Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 01-03

They hadn't actually abandoned missionary position, but in the intensity and impatience of Matt's renewed verve they had assumed all manner of other positions as well. Jenn lowered her head onto her crossed arms to recover from the climax Matt had just wrung from her. She had been on the bed, on all fours, with Matt's mouth clamped to her pudendum, his nose between her bum cheeks and his hands fondling her dangling breasts. His almost brutal insistence had brought her quickly to and over the edge. As she allowed her head to fall into crux of her arms, her chest to sink into the softness of the quilt, Matt moved his hands from her breasts to knead and separate her rear cheeks. He swept his tongue back along the furrow of her vagina and up to her anus where he swirled around, tasting her lingering sweetness, before forcing its point into the opening as far as he could. He felt her almost stiffen in rejection, but any moral objection she may have had seemed to have been vanquished by her erotic climax and subtle denouement. With his hands still molding the warmth of her rear, he moved himself onto his knees, between her legs and, without any preliminaries, drove his staff into her. While churning himself within her vagina, he pulled her cheeks further apart and inserted first one, then the other thumb into her anus. The stretching caused by the entrance of the second digit made her suddenly lift her head and utter a breathy, staccato, “Oh!” However, she quickly settled her head back onto her arms and relaxed once again.

“I guess,” Matt mused, “she’s finally getting used to my preoccupation with her butt.”

His cock now stiff and lubricated from its foray into her box, withdrew without warning at the same time his thumbs vacated. Still holding her cheeks apart, he pressed his bobbing purple glans against her sphincter. Before she really had time to respond, he began pushing, forcing himself against the muscled orifice; gaining entry with a satisfying ‘pop’, his helmeted head found its way past the gate. Matt moved deliberately, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to just thrust and jam as hard as he could. Moving his hands to the front of her upper thighs, he pulled with a steady force, managing to stay in control, and eased himself into her until he, with only a couple in-and-outs had planted himself fully in her rectum.

She said nothing as he, still fighting for self-control, slowly began to thrust and withdraw – in and out – over and over. The spasmodic grasping of her strong rectal muscles surprised him as the firm grip on his invading tool increased the already unbearable stimulation. Her hips began to rock as his rhythm accelerated, and, just as they had depleted her natural rectal lubrication, just as the friction began to burn his sensitive organ, he felt an orgasm ignite in his balls with a violence and vengeance he had rarely known. His hips smacked against her buttocks, as the rest of his self-control was torn from him in the wild plunge to ejaculation. Jenn moaned at the force of his thrusts, pushing back to swallow his entirety with her quivering rectum. With an animal howl Matt erupted in her fundament, spurting his scalding liquor deep into her bowels.

He collapsed onto her back, and in the quiet afterglow, the silence broken only by their heaving breaths, they slowly rolled onto their sides, in spoon position, Matt's softening penis slipping incrementally out of Jenn's still pulsing ass.

Well? he asked, almost rhetorically.

That wasn't as bad as I expected. As her anus finally, involuntarily ejected his limp penis, Jenn rolled half towards him. No, it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be.

Do you mean that you had thought about it before?

It would have been kind of difficult not to have noticed your growing fascination with my bottom, she smiled, I was hardly surprised.

She was so much more accepting than he had expected that he was at a loss for words. She didn't show any of the fear or distaste that he thought he would need to overcome. In fact, other than a few gasps that could have been either pain or surprise – or both, her rectum seemed to almost welcome him in.

Well, so much for that aspect of virginity!

My conquistador, she whispered, cupping his face in her hands and sending her tongue snaking into his mouth.

Afterwards, however, despite her initial acceptance, Jenn discouraged him from anal intercourse, implying that she found it uncomfortable and distasteful. We've done it once, she'd say, dismissively, and that's enough. It was almost as though she'd enjoyed that first time too much. Matt could imagine, somewhere deep in her tangled background, morality alarms coming on, flashing Dirty! Unnatural! And she held him off for quite a while. It wasn't until some time later, despite all manner of coercion, that he managed to cork her again – after she was once again weak and relaxed from multiple orgasms triggered by the slow withdrawal of a string of anal beads. Using real butter for lubricant, he would say, It's better with butter – naturally,” as an argument when Jenn complained that it was unnatural. Still, Jenn never really seemed to enjoy it as she had the first time. Even with her resolve weakening, he was able to plug her only occasionally.

Anal adventures, rough and tumble wham-bam notwithstanding, they still treated one another to the soothing comfort of warm embrace and tranquil caress on occasion. They still engaged in the gentle, tender love they had, up till then, always known – just with decreasing frequency. Sex was changing; it was exciting and unpredictable, something new to them both; and even if neither quite understood, neither complained.

The changes were taking place quickly; too quickly, Matt was beginning to think. But they were apparently out of his control – out of his conscious control, at least; for whenever he asked himself why this was happening he had no answer, only a deep seething, simmering need – a need for something – a need for what? Actually, that question niggled all the time – squirming in the back of his mind, irritating his sensibilities. He was so confused. Trying to satisfy a need without knowing what it was, was like trying to scratch an itch that you can't quite pinpoint – can't quite locate. Outwardly, life went on as normal, or as close to normal as had become the norm since the accident – over the past two years.

Perhaps, he thought – though it seemed to him oh-so-trivial, all things considered, and possibly it was – perhaps he was just looking for the perfect fuck. Was that all it was? Just to find the perfect fuck before he got old. Maybe that's all it was – all his distress and discontent. No. That seemed just a little too simple, a little too trite. And he suspected – maybe he knew that it couldn't possibly be that simple. Still and all, maybe a perfect fuck was part of the solution – or a ‘zipless fuck’. Who could tell?

Superficially Matt's life continued to continue – fruitlessly and increasingly hopeless. His brooding, questioning, wondering, was, he knew, counterproductive, simply fueling his growing depression, but he felt powerless before his inner angst. The only relief he could achieve was during down and dirty sex. There must be, he mused, a more permanent way to alleviate his funk. Therein lay the challenge. The quest was, perhaps, not so much for the heightened titillation of increasingly aggressive sex, as for a master stopcock to simply drain the depression away. And that was it; something had to happen; he had to make something happen that would release him from his self-imposed oppression. Hence, the search, although not exactly manifest, was on – quietly contained and inconspicuous within Matt's psyche. Already he felt better.

He first saw her – the girl, the woman who would eventually redirect his life – at a wedding. Still, he couldn't have known the ramifications of meeting – or almost meeting – a relative of the bride's. It was the wedding of an acquaintance of Jenn's, someone he'd met on occasion but really knew very little. Patsy O'Connor seemed to Matt to be the most unlikely bride at this affair. She was short and heavy with pendulous boobs that created a bottomless cleavage. It wasn't that she was exactly fat, but she had about the biggest bottom Matt could remember having ever seen. To Matt's way of thinking, she couldn't be described any way other than dumpy. Certainly she wore clothing designed to minimize her large ass, and she definitely wore clothing designed to display as much of her bosom as legally possible, but Matt felt that the colossal cleavage was much more overwhelming than seductive, more frightening than inviting. “Could you imagine getting trapped in there?” he’d wondered. “You'd suffocate!”

Nevertheless, the groom, Tom or Tim or something, staggered about the reception with a look of dazed hunger glazing his eyes; eyes that were stuck on the bride with an almost supernatural tenacity, constantly painting her with a lust that verged on obscene.

As dumpy as she appeared to Matt, she apparently had wilder facets of personality that were difficult to reconcile with her appearance. She had confided to Jenn once, unexpectedly, that she loved to be naked out of doors, that she patronized the university's nude beach whenever possible, and that the only thing better than swimming in the raw was sex outside in the morning. Jenn had told Matt that her seemingly conservative acquaintance had, with a hushed voice and giggles, gone on to describe screwing her fiancé, the groom, midmorning in a rented canoe while drifting near the reeds lining Deer Lake, right there in the middle of the city.

Matt watched her moving among the guests, groom in tow, heaving her mass here and there with the grace of one of Fantasia's hippos; smiling blissfully. He shook his head slowly. Bloody amazing, he thought, allowing a grin to surface.

What are you smiling about?” Jenn whispered, giving his arm a tug.

He turned and kissed her questioning lips briefly before answering, Just thinking what you said about Patsy, that time. It's almost unbelievable.

Giving his arm a two-handed squeeze, Jenn snuggled her head in against his shoulder. Marvelous, isn't it? Life's marvelous.

In the quiet lull that followed, Matt's attention was drawn back to the girl he had noticed when they had first arrived. She was some sort of cousin to the bride – a wisp of a thing, there with her mother, her sister, and, apparently, her boyfriend. Yet she was not exactly a wisp, for, although she was willowy, she was very nicely shaped. She looked to be soft and firm in all the right proportions – in all the right places. Wearing a clinging sapphire dress of lightweight Chinese silk, her thick black hair cascaded endlessly over a long light blazer of turquoise-blue Dupponi, stopping just short of the jacket's hem. Eyes hidden behind trendy dark glasses, her face, nonetheless, hinted of membership in the Universal Race – some Asian or Native American blood rippling through her Caucasian heritage.

She was quite tall and the long shapely legs that stretched below her hem line were unsheathed; the dress was far too short to allow stocking tops and a garter to go undetected and pantyhose would have surely spoiled the idiom she had constructed. Her dainty feet were well pedicured, with clear lacquered nails. She sported strappy black sandals whose heels gave her another two inches. Unexplainably, Matt felt the single strand of silver chain surrounding her left ankle, and the crisscrossing straps securing her shoes, were somehow suggestive of dark underlying secrets. That random notion gave him pause, and lingered, vaguely disturbing, yet exciting, in the back of his mind.

She carried a tiny black leather purse that hung from her shoulder by a long skinny strap, dangling at her hip. Matt wondered about the usefulness of such a tiny bag. Surely it could hold no more than her keys and a lipstick – perhaps a bit of cash – and probably, he thought almost covetously, a condom.

As the evening progressed, she took off her sunglasses and put them carefully into the side pocket of her jacket. A short while later she removed her jacket to reveal, not a large, but definitely a succulent looking bust; her breasts standing up pert, poking at the shiny silk just below the spaghetti straps. She had no bra, nor, obviously, the need of one. Her neck was graced with a single fine chain of silver – considerably lighter than her anklet – that complemented the simple silver earrings dangling unobtrusively from her lobes.

In this way she was a contrast to her sister who, despite showing a striking family resemblance through the face, was buxom and heavy, with a sort of base, big-mama attractiveness. The sister, though apparently younger, was about five eight, maybe an inch taller than her sapphire siren sibling.

Their mother, on the other hand, was a huge, amorphous blob of protoplasmic obscenity. She wallowed and oozed about the room, talking to various other guests – her relatives, Matt surmised – in an irritatingly strident voice. Matt hoped she would not attempt to converse with him, for, as irrational as he knew it to be – she was, after all, nothing to him – Matt could barely hide his revulsion. In her immense obesity, she showed almost no similarity to her younger, bigger daughter, and none at all to her older daughter – the one in sapphire. Furthermore, she showed absolutely no trace of mixed blood. It amazed Matt that someone, a male of any race at all, could have not just fucked her once, but at least twice over the course of two or three years. Ugh! The father of the girls was not apparent.

As she was at a family wedding, the nubile young woman danced with her younger relatives, both male and female. And she danced well, to the infinite pleasure of a little boy cousin, maybe nine or ten years her junior, who strutted his stuff with her on the floor, unable and unwilling to remove the ear-to-ear grin from his face.

She spent much of the evening sitting peacefully on her boyfriend's lap and occasionally turning to give him a kiss. For the most part, she seemed quite innocent; however, when she danced with her beau, she radiated an aura of barely controlled sensuality. All of her movements were lithe and graceful, yet suggestive. She thrust her hips, not crudely and openly but subtly, in a secret effort to arouse her partner. His eyes glued to her, his grin frozen, his mouth slightly agape, he danced like an automaton, transfixed by her quiet seduction.

Matt felt himself falling under her spell as well. He danced a lot with Jenn; he danced with the bride, a bridesmaid and the mother of the groom, but his eyes were repeatedly drawn to the sapphire siren whenever she mounted to the floor.

She would step away from her boyfriend, then slip in to throw an arm around his neck, leaving it draped there for a few beats as she gazed meaningfully into his dazed but appreciative eyes. Then she'd step back, removing the contact, and gyrate for him with an inviting smoothness that could only be interpreted one way. She danced for him alone, seemingly oblivious to the host of other eyes that followed her every movement, her implicit body language.

On the terrace, she sipped thoughtfully, seductively on a glass of white wine, her well manicured, clear lacquered nails holding the glass' stem, not the bowl. Her hands were not large but the slenderness of her fingers, the crystal stem between their tips, made them appear long. Her hands were unadorned except for a thin silver band on her right ring finger.

Her bare shoulders, angular yet perfectly smooth, gave way to long shapely arms. While her boyfriend carelessly guzzled beer from a can, she stood quietly erect, ankles primly together, the bright light of an early dusk filtering through the tight silk to silhouette her most private niche, which was barely covered by her short slip style dress. She carried herself with admirable poise for one of only nineteen or twenty years. Her complexion was flawless, the olive undertones of her skin barely noticed through her even tan.

Although she wore the make-up of her generation, it was not immediately discernible, being artfully and expertly applied. A dark crimson lipstick drew attention to her mouth and seemed to almost exaggerate her subtly pouting lips; a subtle pink blush enhanced her naturally high cheekbones and suggested a barely veiled arrogance; her almond shaped eyes, so dark that the pupils were almost indistinguishable from the irises, were skillfully outlined with black eye liner, the long lashes emphasized with mascara, shaded tastefully with peacock blue on the lids and grey below her sharply defined brows, fading to silver at the outside.

Ambling fairly close by her at one point, Matt detected the fruity sweet scent of Chloe hanging delicately about her – a fragrance that Jenn had occasionally worn; it wafted insidiously through his senses, triggering faint stirrings in his depths. Her voice, soft as she murmured to her companion, was rich and sensuous, and surprisingly husky. She seemed to speak in a slow seductive manner that was only emphasized by the effortlessly deep timbre. Matt could not make out the words she spoke but his imagination provided him with enough of a sullenly racy script to make him take a quick second glance at her to check if she had actually said that. She continued on with her unheard conversation, unaware of its enthralling effect, and completely oblivious to Matt's furtive presence.

She conveyed a completely innocent ignorance of her considerable allure, although her boyfriend's eyes almost dripped with desire. She had told him, Matt was sure, in the silent words of body language, there on the dance floor in front of all her relatives, I'm going to fuck you blind tonight. The guy could barely wait.

Looking, if not exactly uncomfortable then quite out of his element in the milieu of the reception, the boyfriend had clothed himself as appropriately as possible. The mainly brown plaid jacket had probably been new at his high-school graduation and was now only slightly too small; the beigish plaid of his shirt was at least similar to the jacket and didn't clash overly much. He wore a narrow black all-occasion tie that was knotted too tightly and not quite centered at his bull-like neck; it had probably only ever been tied once, slipped on and off over his head. He had the look of a football player; his hair shorn close; his head perched precariously atop broad shoulders. Marginally pressed tan slacks descended to wrinkled cuffs that sat rumpling over well-worn black Docs. He walked with the loose rolling gait of an ex-athlete, and stayed next to his girl like a faithful old dog, his tongue almost visibly lolling out of his mouth.

Matt lamented silently, Oh, to be twenty again. He'd do it right this time, if he ever got another chance. He had started late and had only limited experience before he'd met Jenn – the right woman at the wrong time. “But,” he reprimanded himself, “you can't live in the past. Shoulda, coulda, woulda only depresses a soul.”

In light of his haunting thoughts on passion, Matt, almost jokingly, considered that the sapphire siren could become – very easily become an object of serious infatuation. Not a major solution to his underlying despair but a diversion at least, a step out of his funk, however temporary. With a private grin, he decided to tease himself a bit.

In the gathering dimness of the room, he began to really watch – watch her with a scarcely concealed intensity that in and of itself was exciting. He orchestrated his movements to pass near her, listening for her voice, if not exactly to what she said. He surreptitiously manipulated his dance partners – mainly Jenn – onto her side of the floor. He was at once embarrassed and titillated by his machinations. He contrived to bump into her once or twice while moving among the other guests. The electric tingling at the point of contact so far exceeded the significance of the touch that Matt had to warn himself he was constructing a tower of straw. He'd best be prepared for it to come down, and soon.