On the Other Side of Passion

“I can’t be here, I can’t do this to myself,” she said as she gathered her purse. He grabbed her hand to stop her, she jerked away from him as if she had been burned by fire. He slid his hand up her arm, sliding it under the sleeve of her blouse, he stroked her shoulder.

“I have missed you,” he said, his fingers forming seductive circles, gently pressing into her flesh, melting it under their warmth. She drew a deep breath in, she tried to gather her composure, she tried to find her will, but it had left her. He stood and led her out of the bar and to his truck. He navigated the truck through the narrow streets of town, as he shifted gears, he slid his hand up her thigh, stoking the softness of her tender skin. Run she thought to herself, run now, but she couldn’t she was his unwitting captive.

He led her up the stairs to his apartment, kissing her deeply. How long had it been since she had received such a kiss? His tongue slid its way past her teeth, gently caressing her tongue; she melted into him, her back arched in response. He slid his key into the lock, opening the door and guided her in. “Tell me you want me,” he said as he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse. She could form no words, she moaned in response. Her breasts strained against their confines, the tricot forming a prison. She reached behind her undoing the clasp and releasing them from their binds. He unsnapped her skirt with a singular deft move; it fell to the floor in abandon. He lowered her panties, and dropped to his knees in front of her. He spread her legs, opening her throbbing lips and began to lick her already swollen clit. She moaned in pleasure, forcing herself against him.

He pulled her down onto the floor beside him. He lowered his faded jeans, releasing his manhood. She looked at it appreciatingly, how perfect it was, hard, engorged, pulsing and ready. She grasped it in her fist and guided it into her mouth, she could hear him moaning, directing her; she paid no attention, she sucked it until she could taste him in her mouth. He pulled at her hair, pulling her away. He lowered her onto her back, she could feel the cool of the hardwood floor and it nipped at her back.

He guided himself into her, she gasped as he slowly plunged deeper and deeper. The act was a little uncomfortable for her, it had been so long since she had felt him inside her, she remembered his size, but her body had adjusted to the smaller girth of her husband. “Easy, easy” she bade him. Passion obeyed, taking her little by little as she adjusted to him. She wrapped her legs around him and when she had yielded sufficiently to accommodate his size she rocked her hips against him. They climaxed together, their bodies entwined; a mass of flesh, sweat, and pleasure. They lay together in afterglow, basking in the warmth of bliss.

She was pulled out of her revere by the ticking of a nearby clock. She glanced to see what time it was, it was getting late. Hurriedly she put her clothes on. “Rushing home to hubby?” he asked as he rose from the floor. She didn’t reply, she glanced back at him as she closed the door behind her.

Her mind was racing as she drove home. What had she done? She had broken her vow. She was certain lightening bolts would fly from the sky and vaporize her, but none did. She could feel the wetness of Passion as it rolled down her thighs. She had to confess to her husband, yet she knew she wouldn’t. She had felt passion again, she was torn. As she chopped the vegetables for their salad, she wondered, was passion real and love a lie? How could passion feel so good if it were a lie? Certainly passion was just as real as love, could she have them both? Could she have Love and Passion?

She heard the key rattling in the lock, heard the turn of the knob and the opening of the door. She collected herself, smiling at her husband as she placed the salad on the dining room table. “How was your day?” he asked. She smiled at him, shrugged her shoulders as she passed him his salad. She changed the topic of their conversation as she played with her food, the evening sunlight glistening in the shadows of the diamond of her wedding band.

Chapter 2: Reckonings and Realizations

She shut the window tight against the first drafts of fall’s chill. Through the sheer draperies of her bedroom window she saw his truck as it wound it’s way up her street. What was he doing? She thought to herself. She hadn’t seen him since that late summer afternoon, she hadn’t known passion since then either, and how she longed for it. The truck didn’t stop, but slowed as it rolled by. She stepped away from the window and into the bathroom, she knew he wouldn’t stop, Passion wouldn’t come to call, and it would pass her by as it always did. She filled the tub to the brim with steaming hot water and bubbles, slowly lowering herself down into the mix.

As she floated, the warmth relaxing her tense muscles, her mind began to wander, returning to thoughts of her Passion. She hadn’t told her husband of her passionate encounter, she never intended to, this guilt, this secret she alone would bear. Her passion belonged to her alone and would never be shared with another. She remembered his long fingers as they caressed her flesh, bringing her to a burning crescendo. She thought of his body and its weight upon her as he slid into her again and again. She thought of his lips, soft and torturous. She could still smell his sweat as it slid down his chest and onto her in the heat of their encounter. She slid down further into the soapy water, her nose barely floating above the bubbles, sighing. She remembered how she cried that night, cried for the passion she felt, cried because of the passion and of how briefly she basked in its heat. She cried tears of guilt and shame, she had broken a promise, she had injured her love and he was painfully unaware. Passion had claimed her once again, and left her once again as well, she was alone, deserted by Passion, lost in Love.

She heard footsteps ascending the stairs, she heard the door handle turn. The footsteps didn’t sound like her husband’s, yet were strangely familiar. He stood in the doorway appraising her; she gathered what bubbles were left, trying to hide her nudity from his unabashed stare. “What are you doing here?’” she could barely hear her self form the words. He reached for a towel, grasped her hand, and pulled her out of the tub. “Stop that!” she exclaimed as he briskly dried her dripping hair. She swatted at him in vein. “You can’t be here, you simply can not be here.” She stated as she groped for her terry cloth bathrobe. His brisk towel drying had become entrancing, he was stroking her nether regions with the towel, causing her to throb and swell.

“You left your door unlocked, lucky for me eh?” he grinned as he bent to kiss her. “I’ve missed you, and from the feel of things, baby missed me too”, he said as he stroked her clit, spreading her labia with his fingers. He navigated her from the bathroom and onto the bed. With a moan of delight she gave herself over to Passion once again. When they were both spent, he rose from the bed and put on his clothes, leaving her chilly and alone. “Hubby will be home soon, sorry if I spoiled the marriage bed”, he said pointing out a circular spot of wetness on the comforter. He left the same way he entered, through the unlocked back door. Cold, frustrated, alone, she began to cry. Passion had no right to leave her feeling the way it had, how could pleasure hurt so badly?

Her husband arrived home to the whirring of the dryer and the swish of the washing machine, “Laundry day?” he asked. She embraced him deeply; ashamed of what had transpired earlier on. Love would never leave, Passion always left, she thought to herself. She suggested they go out for dinner; he shrugged his shoulders yielding to her request. She couldn’t bear to be in this house another second, she couldn’t bear the smell of Passion which hung on her and lingered in the house like dark clouds rising before the storm.

Another Thanksgiving Day, another Christmas Day, another New Year’s Day, time came and time went and at long last, spring was upon the two-story house in suburbia, her house, and her home. She continued her interludes with Passion, tempting fate every time. She continued to flirt with Love, anxiously waiting for Passion’s release from her discontent. She thought about abandoning Love for Passion, though Passion offered her nothing in return. Passion had no heart to love her, Passion was only body; Love was soul. She thought about confessing Passion to her Love, but it was her secret and her guilt to bear alone. She had sex with passion, made love to her love. She wished she could have them both in one, but it seemed an impossible dream.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked as he tugged gently on a lock of her hair. Her body still pulsed in the ebb of her passion; she turned to face him, forcing him to meet her gaze. Passion never looked her in the eye, Passion never had to face reckoning; today Passion would.

“I’m leaving him, I haven’t told him yet, but I’m going.” He said nothing, he didn’t flinch, and he didn’t blink. He rolled onto his back, gripping the sheets, covering himself as he turned.

“I don’t want you to leave because of me,” he said as he stared up at the ceiling exhaling deeply. “I have nothing to offer you, you know where I stand” he went on to say. She slid out from under the covers and began to get dressed. He had told her before that he would never love her, in her heart she thought that her passion was turning into love, she hoped that in time he would love her.

She could live with less love in her life, but not less passion. “I’m not,” she lied, “I’m leaving because of me.” Her love was heartbroken when she told him, she felt the pangs of guilt as she packed her clothes and walked down the stairs. She hadn’t told him that she was leaving forever, she hadn’t told him why, only that she needed some time, time to think things through. That was no lie, she did need time, time with her Passion, time with her Love, time with herself.

She got a small efficiency apartment in neutral territory, a safe distance from the both of them. She missed Love; she sought refuge in Passion’s arms and tried to find love there. The months passed, an uncelebrated anniversary passed. She hung decorations on her very own Christmas tree. This year, she had purchased gifts for Passion and for Love. She still saw Love; they were close friends, not partaking of each other physically, but shielding each other from their own private storms, shielding each other with their friendship. Passion never complained that she still had ties with Love, passion never complained about anything as long as he got his fair cut. She had long ago removed her wedding band, yet she still felt its tie, felt it on her finger, felt the pressure of the band of gold.

She and Passion met at her little abode frequently, she was eagerly awaiting his visit tonight. She had a surprise for him, she tightened down the straps to her negligee and adjusted the thong, sliding her feet into her black spiked heel shoes, and she waited for him. She had been practicing for weeks, practicing walking, practicing dancing in the shoes, and practicing stripping for him. When she heard a rap at her door, she raced to answer it; Passion was leaning on the doorframe nonchalantly. “Oh, how nice” he said as he looked her over. Lustily he grabbed her, pulling her toward him. His tongue traced its way down her neck; he slid the straps of her gown down, his tongue lapping greedily at her nipples, causing them to strain against the lacy fabric.

“No, no, I want to dance for you.” She proclaimed as she pushed him away. He swatted her on the ass; sliding the thong out of the way he slid a finger up her tiny ass. “Stop it!” she exclaimed, her mind was racing, she didn’t just want sex, she wanted to make love to him, she wanted to pleasure him, she wanted to give him herself tonight. She felt as if he were mocking her, turning her own desires against her.

“Ok, ok,” he replied as he lowered himself onto the couch, “But keep in mind you’ve already caused one hell of a problem” he said as he adjusted his erect penis. She put in a slow, seductive song and began to sway to the rhythm of the music. Half way through the song, he grabbed at her sitting her on his lap. “We have got to do something about this problem you’re causing,” he said as he lowered her hand onto his crotch. She gave into his advances, which were causing quite a problem in her.

He was relentless, the lashing of his tongue as it sought out all of her pleasure spots, he pinched her, pulled her hair, nipped at her, plunged into her. He knew exactly what she wanted, he knew how to make her come, slow at first, then faster and faster, deeper and deeper. He played with her ass as he rocked inside of her uttering the words “That’s my good little slut”. “You’re a good whore, you’re my little whore,” he cried out as he came. At that moment in time, that’s exactly what she felt like “a little slut, a little whore.”

She was beginning to see the true face of Passion, recognizing it for what it truly was, realizing what it truly was, lust, not passion, white, hot, unbridled lust. She had sold out Love for what she had thought was Passion, only now did she begin to understand, after Passion left, as he always did, she began to cry. What had she done? She thought to herself. She had fallen in love, not with love, not with passion, with the lowest form of emotion, the most primal part of being, lust.

She buried herself in her work, busied herself with projects and friends, trying to forget her epiphany, maybe if she didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be true. She still tried to find refuge in Passion, tried to warm her chilled heart, which was burdened with guilt and remorse for what she had done to Love. There was no refuge to be found, no softness only hard, unyielding, lust. She fulfilled his every desire, yielded to his every whim, in futility she tried to create love in Passion. She found only physical pleasure, lust wore her down; passion wore her out. She was a prisoner to them both, loosing herself in them, loosing herself in her love for them. After their escapades she would lie in the dark, looking up at him, tracing the outline of his face, touching him, running her fingers through his dark mass of hair, trying to look deeply into his eyes, which always avoided her gaze.

She loved this man, this Passion, as he drifted off to sleep; she whispered to him “I’m in love with you.” She thought he didn’t hear her, but he had, he continued to pretend to be asleep, but his mind raced, he didn’t want her love, he didn’t feel her passion, he wanted her body, her soul was her own, now here, in the dark she was offering it to him.

She had made no demands on him; her confession was enough to make his blood run cold. Love meant commitment, love meant marriage; love meant a proverbial life sentence. Love meant pain, eventual abandonment, he could; he would never allow himself to love, he had to end it. He could not destroy her, he would try to push her into leaving him, and he would try to show her what he really was. He began to pull away from her, he began to call her less and less, and he began to make excuses for not stopping by, for not staying over. He pumped her time and time again, pulling his clothes on and turning his back on her. Still she waited for him to come around, to see how much Passion meant to her. They had gone out to dinner and had a couple of drinks; it was close to their one-year anniversary.

He opened the door to her apartment and led her inside; he pulled off her shirt, and slid her denim skirt up around her hips. Whisking her underwear aside, he entered her, at first she balked, then she yielded to her passion. He didn’t climax instead he stopped, backing her over the arm of the couch, leaving her crotch resting on its arm, he spread her legs wide, pushing first one finger in, then two. Knowing just where her weak spots were he forced her to come with a loud cry of pleasure escaping her lips. He greedily lapped the thin watery liquid from his palm, smacking and licking his lips and he sucked it off of his fingers. He sucked and licked at her cunt, nipping her clit with his teeth, causing her to gush yet again. He slid inside of her, she was slick and wet, the walls of her vagina grabbing at his cock, umm he liked that he thought to himself. This was their last fuck, the last time he would fuck his “good little whore”. With a shudder she came, the wetness running down the shaft of his cock, dripping onto his balls. “Oh God” he cried out as he pushed deeper and deeper causing her to come again and again.

At long last they were spent, the arm of the couch glistened with the byproducts of their lust. “You’ve never done that before”, he whispered as he helped to sit her upright. She was somewhat dazed, lost in thoughts of her own. He cradled her as they sat on the couch together. He inhaled deeply of her scent, he tasted her skin, he cared deeply for this woman, his Passion, but he had to let her go, he didn’t love her, he never would, and he never could. Awkwardly, he pulled on his jeans and boots. “Do you have to go tonight?” she asked laying back on the couch inviting him in.

Not facing her, he whispered “Yeah, I’ve got a big day tomorrow.” He left without looking back. As he navigated the truck down the streets toward his home, he thought of her, thought of her come. She had never come with him inside before; it was a wonderful sensation, warm, wet, and tight. He wished he had more time to explore this new talent that she had acquired under his skilled direction. He would love to have her come again and again, squeezing his cock, washing it with her passion, but he had made his decision, he had to escape before love tried to claim him.

As he showered, trying to wash away the guilt of his decision, cleanse himself of her memory, drown her scent, the burn of her touch, he thought to himself, I really am a son of a bitch for doing this to her. I really am a son of a bitch for doing this to her love. He had taken the place of her love, not only in her bed, but also in her heart. He hoped in time she would forgive him, he hoped in time she would realize his sacrifice and that it was for her own good. He hoped in time he would forget.

She eagerly flung open the door for him; she was dressed for bed, surprised by his unexpected visit. She reached to kiss him in their customary greeting; he stopped her guiding her to the couch. He delivered his monologue as practiced, he had spent the last couple of days practicing what to say, and it came out of his mouth automatically. He could see the look of shock on her face, the hurt in her eyes, but she said nothing. The tears rolled down her cheeks, he could see them glistening in the dark. His heart felt the first pangs of remorse, he wished he could take it all back, but he couldn’t. She needed to go back to her Love; she needed to be rid of him. She held him, grabbing on to him tightly, saying goodbye in her own way, he held her tightly as well. She stepped back from him, analyzing him, carefully calculating what to say next. “What did we truly have to celebrate?” she asked. “A year of successful copulation” she answered her own question, her response low and under her breath. She shut the door behind him, sinking to the floor crying as she heard his truck pull away.

Life went on, she went to work, ate, slept, and went out with friends who rallied to her aid as she struggled through this difficult time of healing. Some how the colors didn’t seem as bright, the sun not as warm, she felt dark and bleak, dead on the inside. She was trapped in a hell between Passion and Love, lost in a canyon, too hurt by Passion, hurting Love too much because of passion. She felt lost and alone; there was no one to whom she could turn. One night it was storming, the windows of her apartment rattled with the fury of the wind and thunder, rain fell against the roof, pounding as if it were trying to gain entrance. She was alone and afraid, it was late and she didn’t know who else to call. She tried calling Passion, only to be informed by his answering machine that he was unavailable.