Love Is A Silk Blindfoldbyangiquesophie©
Buzz and Rumors.
"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said.
Or rather tried to say.
Paul groaned. His blue eyes swam. They hardly focused anymore. I didn't care. He was drunk, so was I. My name is Jules Branford (Jules yes, I know...don't ask me, ask my parents.)
Of course I could hardly blame Paul for the state we were in.
It was my fault. I had dragged him here and kept the liquid coming. It had also been me who poured the stream of laments into his ears. I beat him with the club of my self-pity until he was mush. I rubbed my torn up ego in his face until he gagged.
And not once did he say: "I told you so."
I should feel sorry for him. But it was his own fault too, wasn't it? He should have known better before becoming my best friend. And surely before telling me what he had seen, that goddamn day. Let the bastard suffer. Why on earth did he have to tell me how my world had shattered and my universe collapsed!
"The cruelty is not in the cheating," I said.
"Cruelty" is a hard word to say when you are drunk. But imagine saying the word "betrayal." As in: "What really hurts is the betrayal."
I married Elizabeth Barton when she was twenty-two.
I was a year older. We married with the self-assured arrogance of young people in love. You see - no one could possibly be as deeply in love as we were then. And of course no one had ever felt so much love before us. It was our own personal invention. So indeed no one would ever be this crazily in love again.
Betty - as her parents and siblings call her – was also the most beautiful creature on earth. (She still is, by the way. Hate can't change everything overnight. Please be patient.) I, on the other hand, preferred to call her Libby. At first she did not like that, until I said it over and over while licking her clit. Try it; you'll see why it would work. And while you're at it, try Bubble too. Or Bibbly-bibbly, though that may make you sound a bit silly.
Our state of bliss started with a bang when we first met on a New Year's Eve's party, now five years ago. Things went fast from there. We were already half naked when the last of the twelve strokes echoed in our ears.
What always amazed me the most about us, even after all this time, was the ease. The natural, easy way we had around each other. The way we made each other float. It was almost a state of grace, whatever that is. Her calm hazel eyes poured confidence into my skull. We never had to prove anything. It was an incredibly rare, yet so very ordinary closeness. There was a relaxed humor. Our eyes always seemed to see the same silly little things.
I never suspected how vulnerable that would make me.
You see, it is just as the drunk sod told Paul, his best friend: "Wha' weally hujts is the bethwayl."
Does it matter how I found out?
Maybe for you sick, voyeuristic slobs it does. With all the cliché circumstances, all the savory sex-dripping details. So you can shudder with delight about her blatant brazenness, her careless cruelty, her humiliating remarks. Ah, damn, you are just impotent lil gloaters anyway, aren't you?
Disaster-tourists, the lot of you.
Even worse are these awful so called friends. They can tell you in hindsight how they always suspected it. And how easy I could have known, had I only looked. But they did not want to interfere.
I would not mind demolishing their nosy noses. For a start.
And of course there are those who mildly patronize you. They look very smug and nod wisely while you tell them. In their case I could not help wondering if they shouldn't watch their own spouses.
And then there was Paul.
The only thing he did was telling me that he had seen Betty at the local Hilton, kissing her boss over dinner. Close kissing of the third kind, he said. Then they'd had coffee and hit the elevators, his hand on her ass.
Paul had left the Hilton two hours later. They had not yet returned by then.
I remember I had this primal urge to cave in Paul's nose. And a few teeth. And his eyes. Maybe his balls too. But he was Paul. We go back a century. He never lied to me. Not even about disliking Betty, which he did. He had all the right in the world to gloat and tell me "I told you so". But he was maybe the only one in the world who'd never do that.
Paul is my friend. And he lived to regret that.
Those first years Betty and I were too deeply in love with our perfect lives to want children. She certainly liked her career as much as I did. But of course, looking back from where we are now, she may have had other things on her mind. Anyway, the subject never came up.
We were the typical selfish yuppie couple, I suppose.
We wined and dined and went to far away islands where the sun always does what the brochures promise. We traveled to Europe's old cities. We lived in a roomy loft on Manhattan Island. We collected beautiful things, exotic experiences. We went to concerts and parties, when we had the time.
Time was precious, though. Betty worked hard and long hours. I guess I did the same. We were very busy chasing perfection and trying to get there.
Friends liked us and we liked them whenever we could find the time to meet them. Or they to see us. Sometimes our agenda's matched. It didn't take long until we ourselves had to use our pretty palm tops to see each other, Betty and I. Don't laugh or I'll call you an old fashioned laggard and scratch you from my electronic agenda.
The only one I could never impress with my time management was Paul. You have to know that he is a painter. One of the kind that could become famous after he dies. His children may get very rich if he ever thinks of marrying and having some. Then again, if he would do that, it might spoil his art and his dedication to it.
I am into a different art form; the bland and modern art of money management. I make the rich richer and don't make myself poorer in the process. Betty is into P.R. She is P.R., really; in her life the sun never sets. And to be honest, up to now it never saw a reason to do so.
One infamous night Paul called me.
He was in his favorite bar. Our bar, to be precise. Well, our one-time bar, as I hadn't been there with any regularity this last year.
He sounded slightly tipsy. It was about eight thirty. He also sounded concerned. Paul is a loud person. Put him in any voice-filled room and you'll have no problem hearing him. But that night he sounded quiet on the phone. Somehow it convinced me at once of the urgency of his call.
The bar was busy. Paul raised his paint-stained hand and waved when I got in. He sat way in the back. By the time I had reached him, there was a scotch and ice for me on the table.
"Drink up," he said.
"What is the matter, Paul? Why call me?"
"Drink first. Talk later."
There were no little lights in his eyes.
I took a sip.
"Drink, I said," he insisted.
I emptied the glass. The stuff burnt down my throat. Miraculously there was a freshly filled glass where I put down the empty one.
"I have to get up early in the morning," I said, pushing the glass away.
He shoved it back.
"This one too. Drink."
I shrugged and swallowed.
"Betty is fucking around on you."
I must admit that I did not believe him.
As anyone blinded by love knows: all people lie when they tell you anything about your lover that isn't the 100% essence of red roses. Paul was my best friend since kindergarten. Paul never ever lied to me. And now there was no way I could believe him.
I got mad.
I told him that I was very disappointed with him. That I felt like beating him up. (He is 6 ft 4 and more than half as wide.) That it was a fucking shame he had sunk so low to let his fucking jealousy take over. That he was a skunk (or some other unsavory animal; I don't exactly remember). That I never would have thought he'd find satisfaction in destroying the happiness of his best friend.
"This is me, dammit Paul! Me!"
He only waved to the waitress and told me to drink up.
"I understand," he said. His voice sounded sad. "I might have reacted the same way. But it is true. I saw it, Jules."
One can only rage this long. Words have a tendency to get scarce after, let's say, triple repetition. The only exception is the word fuck, I guess.
I drank. Then I cried.
"I can't believe you, Paul." There was a sob in my voice.
He shrugged. "I know."
I stared at him. He looked pale. I was so shaken up that I did not see how shaken up he was. I only saw glee.
"Are you happy now?" I asked.
At any other time I would have bitten off my tongue before being so spiteful. To be precise, at any other time he would have bitten off my head. Not now.
"Jules," he said. "I saw what I saw. Now you must go see what I didn't see. Do it soon."
A buzz started in my head. The whiskies kicked in.
"I don't believe what you saw, Paul."
He lifted two helpless hands.
I rose and struggled my way through the boozing throngs.
"Go see what I didn't see..."
The suggestion had clawed its tiny, sharp nails in the back of my skull. I could not shake it off.
When I got home it was ten o'clock. Betty was in her little home office. I took a huge glass of water and settled in front of the TV, seeing nothing.
After a few minutes she joined me. She wrapped her body around mine. Her kiss was sweet and open. As always.
"Bonjour, mon vieux."
I love it when she talks French. It suits her so very well. And it tells me that she's in the mood.
"How was your day?"
She had left me to get herself a glass of wine. Ever since we started working irregular hours, we pick up food on the way home. Often at the health club, sometimes even together.
"Fine," I said. "Did you eat?"
"I did, did you? You smell of booze."
"I met Paul in Charlie's."
She frowned. She doesn't want to frown when I mention Paul's name, but she can't help it, it seems. She never liked him and it was mutual.
"Why? What did he want?"
I watched her face. It wasn't friendly, even a bit hard. I never wondered how other people might see Betty. I mean, I never thought it might be different from how I saw her.
Why should I wonder now?
"He just wanted a drink and talk, I guess. Like the old days."
Her eyes softened. She returned to my lap, hugging me. The warm contact of her body at once excited me. The glow of her round, tight ass. The softness of her tits.
She breathed into my ear, making me shiver. Then her tongue ran around the inside of the shell and plunged into the opening. I groaned.
I rose and carried her to the bedroom.
Betty hasn't given me a blowjob since more than half a year.
Maybe longer. She not even licks or kisses my cock anymore. She uses her hands. She says tasting cock suddenly started making her nauseous. She says she can't explain it. She also says she has to gag from having her mouth filled with cock. She apologizes for that, but she can't change it, she says.
She used to give great head.
Especially the first year we met. Her lips were like a velvet ring, tight and yet so incredibly soft. Her tongue was a miracle. She played me like an instrument with her lips, her tongue and her fingers.
I showed her my frustration when she stopped sucking me. I told her I was disappointed. But I never urged her on. I love her too much for that.
Betty really loves it when I eat her out. She comes hard when I suck her, sometimes it gives her a few orgasms in a row. There are ways to make her come harder and faster. I know them all and love to please her. I am certain it is a big part of the reason she loves me. The attention. The patience.
And the orgasms, of course.
As I said, I love her madly. I want to please her in every way she needs. So after we undressed that night, I laid her on the silk sheets and started kissing her. She loves to have her whole body kissed and licked. I felt her skin tighten under my lips. She arched her spine when I sucked in her nipples. I love the texture of her excited nubs. They stiffen and swell in the curl of my tongue. Sometimes they are so hard that even the areola start getting puffy.
Once I gave her an orgasm by just sucking her tits. Betty has perfect tits. They are not huge, but round like apples. And they blush like apples too.
This night she came in an intense and stretched out way. She made deep gurgling noises and arched her body high, pushing it against my face.
I let her come down. Then I rose up along her body. I ran my tongue over her mound and belly. She moaned her disappointment and started pushing me down again. But I did not oblige.
"Please, Jules," she lisped. "Encore une fois...je t'empris. Tu es si magnifique."
Why did it irritate me? I don't know. But I shook my head and took her hands away. I saw her face over her panting chest. She looked annoyed. I don't think I ever saw her annoyed. But maybe I never looked.
"Go see what I didn't see..."
The little voice was in my head. I grabbed Betty's hands and spread her arms to her sides. I straddled her, resting my half aroused cock between the sweet apples on her chest.
"Honey..." she said. "What is it?"
I just stared at her eyes. They were wide open now. The annoyance had left.
"Will you suck my cock, Libby?"
Her lashes fluttered.
"You know I can't do that, Jules. Not anymore," she whispered. "Please, I would love to, honey, I really would. But I can't. It makes me sick. You know that. We talked about it so often. Please don't make me do it."
I know I looked annoyed then.
"I ate you to orgasm, Libby. I always please you. I never refuse."
"Sorry, Jules. I am really sorry, but I can't. I gag, I get sick, remember?"
I rose. I felt enraged. I never felt that before, not with her. I turned away and sulked on the side of the bed.
After a while I felt her tiny hand on my back. A second hand reached around me and found my limp cock. It lay on my thigh, still leaking from my frustrated arousal.
"Ne m'oublige pas, Jules. Je t'empris. Je t'aime."
I jerked myself away from her and got off the bed. I turned around. It felt as if acid hurled from my eyes to hers.
"Goddammit, Elizabeth!" I screamed. She scrambled away from me, eyes wide.
"Fuck the French! TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON!!"
Of course nothing was going on. She had no idea what I meant. Could I maybe tell her what was going on with me? Why I was acting this way? Using such language?
I just stood there, watching. She sounded honest. I tried to see, what her body might tell me, her face. But she was just her innocent, open self. Her lovable self. I could tell she was hurt by my behavior. How could I ever treat her so love-less?
Then she crawled to the bedside. She took my dormant cock in her hand. She pulled the hood back and started blowing on its crown. A slow, pointed tongue licked the taut tip, teasing its tiny slit.
A rush of air left my lungs. My swelling flesh slid into her hot little velvet chamber.
She made a gagging noise.
We ended with her riding me.
She loves to ride my cock lately. It makes her orgasm more intense, she says. I can see that it does. I love to watch her face when she gets closer to release. I love how she arches her back and lets her little apples dance. I love the way her hair sweeps. The bliss on her face. I love to feel how her desperate fingers dig into my chest.
I guess I love her.
Betty's hair is a deep glowing brown. She usually wears it up, but when we make love she lets it flow. Her skin is very pale for a brunette. It is the skin of a redhead really. I love its translucent blush. Her eyes are light. They call it hazel, I guess.
Gold, I'd say.
We took a shower together. She begged me to eat her pussy out under the shower. I did. I didn't mind that my sperm was still there. I made her climax one last time.
We dried each other and I carried her to bed. I am not sure she was still awake when I told her I was sorry for insisting that she give me head.
She did not respond.
I did not sleep much. I stared into the soft darkness. Her breathing was calm beside me. I touched her breast, just to feel its velvet warmth. I watched her face. The weak lips were half open. I saw her eyeballs move under their translucent lids. I saw the shadows of her lashes.
I love Betty. I love my Libby. But the little line hangs from its cruel nails at the back of my skull.
"Go see what I didn't see..."
Damn you, Paul!