hand, and he slowly walked his tongue between her thighs. It wasn't licking, it was painting in the style of Klimt, with all his detail! It would have taken only a slight stretch of my hand to touch them, only a slight turn of his head, and he could touch me with his tongue. And we all knew it and we all held to the rules we'd set.

And then she lowered her leg, turned, and went to the bed, placed her hands on the bed's edge so she could look at me, bent slightly, curved her back, undulating her hips enticingly. It looked like some primal ritual of seduction for mating, aesthetic pleasure in every aspect. He approached slowly, they weren't hurrying.

The moment when he finally began entering her was the moment I thought my brain would explode--not my pussy, my brain! This was exactly that pose, this was exactly that fantasy, and it wasn't just fucking, it was the fucking artistry of two bodies moving so harmoniously it looked like some erotic dance performance. I almost gave way, almost, but remained a stubborn bitch faithful to my goal.

I barely made it home and fucked myself with every toy I still owned, groaning as if a sex machine was fucking me on the fastest setting. The next morning my neighbour looked at me, with condemnation, from the corner of her eye. Apparently, I hadn't closed the window properly. I didn't care. I'd done with my shame a long time ago. I smiled at her and said, "You know, some days we girls have to treat ourselves to a little stress-relief programme, don't we?" and winked at her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a smile of recognition escape her. She didn't look like a woman who used vibrators, but she looked like a woman who really needed one.