Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Body in the Trunk: Chapter 15

Chapter 15

            After I returned from New York, Evan had kept messaging me about the partnership papers they had given me. I didn’t know why he was pushing it so fast – and that fact made me slightly nervous. I wanted time to think about the pros and cons and weigh the benefits. In the meantime, I gave the agreement to our company attorney Debbie Hill, a middle-aged woman I met while networking for the company. She was a conservative blonde gal with kinky, curly hair who always seemed to wear gray suits and white blouses whenever I ran into her at social events. She had said she would cull through the agreement and carefully check into it.
            I also cautioned myself to be careful since Evan and I began texting on a daily basis or talking on the phone. He seemed to know way more about my marriage than I ever told him. He said he had once been married in his early twenties to a sweet, but intense woman named Daniel. He described her as tall and beautiful but overly serious and lacking a sense of humor. He said she was cold, and he understood what it was like to live in a virtually sexless marriage. He said they were married two years, and the last year they had sex once. He admitted to numerous affairs throughout the marriage, which alarmed me. I feared he was a player, and he was going to somehow play me, too. But then I thought his sheer honesty about it was also telling that maybe he had no such plans. I wasn’t experienced with philanders or even knowing what one behaved like. It was hard to tell if his intentions toward me were sincere.
            Yet my thoughts about him took over my day. It was as if he had managed to plug into me somehow. This familiar feeling about who he was to me grew and grew. Sometimes he would text something sexy or just blatant: “I want to feel what it’s like to cum in you,” and I could barely breathe as I read it. “I want to taste you.” “I want to lick you all over.” The very words had stirred up such intense longing and excitement, and this pure lust to have him. I had begun to think about what it would be like to make love, to kiss long and sensually, and to feel him inside of me. Paul, who didn’t sleep with me anyway, wouldn’t have noticed my increasing number of evenings spent pleasuring myself to thoughts of sexual fantasies of Evan.

            The girls would be bathed and in bed. The house would be dark, and I could hear the faint sound of Paul’s snoring way off in the spare bedroom. I would know I could touch myself and could think freely without interruption. I would quietly get up, lock my bedroom door, and return to the bed. I would lay back against the pillows, lift my simple white T-shirt, pull down my silky pink panties, and use my middle finger to rub myself in a soft, circular motion.
I would start to think about him. His eyes, his sensual lips; what his cock might look like fully aroused. I imagined he would be large enough to please and spread me so that it felt perfect as he stroked me. I wanted to know what he looked like naked. I would think of him like a hungry predator, stalking me as his prey. He would come upon me naked in bed. Crawling the length of my body, he would be moving slowly up first my legs then torso. I could feel him hard against my bare skin. I would think about him using his fingers, and it was his fingers and not mine sending waves of intense pleasure into me. It felt so good.
I would think of his hot, moist kisses on my lips. His kisses would be tender and sweet, and then the passion would swell. His tongue would lick my lips to gently pry them open to receive him. I would lightly lick back, and our tongues would meet in a sexual dance that would build with passion and desire. This kissing would go on, and then it would escalate until he was fully erect and ready. I would reach down, touch his head, then the chord and most sensitive place, and run my hands up and down his shaft. I would be gentle at first, and then I would apply more pressure, and he would become firm and hard and ready.
I would try to think what it would feel like for him to enter me, stroke me, accelerate his motion, and then make it harder and harder. And just as I thought how hard and how good it would feel; a wave of pleasure would build with just the right amount of tension. And then the climax and release. I would gasp and mute my desire to let out a moan or even scream. My breath would catch. Then the spasm as the multiple orgasms would pulsate over and over again. I would move my hand, and push a pillow between my legs to placate and soothe my come down.
Then I would open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling fan pushing air around the room. The quite hum of the blades moving air as I would stare up. Then I would wonder, “Does he think of me at night, too?” And I would close my eyes again and try to imagine what was he doing. Was he, too, resting in bed with his hand on his cock having just fantasized about me? Were our minds in synchronicity thinking of the same fantasies, imagining the same pleasures? I felt it was so. I felt it was true. I could almost see him in my mind’s eye. I could almost smell him, his scent so specific, so sweet, so familiar, and so sexual. Yes, he smelled of sexuality and sweaty lust. The day I had drawn in so close to him, he had left behind his scent in my long hair. For the rest of the afternoon, I pulled a handful of hair to my nose and inhaled that smell. The pleasant odor was on me as if we had made love when we had only yearned and wanted. Our smells mingled anyway into a memory of something so personal and recognizable – and the smell made me ache all over again for him; to be near him; to touch him.
Every night this fantasy repeated itself. Every night, I would roll over and gaze out the sliding-glass door into the backyard. I could see branches yield to quiet breezes, leaves twirl up caught in the arms of the wind, and listen to the faint sounds of the neighbor’s dog bark or the distant tinkle of the wind chimes. I would wish for him to lay next to me, his hand resting on my hip, and to hear his quiet breathing.
I missed something each night that I had never even experienced. And the dull yearning and longing began to build up inside of me. Instead of joy and happiness that I was falling for someone; that I was experiencing the budding desires of new love and infatuation; that I was coming alive and reawakening from a long, monotonous sleep; instead of these things, a terrible sadness and an ache developed. I wasn’t Evan’s wife or even lover. I wasn’t supposed to be. I was Paul’s wife. And I didn’t want to be … not anymore. And so each night, I also began to do something else – plan for my escape. For the first time ever I knew something I had never felt certain about doing. I knew I wanted a divorce.

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