Jennifer cried a lot over this chapter when she first gave it to me. Knowing what happened after this makes pretty chilling reading, even after so much time has passed. She's amplified a lot of her thoughts in this rewrite. I'm going to post it, but I know we're going to be discussing it tonight when we're alone. It's sort of a wake-up call to what's currently going on in our lives. —Rob
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Chapter 10
We got back to Montreal very late on Sunday night — like two in the morning late — because (surprise, surprise) it had started snowing heavily again.
(I was on edge for most of the ride because you and I had arranged to talk around ten that evening. Marc and I were stuck behind an accident on the Laurentian autoroute and all I could do was watch our appointed time come and go with no way to let you know I was all right, just delayed.)
Marc was quite insistent I should stay with him for some reason. (I should have picked up on that at the time but didn’t. Call me stupid.) He said I could call you from there, but I wasn’t thrilled with that idea. In front of my building, we shared a tender kiss before I got out of his car and I thanked him for a wonderful weekend, but I was more concerned with getting inside and on the phone.
(As expected you had been frantic wondering if something bad had happened. I assured you that everything was fine, but you picked up something from my voice, that made you question it. “I’m just tired from the ridiculous drive back into town,” I said, but I got the feeling you weren’t convinced. If you’d only blurted it out…)
After hanging up, worried that my husband, the person I’d been cheating on so outrageously and with such gusto, might be beginning to suspect, I was hit square in the face by a major emotional meltdown. Call it a delayed reaction to my very challenging weekend and the fact that I’d said and done a few things I might live to regret, but the remainder of the night was a bad one for me. When I finally did manage to doze off near seven, my dreams were horrible, too.
Marc wanted to see me the very next night. Dinner, he said, but I knew he’d want the evening to wind up at his apartment. I resisted. I had my period. I was feeling rotten. This whole thing needed to slow down. I needed to take a deep breath and seriously think about what I was doing. But there was still a part of me that wanted to scream out, “Yes!”
(We talked several times during that week, Rob. You were loving and kind, as always, telling me how much you thought about me throughout your days, wondering what I was doing at that moment. Little did I know that your thoughts weren’t of your wife going through a normal day, but wondering if guys were hitting on me and if I might be responding to them. You didn’t want to upset me. The few times in the past, you’d sort of hinted around other guys and their reaction to me. I had not been at all receptive to the idea. I once told you that it repelled me. After that you shut up. I wish now I’d been more honest with you. All the time it wasn’t your thoughts that repelled me, it was about the fact that I’d suddenly feel myself getting excited — and that repelled me. We promised to always be honest with each other, truthful, and that was the last thing I was being.)
On Tuesday night, I sat down at the small kitchen table in my apartment and made one of my “pros and cons” lists. It concerned whether or not I should break it off with Marc. My period was slowing down (helped along, without a doubt, by the masturbation I was doing) and my hunger for my lover was growing. I hoped that writing out a list would sort out my feelings, help me understand what was happening to me. I kept that list for many months, only destroying it as I was waiting for you to arrive with the truck to help me move home five months to the day later. By that point it was easy to see that I was trying to work out how I felt about you compared with how I felt about Marc. It leapt off the page the final time I read it, but it wasn’t obvious to me when I was putting my thoughts down on paper.
On one side, I loathed myself for what I had allowed to happen to me. This was not the way I was brought up. This was not the way society expected a wife to behave. What would my parents and friends say if my affair ever came out? But most of all, what would my husband say? I knew. You would kick my ass to the curb. Throw my belongings out behind me, screaming obscenities over what a whore I was and how much you despised me.
At the same time, there was a faint sliver of hoped. You were always fair and reasonable, Robby, not the emotional fireball I was. Maybe, just maybe, I could bring you to a point where you’d understand. The thoughts I’d had up north about passing on to you what Marc was showing me about myself would turn you on. Of that I had no doubt. I knew I had changed. Sex was no longer “sort of interesting and fun” the way it had been. I’d broken through what my mother (mostly) had made me feel about the most intimate and exciting thing a person can do with another (or even alone). From my viewpoint that January, it was clear that I’d been afraid of my inner urges, the rush I would get from naughty thoughts, how excited I’d get when I did certain “forbidden” things. But most of all, I’d been afraid of the thoughts that popped into my head. Talking or thinking about sex had always left me feeling embarrassed. When guys looked at me a certain way, I felt guilty, almost dirty because I’d get so turned on. I was nearly 17 before I masturbated for the first time, and what I experienced that day freaked me out so much, I didn’t do it again for three months — even though I’d enjoyed it a lot. Part of me didn’t want to become “one of those girls” as my mom would always say with the disdain thick in her voice. With Marc, I had crossed that frontier months ago.
No. I would have to cover up what I had done. Lock away my memories of my time with my lover deep inside me, never to be let out. At the same time, I would try to figure out how to open up what I had discovered about myself to you, Robby. Show you how your little wife had found a distant country where we could enjoy ourselves and draw closer. Marc was giving me a gift, and I could use it to improve my marriage. How I would accomplish this was not clear to me. I’d have to dole out my new knowledge slowly and very carefully, let you lead the way as much as I could. If you ever asked to try something new, I would do it — enthusiastically. I’d have to monitor my responses and actions every time we made love because some of the sexual changes in me were becoming engrained in me because I’d been with Marc so much. Most of all, I’d have to make sure in the heat of the moment that I didn’t get carried away and blurt something out.
(Of course that’s exactly what happened in the end.)
All these kinds of thoughts were constantly flitting through my head the first two days back from my weekend away. Yeah, I bemoaned the mess I’d made of my life, but really, there was absolutely no one to blame but myself, though I caught myself trying to pass it off. The only one I could pin anything on was my mom for her crappy attitude towards all things sexual. God! What my parents’ sex lives must be like, I can only imagine. They probably don’t have a sex life!
By Wednesday, my period was slowing down. Thursday morning, it was finished. I was crawling the walls. I’d decided to cool myself down and not see Marc for a week. He called several times, but I’d told him I was too busy. It was all a lie. All day long, all I could think about was the things we’d done.
Thursday night, I couldn’t stand it. I
had to call Marc. He answered on the third ring and by that time my heart was pounding.
“Jen! I was just thinking about you.”
“Can I come over?”
“When?”
“Right now.”
“I thought you were so busy this week. You didn’t have any time for your Marc.”
“I’m burned out with practising,” I lied since I’d barely been able to warm up that day. “I’d really like to see you.”
“In that case, please come over, but wear something special, something that will make me hard for you.”
I don’t know what I would have done if Marc had turned me down that night, I was that keyed up. His words raised my sexual temperature dramatically.
Okay, I’d been challenged. Something provocative, something daring.
I showed up at Marc’s door completely naked.
That’s not to say I took two buses and a Metro ride with nothing on under my overcoat. I put on some heavy tights and my McGill sweatshirt, but nothing else. Fortunately, the sidewalks were pretty clear, so I could wear runners instead of boots.
I don’t know when I’ve ever been that nervous but that turned on at the same time. There were four apartments on Marc’s floor. Anyone could have come out one of the doors. Someone could have come up or down the stairs. There was no place to run or hide. They would see me naked. My hands were shaking as I unbuttoned my overcoat, peeled off the sweatshirt, kicked off my runners and slid the tights down over my hips. I left everything out of sight next to his door. What if someone had shown up unexpectedly and was inside the apartment with Marc? I didn’t care. All I could think about was my lover’s cock sliding up inside me, ready to take me to the moon. That’s what I was craving.
When the door opened, Marc stood there, a huge smile spreading over his face. I walked up wrapped my left leg around his right, and as we shared a
very intense French (Canadian
) kiss, I began humping his leg, making it clear what I needed from him. We stayed in that open doorway for a good two minutes.
Finally, Marc broke off our kiss when we heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “We should close the door.”
“I need to get my clothes.”
Heart pounding, I went into the hall and calmly picked up my discarded clothes. Whoever it was on the stairs certainly got a good look at my naked bum before Marc’s apartment door shut.
I was a bitch in heat that night. Marc and I fucked for three straight hours. When he wasn’t inside me, I was sucking him off, rubbing my body against him like some animal in heat (guess I
was!), or using my hands to keep him erect. I rode him to three or four marvelous orgasms. We fucked in every position either of us could think of. All I could think about was having his cock inside me.
For my final orgasm of the night (and his second) he had me halfway off the bed with my head nearly touching the floor as he rammed his length into me from above. It was an awkward position, having to support myself with my arms behind me, but it turned out to be so worth it. What ripped through me a few minutes later was unlike any orgasm I’d ever experienced: long, intense, and incredibly focused — if that makes any sense. I literally saw stars. Marc pulled me back up on the bed when it was over, holding me tightly against him as my body slowly stopped quaking with pleasant little aftershocks. Normally, I’d get up sooner than I wanted and head for the bathroom, hand cupped between my legs. That night I gloried in the feel of his semen leaking from me.
“What did you do to me?” I asked weakly when I could finally put a cogent thought together. “Wow!”
“With your body in that position, one can experience a much stronger orgasm. I think it has something to do with the blood rushing to the head.” He twisted one of my nipples lazily, sending erotic sparks shooting straight to my pussy. “I could barely hold on to you, my dear. I am glad your orgasm was so enjoyable.”
“It felt like I was being turned inside out. Can we do that again sometime?”
“When the time is right, of course.”
“When the time is right?”
“You need to be extra excited such as you were tonight when you arrived. I have to say you were very naughty, Jen. Someone might have seen you. I do have to live here, you know. The neighbours will talk.”
“I’m sure they’re talking already. I come over here enough and we’re not the quietest of lovers.”
Marc pulled me over on top of him. I could feel his stiffening cock coming up between my legs. I carefully considered letting it go further, but it was getting late and I had to get some work done the next day. Now that my itch had been so thoroughly scratched, I felt as if I could focus on other things. Still, it was very difficult to leave Marc’s bed that night.
Our tender endearments at his door gave me a lot to think about on the way home.