Tangled Passions Pt. 02 Ch. 29-31

"I think you're more of a masochist than me," Jenn observed with a wry chuckle, one day over coffee.

"Masochist – yeah," Matt replied with an almost forlorn resignation.

She wanted to ask if he was tired of it. Did he want to quit and go back to an earlier incarnation? She wondered what he thought, but couldn't bring herself to ask. Going back was an alternative that she herself just could not conceive. Ever onward. To the top, Tensing!

Over the past year or more, both Matt and Jenn had inflicted permanent, if not serious, damage to their derrieres. Their sphincters, having been stretched by the systematic use of increasingly large butt-plugs, and frequent corking with cocks, dildos – some of unimaginable size – as well as the occasional fist – had each lost some of their natural elasticity. If the price of this damage was only a smear in their underpants now and then, it was, perhaps, a small price to pay.

"Did I show you my new tattoo?" Jenn asked Matt as they sat comfortably at the breakfast table. She opened her robe and spread her legs immodestly. "I was just passing by that tattoo parlour on Kingsway last week – or was it the week before – and when I looked in the window, I knew just what I wanted. It wasn't even there but I knew that I had to have it." She looked down admiringly at the subtly colourful design, now fully healed. Matt leaned forward to study it, and smiled rather sadly at what he saw. "You know," Jenn went on, still holding herself exposed, "I never would have succumbed to that sort of impulsiveness a year ago." She looked up to meet Matt's smile with a sheepish grin. "In that previous incarnation, eh?"

She let the memory play across her mind, as she related it briefly to Matt. She had spoken to the tattoo artist, a heavily made up, cigarette smoking biker woman of about thirty, barely able to suppress her childlike eagerness. The artist remained cool but definitely rose to the challenge. When Jenn had got her first tattoo – Love Hurts – drawn on her inner thigh, Lisa had had suggested then that she might have another one done on her other thigh – a small crossed whip and dildo combination. Jenn had blushed with embarrassment and declined. This time she had blushed with anticipation as she removed her pants and lay back on the table. She hadn't ever thought of herself as a true fan of corporal discipline; now, when it was done, she indelibly advertised her acceptance of the whip. It was a strange twist. She'd live with it; she'd have to.

Jenn had figured that it would be a neat surprise for Lisa, but Lisa's reaction was a little disappointing. "I really expected it, sooner or later. Still, my dear, I'm proud of you for getting it done yourself, before I had to do it for you." Seeing the grim truth in that observation, Jenn had let it go without response.

Meanwhile, as their conversation became increasingly candid, Jenn and Matt learned that the philosophies of The Club and Celebration with regards to corporal punishment were really quite similar. "We don't actually dwell upon punishment," Jenn explained. "Although spankings are certainly not infrequent, the occasional strapped-to-the-stool whipping is still considered a rather special event."

"That's pretty much the same as us. Mind you, spankings, I'd guess, are probably a bit more commonplace."

"Well, we subscribe much more to the 'whipping-up-mutual-arousal' school of thought, than serious 'beating-into-submission'. Some of our members," Jenn mused, "have somewhat mixed feelings about the violence. I've actually heard people ask if we're losing control, or if it's really necessary. But I always say, what does 'necessity' really have to do with any of it?"

"Isn't that the truth?"

"You know, as severe as it sometimes looks, we are not, on the whole, into 'serious pain'. Everything we do is symbolic – symbolic pain, symbolic masochism, symbolic dominance." Jenn realized that she was explaining it to herself as much as to Matt. "Subjectively, at least, I don't think there is any pathological sadism involved."

Matt nodded. "I suppose we're pretty much the same. The punishment rituals are more stylized than mean."

"Yeah," Jenn continued, once again amazed at the ease with which they discussed this. "And no one tries to play Sir Stephen and the crew at Roissy, indoctrinating 'O'."

They agreed that, to an outsider, it probably seemed pretty nasty and vicious, but all of the masochistic members – partners – were voluntarily submissive. Of course, that was not to say that their submission was tame or mild. They both had stories of very serious and severe punishments. "But I'm satisfied, myself – inside, that I'm not a pathological masochist," Jenn added, "I'm not sick. I'm not a degenerate, craving degradation, I'm just – I don't know – addicted to the thrill of intense arousal."

"There's not need to defend yourself," Matt smiled, laying an affectionate hand on her shoulder. "I think most people, even those who profess abhorrence, would just stare and say, 'Oh, God, that's erotic!' when faced with a well choreographed scene, eh?"

"Oh, probably," Jenn laughed, "with their fingers sneaking into their pants."

Notwithstanding, both Jenn and Matt had met extreme masochists, at various times in their respective associations, but in those cases, the unhappy souls had soon left in search of more brutal gratification – someplace more like Rice's island of Eden or the Villa Rif.

"Despite the violence and brutality of it all," Jenn observed, "there always remains a certain allure when a thrashing is announced – I don't know – some little nagging attraction that just niggles in the back of my brain." She smiled inwardly. "Actually," she thought, "I think I understand it much better than I'm letting on." And she didn't really know why she was not being completely forthright in this regard. "Perhaps that's what justifies my new tattoo; not that it needs to be justified."

"I know. I feel it too," Matt said quietly, slowly shaking his head, "although, goodness knows I don't understand it." Jenn looked into his eyes lovingly. Yes, she was fairly sure that she did really understand it – and that he didn't. Although they had approached the whole subculture from different sides, they had each been caught by its irresistible gravity. For different reasons, they were both being pulled inexorably into the black hole of sadomasochism. Jenn wondered if, maybe, she should be worried.

XXXI.

Jenn had started to think that her life was becoming, once again, routine; or if not routine, in the normal sense of the word, then comfortable, almost predictable in its array of sexual novelty. Life went on – just the same, day in and day out. It had established itself. Novel situations were the norm; she was used to novelties – it had almost become 'just the same old stuff'. While her old self would have embraced the steady security of knowing what was happening, her new self felt just the tiniest bit deflated – let down, flat. There were no surprises; nothing was outrageous anymore; nothing was really ever different. She was floating from one orgy to another, one orgasm to the next, variation upon variation of sexual perversity, but it was all fundamentally the same. She felt that she was just coasting – that she was drifting – still. It was a comfortable drift but rudderless. She wasn't in any way actually unhappy – she was, in fact, usually very happy – ecstatic. There was just a little niggling of dissatisfaction – an embryonic discontent that, although unseen, was definitely germinating.

The party the night before had moved, among three condos, in and around the False Creek area. Now it was early Sunday afternoon, and Jenn welcomed the opportunity to walk back to her car – alone. Climbing the steep hill from Sixth Avenue back up towards Broadway, she relished the feel of the fresh breeze on her aching muscles, and halfway up, climbing among the modern hanging apartments and old walk-ups, she felt the first sprinkles of rain anoint her head and shoulders like holy water. Still raw and numb from the activities of the previous night, she felt the water seeping into the cracks, awakening a hyper-alertness. As the skies opened and the late summer shower began in earnest, Jenn held her face up to the rain, basking in its vitality, drinking in its goodness. A deep and profound peace surprised her as the sudden downpour swept over her in sheets, infusing her with a feeling of spiritual rebirth. At that moment, standing dripping in the deluge, her thin dress, clinging to her otherwise nude body, everything was right. As the storm slackened, Jenn felt invigorated but stunned. Something important had just happened but she wasn't sure what. She turned again to continue up the hill and only then realized that her light dress, completely soaked, had become virtually transparent and, bereft of underwear, her effective nakedness was eminently conspicuous.

She was reeling from an unexpected sensory overload, and, as she reached the next intersection, her memory went blank. Suddenly she didn't quite know where her car was. Still, the spiritual suffusion of the rain had left her tingling and intoxicated. Her current predicament, seemed much less a problem than a puzzle. The sun was shining again – through the rain. Jenn glanced about, bewildered until her eyes came to rest of the brightest rainbow she had ever seen.

"Hey, sweetie." A man stepped onto the sidewalk from an older walk-up block, and startled her with his sudden proximity. Jenn turned quickly to meet his gaze. Despite his low whistle, and a rather sad hunger in his stare, she could see – she could just tell – that he was a fatherly sort of gentleman. "You'll catch your death, standin' out here in the rain like that," he said to her with a touch of parental concern, as if to confirm her appraisal. Then he smiled, and added, with an appreciative chuckle, "Looks like you're already suffering from exposure." Jenn studied him. He was a bluff, hearty fellow, maybe not all that old – his late fifties, maybe sixty, but now becoming aged before he was ready and having difficulty remaining hearty.

"I just can't remember where I've left my car," Jenn muttered.

"Would you like to wait inside, out the rain, 'til you remember?" He nodded back toward the dim lobby of the modest building. "I could get you some tea, if you'd like."

"Thank you. That would be lovely." Jenn felt warmed by his offer, and more so by the delighted surprise that painted his face. On the way upstairs, he told her that he was a widower, now retired. Arriving at his suite, he bustled about and ran off to put on the kettle. He was obviously uncomfortable but excited. He said several times, that he never expected he would ever be entertaining such a pretty young woman. He made the tea, then produced an old dressing gown which he offered, suggesting that Jenn might wish to get out of her wet dress.

An overwhelming affection swept over her, so she kissed him full on the lips, taking him completely by surprise as she took the robe. "Will you show me where I can change?"

He pointed numbly and became almost catatonic as she impulsively took his hand and led him into his own bedroom. Quickly pulling her sodden dress off over her head, Jenn began to undress him. He stood woodenly, submitting to her, his mouth gaping. "I never..."

Once she had him undressed she pushed him gently onto the bed. Climbing beside him on her hands and knees, she said, "I just want to thank you for being so kind." She didn't even let herself wonder what she was doing or why, instead she focused all of her attention on his wrinkled old dink that was, in its shock, still showing only the slightest signs of life.

"I haven't been with a woman in four years," he mumbled, by way of explanation. "Not since my wife passed away, bless her soul." He paused before adding, "And she wasn't very..." A surprised gasp interrupted his sentence as Jenn sucked him up into her mouth, and that was replaced by a moan of surprised satisfaction.

"I'm not going to," a moment of consternation interrupting his pleasure, "catch anything from you, am I?"

Jenn pulled back briefly, continuing to work him with her hand. "I sure hope not," she answered. "I, honestly, have never done anything quite like this before." And that was actually true, for even the large groups were never entirely anonymous, she thought, fixing her mouth to his old penis once again.

His amazement wouldn't allow him to just lie back and enjoy it. "You're a bit older than... that is, more mature than..." Jenn's redoubled attention to his sex finally silenced him.

Although her own puzzled mind was kept well out of his sight as she felated the incredibly confused old fellow, she was, at that moment, asking herself why she was doing it. Was it just something she had to try, or had she become such an opportunist that she no longer needed any justification.

As he responded to her ministrations, becoming pleasingly stiff and large in her mouth, Jenn moved herself around, straddling his chest, her bobbing head frantically bouncing on his still growing erection. She could feel her sex blossoming – the pink, puffy lips opening, moist and inviting. He hesitated, unsure, she supposed, of what to do. She resisted the urge to settle herself onto his face; it was, after all, her treat. She didn't want to scare him. His hands found her hanging breasts, kneading them roughly. She felt him lift his head slightly, as if trying to decide whether he should tongue her or not. But, before he had decided, Jenn detected his impending climax shuddering deep in his balls. She forgave him for becoming, at that point, rather single-minded.

As he began to twitch, Jenn suddenly jumped up, turned around and settled her dripping sheath over him. Riding him like a bronco-buster – two minutes to the horn – he came in moments. What surprised Jenn was that she came too. She had concentrated on him; had deliberately blocked her own arousal out. Still, they came together, and as modest as hers was, it struck her as something pretty special, given the circumstances. The stunned smile on his face, suggested that he too knew it had been something very special. Jenn shuffled back around to clean him off with her mouth, while he gasped and puffed quietly, repeating, "Wow!" over and over. Kissing him gently on the lips, Jenn glanced out the window. "Look. It's stopped raining. Thanks."

She pulled on her still damp dress and smiled as he fumbled for his wallet. He mumbled something about the best ever, about paying her. Jenn just giggled. "I don't want any money – what kind of girl do you think I am?" The puzzled, dazed smile on his face was worth more than he had anyway. "Don't get up, dear," she said as she slipped into her shoes and out the door, closing it quietly on him.

"Just a minute." His voice was startled, as if he had just woken. "What is your name? Can I...?"

She heard him hurrying to the door, as she skipped, almost merrily, into the stairwell and out of sight. As much as it was casual and anonymous, as much as it was pure, raw sex, it had been far more than just a simple fuck. Jenn was sure there was some significance to the whole thing – some deeper meaning yet to be revealed. She felt jubilant. "Not like a whore at all." She was humming as she hit the street. She remembered exactly where she had left the car, and felt a satisfying tranquility settle over her as she headed down the sidewalk. Perhaps, she thought, she wouldn't tell Lisa about this; nor Matt. She, in fact, never told anyone. The moment was theirs alone, though they would probably never meet again. It could be her secret possession. There was something comforting about that – something she liked.

But, suddenly, without warning, her buoyant mood collapsed on itself. Exhilaration was supplanted by a desperate introspection, as her rational self questioned its direction and her circumstances. Not for the last time, she asked herself how any of it made the least bit of sense. She was a cultured, civilized, sophisticated woman. How could she possibly rationalize subjecting herself to such incredible indignities? Yet, her emotional, sensual soul sat back, luxuriating briefly in the memories of recent experiences and the anticipation of peaks as yet unthought of. The paradox raged in her mind; how could something so bad be so good? Sometimes she really thought she understood. Now she just felt rudderless and confused. She walked through the streets refusing to meet the eyes of any and all passers-by; refusing to respond to their inquiries or taunts. A cold blackness obscured the rest of the afternoon, until, she found herself sitting at the kitchen table of her own condo. Only the glimmering recollection of the surprised pleasure she had visited upon that old man earlier that day allowed her to gather her will. "Maybe I don't need to understand," she theorized. "Maybe I don't."

With a strength of conviction drawn from some deep well within her, she decided that she must follow her own course even if it wasn't the one sanctioned by society at large. Right and wrong, good and bad were always relative. Why should she exist by someone else's definitions when she had the opportunity to exist by her own? She willfully refused to let anyone or anything destroy the tranquility of her retreat into sensuality – the comfort of her private eroticism. And if Matt's retreat into sensuality was for reasons other than tranquility – penitence, perhaps – so be it. She, Jennifer Anderson, would continue to follow her own road – hoe her own row.