The Quality of Her Tears

Things were simple; I was... happy.

With Carl I had not been happy – not one minute of the time we were married. Being treated like a respected human being had become alien to me. It confused me and made me feel uncomfortable; out of place. It was a thing to be regarded with suspicion, repulsion even. The man was sweet, but I only saw that as utter weakness. Men being sweet wasn't how the world was meant to be, was it?

Carl expected me to be his equal, to think for myself, to be responsible. I may have once agreed, but now I knew it was just an excuse for him to hide behind. He said he admired my independence; I could only despise him for the lack of resolution it really was. Couldn't he see that I was just going through the motions? I had known independence and seen how shallow it was. He always put his own needs behind mine, taking me where I wanted to go, buying me whatever I wanted. He catered to my every wish, and all I felt was contempt for his weakness.

Knowing how my true lover toyed with him made it impossible for me to respect him. His devotion seemed grotesque; sometimes I had to suppress my laughter. He kept repeating that he loved me, but how could this be love? After a while I had to control my disgust in order not to blow my cover.

No, I wasn't happy with Carl.

Our first sex was in his Parisian suite, quite a luxurious affair in a five star hotel – his job seemed to have its perks indeed. We'd been seeing art, that evening, drinking bubbles at another opening – well, what else? But of course we had been all lovey-dovey, unable not to touch each other or steal kisses. I remember wearing a rather short leather skirt and a tight top under a fur wrap he had bought me that same afternoon in one of the over prized couture shops.

The sex was disappointing, but I have to be honest; it would have been disappointing with any man after what I'd been getting those last months. We stripped each other with the breathless hunger of first love – his real, I guess, mine convincing enough. His body wasn't bad, thank God; his cock was even adequate, but almost as soon as I closed my mouth around it, it started spewing. "Oh God," he cried out. Oh fuck indeed, I thought.

He ate me well, though, after he stopped apologizing for his boyish climax – I even came twice. But when I had him up again, he refused to see what I needed. I craved to be pounded like the true slut I was, not caring for his clumsy love – I needed fucking. I couldn't tell him, of course and I guess it wasn't in his upbringing – poor boy. I should have known it when he insisted on using a condom. I churned and humped to force him into a more manly rhythm, but I guess he didn't get the message.

Lying on the bed – Carl regaining his breath, me faking that I regained my breath – I saw the expensive fur wrap dangling from a chair, right over one of my eight hundred dollar Prada shoes. I sighed. 'Ah well, Jean-Luc,' I thought, 'this marriage will have to have other compensations – a lot of them.'

Carl took me to see his parents in the States. His father was the typical, successfully retired businessman, who would have looked well on a senator's ticket – tall, gray haired, steely blue eyed – all the good Republican trappings to hide a rotten mind.

He seemed to like me all right. I knew he would have fucked me at the first chance of not being caught. Considering his wife, I could see why. She was the kind of woman I might have turned into, had I not met Jean-Luc – aging well, maybe a nip and a tuck here and there, involved in the local artsy-fartsy scene, neurotic, frustrated; Annie Hall, anno 2009.

She smiled and was sweet, but I knew she didn't like me at all. Maybe she looked through me? Or maybe she just was jealous of the gushing affection her precious son bestowed on me. How to ever fathom a mother's love for her sons? Which gets me to the brother, John. His jaw was hitting his chest as soon as he saw me.

He was much younger and the athletic counterpart of his nerdy brother – tall, dark hair, chiseled face, nicely built chest and shoulders, strong legs and a very tight rear; maybe Daddy's genes? I remember wondering if he'd also inherited Daddy's obvious libido. I recalled intending to find out – poor horny me.

My parents were just happy when I brought my true-blue American boy home. They never told me, but they must have worried a lot when their sweet innocent daughter hooked up with a dark Frenchy, spending un-chaperoned time at the sinful Côte d'Azur. God, was I grateful they didn't know.

Mom embraced Carl at once. She virtually hung onto his every word when he told her about his job, the international art world and the many places he travelled to. Sweet Mom had always had a penchant for things exotic and cultural. I knew for sure she had sacrificed big chunks of her soul to raise her children and support Dad's career in dull Suburbia. Looking at her I felt confirmed that I had taken the right decision putting my fate in Jean-Luc's hands.

Dad has always been hard to read. He seems to get along with most people. I guess he liked Carl, although him being an investment banker would not give him much affection for Carl's profession – the money-aspect might, though. Yes, I may have inherited his cravings for material things.

I have a sister – didn't I tell you? Alice is three years older than me and was already married and a mom when I left for France. We were very different and never close as sisters. She goes after Mom, dark-haired and plain-faced – lovely big tits, though, and very generous hips.

I guess she has always found me to be an arrogant, shallow girl, chasing silly dreams. My looking down on guys must have been incomprehensible for her. Fred, her husband, and she had been sweethearts since high school. I hardly remember her not being tightly engaged. I used to call them Fralice. Sitting with Carl at their table I dreamt of seducing Fred, just for the sake of upsetting their sickly-sweet little world. Yes, I am a bad girl turned worse. I know.

I didn't stay in the States that time. Using the excuse of my research, I returned to Paris by myself to be royally and repeatedly disciplined and fucked the very moment I was back. God, how I loved the glorious reign of my body over a dormant mind – the intense coke-rushes and the incessant orgasms that washed away my every objection.

Jean-Luc and Papa used each 'free' moment to 'brief me' as they called it, and I slowly started to understand why they wanted me with Carl. I didn't care; I guess everything Jean-Luc told me was Gospel. The only thing I feared was being apart from him. I sure hoped this damn marriage-thing would be as short lived as possible.

He'd set me up in a tiny apartment on the Left Bank. I went to live there whenever Carl came over and I had to be his sweet fiancée for a few days. I already missed my mindless, floating life at the mansion by then, so the prospect of being his wife in America yawned at me like a big black hole. Or rather, it felt like a huge, non-descript cloud of gray mist – cold and totally boring.

Carl.

"I am sorry it didn't work, Carl." Her voice was soft and distant. I found her hollow eyes; they looked sad, forlorn. Should I believe that she'd tried to help me with the divorce? That she gave me a chance of a new and truer life? I could hardly believe that. Even if she did, did she do it for me? I married her because I loved her and thought she loved me. Did she ever? How could I still believe that? She was hardly even human, was she?

She was a marionette. I imagined the invisible threads that led to the hands of her puppet-master. Maynard, I thought, and his mysterious Papa. Then it struck me again. Why was I here? Why did they let me talk to her?

I turned to her. "Mia... ," I started saying when I was interrupted by a large door opening behind me. Mia looked over my shoulder. Her face opened with a smile; it drove away all tired paleness.

"Jean-Luc," she whispered, raising a bony, trembling hand. She dropped the robe, sank to her knees and crawled towards him, her silverware jingling. He lifted his expensive Italian shoe, pushing her off her hands and feet. She rolled over, lying belly-up like a dog.

"You slut," Maynard said, smiling. "I bet you loved telling him your fairytales. Now clean my shoe where I soiled it by touching you." Mia rushed to her knees again and started licking the shoe's leather.

Maynard looked up to find me.

"Je suis désolé, monsieur Lundgren," he said, not looking sorry at all. He chuckled. Then he took his shoe away from Mia's tongue and walked over to me. I saw a 6' 6" 300 pound brute standing in the door's opening behind him. His upper arms were as wide as my waist. It made me feel perfectly inadequate, as obviously was the point. But I still couldn't leave things alone.

"Why do you treat her like that?" I said, hating the indignant sound of my voice. "She is still my wife; I should have you arrested." He grinned.

"By all means, Monsieur," he said. "But didn't she tell you she loves it? She even came running back for more, although she knew she'd be terribly punished for her insane little marriage ploy. Gaston here" – he threw a glance over his shoulder – "must have had a sore arm and a ragged cock for days. See her precious silverware? I don't believe in anesthetics, you know, not even locally. I loved how she agreed with me – howling all the time." He chuckled, looking back at Mia, who started blushing.

"But ah, well," he went on, turning back to me, "in the end, who knows, maybe I love her too, in a way, the sick little puppy." He laughed as he once more looked over his shoulder. It pissed me off, even when I didn't know why.

"She still is my wife," I said, trying to find a way to my confidence through the waxing and waning of my anger. "You kidnapped and abused her. I won't let you get away with that." Maynard looked surprised and then offended.

"Ah, monsieur Lundgren... may I say Carl?" He waved his hands, shrugging. "You should not always believe what a silly slave girl says. I can make her say anything, you know." He turned towards Mia, who was still on hands and knees.

"Dis monsieur que tu l'aime fou, chérie," he said. "Tell him how crazily you are in love with him; put your heart in it like the good little whore you are." There was no hesitance. Mia gathered her legs under her, knelt up and looked at me with soulful eyes.

"Carl, sweet Carl..." She said it with the soft voice I had heard her use so often in our bedroom – the voice that even now stirred my cock. "Carl, I love you. I love you madly, honey. I'm sorry for what I did. I'll always love you." She rose and came closer, putting her arms around my neck. Her perfume was overwhelming. Then her weak lips rolled over mine and her tongue entered my mouth. Memories attacked me. Her body pressed into mine; I felt the edges of her nipples' jewelry, the softness of her belly. Then she was gone. I heard Maynard laughing out loud. Mia mirrored his glee with a shy smile.

"Now tell him how you truly feel about him," he said, walking away a few steps.

Her face, still glittering from her tears, darkened, as did the deep, sunken eyes.

"I hate your guts, you silly little man," she hissed, stepping closer, her claws out.. "I despised every second of our charade of a marriage – the pathetic fuck you are with your tiny pee-nisss, just good enough to get another faggot off in his virgin ass."

Her eyes spat fire; her mouth sneered. "Ah," she went on, "and the spineless way you treated me. I laughed and fucked behind your back as often as I could. You were such a weak, insignificant man, you..." Maynard stepped forward, interrupting her.

"Now, now, Mia," he said with a smile. "That's very harsh, girl." He looked up from her to catch my eyes, grinning. Then he turned back to her.

"Beg him to forgive you, chérie. Enfin il est ton mari, n'est-ce pas? He still is your husband." Without a pause the anger fled her face, at once replaced by deep and complete desolation. She moaned as tears sprang to her eyes again. Sinking to her knees she crawled to me and embraced my legs with her scrawny arms. She soaked my pants' legs, her voice muffled by the fabric.

"Forgive me, honey," I heard her beg through her sobs. "I am so sorry. You are so dear to me, so sweet. How could I have hurt you so much?" I shook myself free from her trembling grip, devastated by how completely sincere she sounded.

"Ça suffit, my sweet lovebirds," Maynard said, clapping his hands. "Shoo-shoo!" He turned to Mia, moving his hands to wave her out. She let go of my legs, smiling widely. "Go dress and collect your Oscar, pretty actress," Maynard said, patting her head. "Then join us. Meanwhile I have to talk to your husband." He laughed and laid his hand on my shoulder to lead me out of the room.

I shook it off, but looking around I knew I had no choice, really. I watched the naked ghost pick up her silk robe and walk off on her whore-hooves, swaying her ass and smiling over her shoulder. Her fingers wriggled a good-bye.

I was completely shattered by the flippant humiliations coming from the mouth of the woman I'd loved. My lips still tingled from her passionate kiss, my pants were still damp from her tears.

I followed him out.

Mia.

The marriage went as American marriages go – white dress, lots of fussing, lots of flowers, best man and maid of honor, tiered cake, something new, something blue, the throwing of the bouquet and the driving away with clanging cans. Smiling brilliantly all day left me with cramped jaws.

Yes, John was best man and no, I didn't allow him to fuck me – not then. But the father of the groom did feel me up while we danced. The impression of his hard cock against my thigh almost swayed me.

Our honeymoon was in Paris. Carl had opted for Hawaii, but I vetoed it, using romantic notions to cover my very ulterior motifs. Yes, I was fucked by Jean-Luc that week, a steamy afternoon covered by a beauty treatment at a spa. It was an opportunity for Jean-Luc to hand me information I needed, so I could be Mata Hari to my sweet, clueless husband.

The honeymoon ended and I rode bravely into the clammy mists of my new existence.

If adaptability counts for the success of the human species I must be an extremely successful specimen. I adapted exemplary after a few weeks of agonizing homesickness. Carl never noticed. He was just too proud to show off his new bride to friends and business relations, using me as a veritable – and very willing – ­clothes hanger. At times I could almost feel his credit card melt in my hand. Don't judge me; consider it indemnity.

We travelled a lot. I accompanied Carl on his visits to museums, auction houses and collectors all over the world. I remember lounging at Dubai's swimming pools, walking the glorious fashion malls of Milan, threading the narrow alleys of Napoli. As Carl had to spend long days with ancient paintings and even older conservators in vaulted buildings, I always had to find exciting alternatives to navigate me through the doldrums of those days – which I did marvelously, thank you.

I had to wait for months until I got the agreed phone call. Carl was scheduled to leave for Madrid, the next week. I showed him a fake project I had to work on, still using my cover of the successful freelance journalist. It meant I could not go with him this time. He was genuinely disappointed, which earned him an almost honest kiss and a bout of sweet vanilla sex later. I didn't even have to fake my orgasm.

The two men arrived a few hours after I kissed my husband good-bye at the airport. I let them in and they started working in Carl's home office, using his computer, his printer and his stationary. It took them four hours before I brought them lunch, and three more hours before they said they were done. I was more than ready to be done by then too, wearing a wispy black negligee, nicely heeled sandals and a dab of perfume. Okay, so I wasn't the loyal little housewife, but they weren't just professional forgers either. I can assure you there was nothing fake about their equipment – or their expertise at using it. Then again, I was a grateful objet d'art, wasn't I, having gone without real cocks for such a long time?

When Carl phoned to tell me Madrid was hot, I was too, as were my dedicated visitors – but I was not going to tell him.

Things went on like that during the next year. I got better at doing my wifey-thing and Carl got even more devoted at being the perfect hubby. We never intruded on each other's interests and free time – he out of respect, I guess; I because I needed my secret kinky sex like a swimmer needs coming up for air. Occasional trips to Paris helped me remember who my real lover was – but they were few and increasingly far between.

Sometimes, while living my monotonous wife-life, I wondered about the true value of marriage. If I could so easily fake it, millions of other spouses must surely be doing it too. It got me watching the wives of our friends and colleagues a bit closer and I was surprised how blatantly some of the wives cheated on their husbands. Were they being modern, having loose morals on the subject of sex? Did the husband maybe agree as long as wifey was discreet about it? Did they swing?

In the end I concluded the husbands must just be dense – ­ arrogant in their macho confidence. I thought so especially after one of them suddenly divorced his wife with a lot of fuss and drama. She had been fucking around on him for years – every woman in a radius of thirty miles knew it. But this time she'd been a trifle too daring at the traditional Christmas office party. Being found out with your panties down, while getting yourself fucked three ways at a public party isn't really discreet, I suppose. Especially when hubby surprises you in the company of his boss and two colleagues, one being the wife of one of your fuckers. It made me chuckle. It also inspired me to be careful.

I decided to steer away from acquaintances, friends and family. Sorry, John, you are probably delicious, but too dangerous for now – as is your daddy.

Meanwhile, our marriage went into its second year. The cunning forgers kept visiting us – or me, rather, but it had been ages since I'd seen or even heard from Jean-Luc. Then the forgers failed to show up and I got really worried – damn horny too. I had nightmares of being abandoned, stranded on a foreign coast, ­chained to a wimp and forgotten. So I dreamt up an excuse to go visit Paris. Carl sighed, telling me how he'd love to go with me, but you know, work. He had to be in Saudi-Arabia. I remembered staying there with him in boring compounds. 'Oh, sweet honey,' I acted. 'Such a pity,' and took my cab to the airport.

Jean-Luc's apartment was empty – oozing the atmosphere of having been so for quite a while. So was the mansion when I took a cab there – not even a voice to answer my request to open the gate. It made me feel utterly alone.

I sat at my small flat for days. I never before felt so much like the slave they had made me – unable to decide on anything I should do; not even aware enough to relieve my raging horniness with masturbation.

After three days of churning despair, I prepared to return to the States. It was only an hour before I left that my phone rang. I'd been so totally alone that my throat refused service. Jean-Luc's voice had me crying.

"I hear you are in Paris," he said, sounding distant. I just sobbed.

"You certainly are a vain little thing," he went on. "I bet you went there because you thought you were entitled to attention – especially my attention?" I knew he was angry with me in a very cold and sarcastic way. I had no idea how to answer. I just knew I had made a colossal mistake by coming to Paris without being summoned.