Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 01-03

Passion is an intensity of emotion that lets you know you're really alive – not just on auto-pilot.

My life is satisfactory. I am generally happy; I love my wife; our standard of living is more than adequate. I am, more or less, content.

Yet, I have very little passion – real passion – in my life. Certainly, there are moments, as in conjugal sex; but they are just that – just moments, fleetingly brief. There may even be moments of real passion experienced during avocations – lean morsels tasted during a particularly spectacular ski run; moments during an exquisite meal. Nevertheless, most of the passion I feel in my everyday existence is, unfortunately, anger, frustration, or disappointment.

I long for some real passion, like that which one can glimpse in story and song. The passion of young love, blind love, love against all odds, illicit love, love gained, love lost. The vicarious experience that comes from a good tale or a really sad tune just hints of the powerful passion within. But it is still only vicarious – ethereal, unreal.

To find oneself so totally infatuated that nothing else matters; to get oneself into love so deep that when it ends you asphyxiate on the emptiness; to revel in a love so new that the sex explodes between you.

Or even, if not actually love, then sex – pure honest animal sex; novel and exciting sex; fresh and invigorating sex; sex so satisfying as to sate all desire – to sate desires one didn't know existed; an enveloping all-encompassing sex; sex so intense that it's frightening, so concentrated that it warps space-time, so dense that it obscures everything else, so massive that it absorbs reality. That is the passion I would like to feel – to live, even if only for a moment – long enough for the memories to gel in my mind. Memories of my own passion instead of glimpses of someone else's – real or imagined.

Matthew Anderson
March 23, 2004

Matt stared at the screen as if awakening from an unsettling dream. He had been sitting at his computer, surfing aimlessly through miscellaneous files. Some days it all seemed so meaningless – pointless. He came into work, now, so irregularly – occasionally every day of a given week; some weeks not at all; usually, and with increasing frequency, just one or two days in seven. And much too often he would find himself doing just exactly what he had found himself doing this time – surfing aimlessly through the hard-drive – staring at his monitor with no focus, no comprehension. He had just gone away; escaped into a nether world.

Yet, while he was gone, all thoughts elsewhere if anywhere, some part of him had cleared the desktop, called up Word and begun typing. It had come, unbidden, from deep inside – from his heart, or his core, or his soul. And it had come with a vengeance. Fingers rattling across the keyboard, his eyes had remained glazedly fixed on the monitor. He had, he realized, typed and deleted, reworded, rephrased, revised the short piece umpteen times. He had been well through the first rewrite before he had even become aware he was writing. Even then, it was some other part of his mind – some unfamiliar part of him – that had begun to read the words that burst onto the screen only to scroll up and out of sight like the eyes of a swooning face. He'd let his fingers carry on, unconsciously manipulating the contents of the electronic memory; capable himself of nothing except watching it dance about the pale window of the screen. It had been, then, unintelligible – gibberish.

Now, abruptly finished, Matt sat back, exhausted by the sudden release of emotional energy. There wasn't much to show for all of that. Still, using the mouse he scrolled slowly through the text, reading it as if for the first time, as if it had been written by someone else – some other creature. It was somehow disquieting, and that in itself puzzled him. He looked suspiciously about.

His office was small and bright, its large window looking down the hill, over the Westminster Quay at the industrial docks of North Delta. Decorated with a subtle mixture of white and pine Scandinavian furniture it had a rather pure feel to it. With only a filing cabinet, bookshelf, a couple visitors’ seats, and an expansive desk with swivel chair, its Spartan sterility spoke only of business; no fun and games here; no daydreaming allowed. Still, for Matt, it was like an old pair of sneakers – comfortable, familiar, its faults easily overlooked. His familiarity had, in fact, corrupted the no-nonsense tone of the place, and allowed such aberrations.

He saved the strange file onto a floppy and pocketed it, printed the brief treatise, then deleted it from the hard-drive. He glanced furtively around, then took the sheet as it emerged from the printer, scanning it quickly before folding it and placing it in his inside pocket. He caught himself, once again, looking around to see if anyone was watching. He didn't know why; no one was around anyway, yet he felt very guilty for some reason; about exactly what he couldn't say, but he felt guilty, nonetheless.

Matthew – Matt – was the past CEO of Anderson Custom Industrial Printing & Design. He had brought the company all the way from a three-employee shop to what it was now – a slick, serious operation with over fifty employees. That was, of course, ancient history. Now just one of several major shareholders – just one more member of the board – he still sometimes thought of it as his company – his baby. That notwithstanding, two years ago he had basically dropped right out.

Still, he hadn't been ready to completely let go and the management hadn't been about to put him out on the street, so they had graciously – sympathetically – created a new job just for him; with no particular duties and no expectations. He was euphemistically called Vice President in Charge of Future Development and Diversification. He still had an office to come to, but that was just window dressing. If he thought about it for too long, he could see it for what it was – an embarrassing charade; at least, it was a kind charade.

Matt began to feel haunted by the mundane. The days just seemed to go on and on. He had set down his thoughts weeks ago – in an unconscious attempt at catharsis, but rather than dulling his discontent, it only seemed to heighten his dissatisfaction – dissatisfaction with a life that – perhaps, if he was brutally honest – was 'as good as it's going to get.'

He worried increasingly about getting old. Little things were becoming ever more noticeable. He didn't come to attention quite as quickly anymore, nor quite as tall. The depressing part was that he probably never again would – ever. Sure he frequently – usually had good sex with Jenn, but that was it; good sex, not great sex – at least not usually – usually just good sex. They shared passionate embrace, but was there any passion anymore? – real, true passion? He wasn't sure. He felt colourless – the translucent gray of a dull winter's day.

An enigmatic longing; a growing amorphous hunger gnawed his soul. In his confusion, Matt began to look for something. He didn't know what it was, what it would be. He cursed himself as he straightened his desk. “Damn! What is this bullshit? I can’t go on like this. There must be something – something else – a key or something – some kind of key to happiness, to contentment.”

He had been at the office for the day, still, stepping back into the house, the pressures of commerce, what pressures he still registered, receded into the multicolored background of his mind. Throwing his jacket onto the chair, he could hear Jenn fussing in the kitchen.

Hi?

Hi! I'm in the kitchen. Her voice was bright and musical. It set off, as it often did, sensations reverberating throughout his body.

Did you work today?

Yeah. The grade ones from hell, over at Gordon. But it really wasn't too bad.

As she stood at the counter, preparing the salad, Matt stepped against her. The room was large and light and airy. With windows on two sides, the afternoon sun poured in over their shoulders, dancing on the marble countertop of the island, and glinting in the water drops that fell from the salad fixings. The kitchen was contiguous with the family room to their right, which held a big wooden table with seating for six or more, set next to a combination gas/wood fireplace. The clean hearth indicated the time since any real logs had actually burned in it. Since they had been alone, Matt and Jenn rarely even entered the family room area, taking most of their meals at the eating bar attached to the preparation island. For the all too infrequent times they entertained for dinner, a formal dining room, furnished in ebony Danish Modern, as spotless and well arranged as an Ikea display suite, was directly to their left. Jenn paused in her preparations to lift a half-full goblet of red wine to her lips. “Pour yourself some,” she said, indicating an empty glass beside an earthenware cooler in which nestled an open bottle of dry Okanagan Burgundy. “Mmmm.”

As she returned to her tasks, Matt stepped up behind her. The warmth of his breath on the back of her neck gave Jenn a discernible shiver. Her skin goose-bumped and the fine silken hair of her upper back stood up. Her hands, the knife and tomato still loosely held, rested passively in front of her as Matt's hands burrowed beneath her arms to clasp her breasts. A peaceful hush descended over them, the charged atmosphere momentarily quieted.

A petite stature and blonde pageboy bob made her look much younger than her thirty-five years. Slate grey eyes, full of innocence, often betrayed in her a touch of bewilderment. Her clear, pale skin was almost transparent, with the porcelain complexion of fine china. Cute rose red lips conveyed a vague sense of concern and fright so that she seemed fragile and often appeared to be lost; and when they formed the O of surprise, they were, Matt noted, ideally shaped for fitting over a cock. – Putting a liplock on a love muscle, as he was wont to say. Don't be so crude, she invariably replied. – Her body was soft and round, without the muscular definition of an athlete, yet not flabby; rather built for comfort, not for speed. Matt liked to think of her as cuddly, her limbs cozy and delicate; even her hips, which showed the slight spread of childbearing, didn't spoil the doll-like figure she cut.

“God, I love the feel of your breasts,” he whispered. “Always so warm – soft and spongy. And,” he chuckled, “as they say, ‘more than a handful is a waste,’ eh?” It didn't take long for his fingers to awaken her nipples, which strained against the thin material of her bra and blouse, not that this was unusual. They were exceptionally large and were usually conspicuous – high-beam. Matt and Jenn were silent except for his snuzzling sounds as he nibbled her ears and neck, and continued to tweak the still hardening, still lengthening buds of her bosom. She replied with barely audible gasps. Leaning her weight back against his chest she let out a satisfied sigh. Matt let go of her right breast and walked his fingers down to the waistband of her slacks. The elastic resistance soon gave way allowing his exploring digits to proceed into the panty-covered jungle. Inexorably they descended further, pausing to stroke the little boatman – already wide-awake – before plunging finally into the invitingly sticky warmth of Jenn's slit.

Moving his finger in and out of her, he swirled her clitoris until he felt her breath begin to labour and her knees go weak. Without a word, they slowly collapsed onto the kitchen floor. Jenn lifted her hips as Matt stripped off her slacks and panties. Her fingers, meanwhile, nimbly releasing the buttons of his shirt.

Matt, suddenly losing his balance, pitched forward face first into her bush. They laughed dreamily, and, some of the tension being dissipated, sat to finish wrestling off their own clothes.

Let's move to the carpet, Jenn whispered, as she pulled Matt's lips to hers, arms tight around his head holding him prisoner. When she let up, he looked at her with an impish grin.

Sure. But he dove down to seize her nipple with his teeth.

Wait! she cried, and when he paused she shuffled them across the floor to the entrance of the carpeted dining room.

Matt positioned himself with his knees next to Jenn's head and his face poised over her bush. He paused there for a moment, admiring the view, inhaling her aroma, before engaging her entire vulva with his mouth.

It didn't take long before Jenn's thighs began their vague quivering. Her breath began to quicken again. She grabbed his left leg and levered it over her head so that his semi-erect penis dangled at her mouth just a moment before she aggressively sucked it in, pulling him by his buttocks as deep into her mouth as he could go. The quivering in her thighs progressed to a tremble and the tremble to a shake. Matt's right hand came over the top and with a deftness borne from hours of practice, he slipped his first two fingers into her vagina, letting their tips just come to rest on her G-spot. While his tongue continued to whip her clitoris, his fingers gently massaged the sensitive nerve ends just inside her vagina.

Her breath puffed out around his cock as her hips began to rock and roll. Her tongue and lips caressed him mercilessly – up and down – while she moved inexorably toward climax. His member, now grown to a rod of steel, edged further and further down her gullet. He felt himself bumping the back of her throat, felt the small spasms of her controlled gag-responses, and heard delicate mews slip out of her mouth, past the obstruction. The violence of her approach reverberated throughout her body and it was only by concentrating on her orgasm that Matt was able to stave off coming himself. Finding the line between irritation and caress, he was finally able to elicit a sustained gasp, triggering a violent spasm in her loins.

Jenn's climax hit like a storm. Whimpering gasps made their way around him as she thrust herself hard against his mouth. Clamping her thighs about his ears she humped and bucked for minutes before the erotic seizure allowed her to relax. Her own mouth and tongue relaxed about him as his tongue lost its sense of urgency, continuing to caress her clitoris in a slower more gentle manner until she closed her legs against him, dislodging his face from her crotch. Slowly, as he pulled his penis from her mouth, he let his fingers slip out of her and rest lightly on her venus mound.

Leaving his fingers there, he turned around, and let them trace across her clitoris, eliciting another impassioned sigh, causing another spasm to sparkle through her loins. Wow, she said breathlessly, her eyes glazed and dreamy, her face flushed.

He smiled at her dazed, upturned face, and, pulling a curly hair from between his lips, asked, “What do you call a smiling roman with hair in his teeth?”

“I dunno,” Jenn sighed. “What?”

“Glad ‘e ate ‘er.”

“Argh,” she groaned, but gave him a forgiving smile – a genuine smile – of unconditional love.

Don't go away, he chided, stroking her lightly again, making her squirm and complain deliciously. Matt maneuvered himself between her legs, his cock, if not actually still steely, certainly upright and solid. He locked her eyes with his gaze and, without any further pleasantries, he thrust himself fully into her, bumping her cervix with his glans. Jenn's mouth opened in that wide O as she gasped her surprise. Not giving her even a moment to recover, he began violently pumping himself deeply in and out in a rapid, erratic, needy rhythm.

Just as violently, her vaginal muscles began clasping and releasing the thrusting intruder. Raising her thighs high around his waist, Jenn began to tremble and shake uncontrollably, her pelvis rocking forward to meet each attack. Her sighs became breathy whimpers, escaping at Matt’s every inward shove. Matt could feel the magma boiling in his groin, the molten feeling moving slowly, ever closer to his own release. His cock felt like a baseball bat, a throbbing club of hardwood, crashing against the delicate sponge of his wife's genitals. And then it was coming. Boiling up the length of his cock. Erupting from his pulsing prick like a geyser – a rocket. “Ahhhh – unh, unh – oooh….”

Her arms tightened, stiffened around his neck as she pulled her face up, brushing his nipple with her lips before screaming against his chest. He stopped moving, further inside her than he thought possible. Her cunt grasped him so firmly he thought he would experience meltdown. Then it was done.

They exchanged their lost breaths through kisses. Matt tried to prolong it with some further thrusting, to no avail, and as they lay holding one another in exhausted embrace, his shrinking member slipped from its sheath to hang dripping between them.

Despite the superior sex, far in the back of his mind, Matt's treatise on passion, the manifestation of his discontent niggled away at him. He was not so much unhappy, as fallen victim to a nagging dissatisfaction – sinking, settling beneath its leaden surface. It was a nebulous discontent for which he seemed able to do little to relieve. Changes – change of some sort was imperative, and if things were going to change then, he realized he had to make the changes; he couldn't just wait for them to happen. Nevertheless, the implementation of change – the decisions he made in this regard were below his conscious awareness. They did, in fact, just seem to happen – incidentally or coincidentally.

During the weeks that followed he gradually – but not so gradually that both he and Jenn didn't notice – became more aggressive in bed, in sex – on the floor or wherever. No longer willing to wait, he would tear at her clothes during foreplay – foreplay which grew in intensity until he seemed almost manic in his efforts to arouse. His touch was rougher now; he pushed harder, applied more pressure to her erogenous zones. Their intercourse became much more of a contact sport than an embrace. Rather than the gradual manipulation and dexterous caresses that had, in the past, incited Jenn to the shuddering onset of orgasm with its attendant lubricity, Matt seemed to be intent on pulling her roughly over the edge of her ecstasies – employing appliances and devices: tiny-fingered clitoral stimulator rings; beads and balls; all manner of dildo and vibrator – then rolling abruptly onto her to complete the act with a peremptory attack and violent thrusts of his stiffened priapus, regardless of her lubrication.

Things were indeed changing. Their relationship was moving in directions with which neither was familiar nor could foresee. The deep throbbing cadence of their sex was sometimes comforting, but sometimes terrifying. Matt was impatient for climaxes, and, as he didn't believe himself to be capable of more than one, he was impatient for Jenn's climaxes. “You’re really becoming a randy old tiger, aren’t ya?” Jenn teased, as he became more and more insatiable. He would take her on the foyer floor the moment he or she would arrive home. He would dive right into sixty-nine without any preliminaries, roughly massaging the sensitive mouth of her vagina while forcing one or two fingers in and out of her rectum; his tongue, along with his other hand, forcibly arousing her clitoris. His growing prick would descend deeper and deeper into her throat. Sometimes he was completely insensitive to her discomfort, ignoring her gagging as he bounced on her face. Jenn, nonetheless, rapidly adapted to the violence, even seeming, at times, to revel in it.