Monica

Finally We Realize That There Is No Path, No Way, No Solution; Because From The Beginning Our Nature Is The Path, Right Here And Right Now. Because There Is No Path Our Practice Is To Follow This No-Path Endlessly—And For No Reward. (Charlotte J. Beck)

Monica Kaye was a beautiful woman. Six foot one with long, wavy, naturally blonde hair and skin the color of Nivea Cream-she stood out in a crowd. Her large, almond-hazel eyes were alive with life and her general energy levels were expansive, even explosive. Most of the time an endearing smile lit up her whole face and she laughed frequently—a deep laugh coming directly from her heart. Her figure turned men's heads everywhere she went. An overly large bosom tapered into a tiny waist and the sleek hips below it led to athletic calves and narrow ankles. No doubt about it, she was stunning to look at-like a playboy model.

She lived in Burnaby, BC, on a suburban cul-de-sac near the oldest part of the city. Her home had a Tudor exterior and its yard was full of leafy oak trees, colorful rhododendrons and sea-green, lush ferns that all grew up on the outer perimeter of a well-clipped, emerald lawn. It was bordered by a fence with freshly painted brown pickets, each one of which was over six feet tall. The property had a mystical charm: well-kept but full of colorful gardens, stately oaks and plenty of runaway plants beyond that manicured lawn.

At twenty-eight, Monica was married to a successful electrician employed by Suncor. Currently, he worked in the Alberta oil sands ten days straight before flying home twice a month for a five-day weekend. His name was George Herbert Kaye and he loved his wife. He made good money and didn't drink or do dope while away working.

The couple wanted to start a family and had been trying to conceive a baby for over a year. Monica felt that having a baby would draw her closer to her husband and focus her abilities to be a loyal, loving wife. Her career as a self-employed web developer allowed her to work from home and created an ideal context for motherhood. She could keep working and also succeed as a mother and a wife.

Monica was a devout Buddhist and had spent time in two monasteries—one in Sri Lanka and one in New Mexico. Her quest was always to uncover the truth about life, its purpose, her purpose. At the end of her wild hippie days, she got frustrated. "It's been fun," she thought, "but my life's going nowhere. I'm getting older with nothing to show for what I've done so far." It was then that she decided to get married and settle for conventional living. George was a handsome, hard-working guy she met in a bar soon after that. But her passion for life had not been quelled and her being was always open to urgings from the heart. Adventure was in her blood.

Her husband was not so adventurous. He'd gone straight out of high school into a vocational college and starting working right after graduation. His career goal was simple:-make enough money to buy the things he wanted, which were—a well-built house, a Buick convertible and a Harley Davidson. He was not a Buddhist and actually had absolutely no interest in anything religious or spiritual.

On Tuesday, August 5^th, 1998, Monica's doorbell rang out sharply at exactly 10:12 am.

"Well hello, Sally," she said, opening the front door. "What brings you around so early?"

"Just made some fresh cranberry muffins and thought I'd bring a couple over. They're still hot. Is coffee on?"

"Why yes it is, I've got lots left over from breakfast. Come on in—you're such a good neighbor," she said as she bit her lip, while thinking, "Why does she come over so much?"

Sally was a short, stocky woman with a greasy pony tail, who lived next door in a slightly seedy duplex with a completely flat roof. Her house was well-constructed and a prime piece of real estate, but it needed a paint job and new gutters and there was too much moss on the roof. Sally didn't cut her grass or prune the ivy growing around her trees and thick blackberry bushes were spreading out over what used to be a well-maintained lawn. It got so bad that some of her neighbors complained to the city about the state of Sally's yard. Monica felt she was always too intrusive and got irritated at the way she constantly grilled her with silly questions. "Her questions are always so superficial—I like her friendliness but something about her gets on my nerves," she thought.

"When does George get home?"

"He'll be here tomorrow so I'm taking the day off work so we can get caught up on our marriage."

"I guess that means you'll be spending the day in bed," laughed Sally.

Monica smiled mischievously and replied, "I sure hope so."

"I'm jealous," said Sally. She'd been recently divorced and lived as a single woman now with two teenaged children. "I haven't had sex in over a year."

Sally was a traditional wife and had puritanical morals, as is typical for an evangelical Christian. Her values were predictable for a white, middle-class Canadian who watched televangelists much too often. She didn't smoke, swear, or go to dances and she attended church three times a week. She never thought outside the box and tended to be a bit nosey—often showing up at Monica's place at the wrong times. She was critical of anyone who ventured outside traditional norms. However, as of late, she'd started drinking too much rum; she was gaining weight and getting very critical of others. "She's not a very happy person," thought her neighbor.

Monica was a good citizen as well, but had been wild, even rebellious, in her youth. She'd left home at sixteen and travelled around Europe and Asia for years before enrolling in a public college in California to study philosophy. Now that she'd settled down, her life had become routine, even predictable. More than anything she wanted to be happy in marriage, but for her it was going to be difficult. There were darker parts of her nature that she suppressed well but sometimes these parts created powerful compulsions that were extremely difficult for her to control.

What very few people knew about her was that she had a voracious appetite for sex. Despite the fact that she apparently adored her husband, who was a virile man and an adequate lover, she never felt fully satisfied by him in a physical way. They made love at least every other day when he was home—but it just wasn't enough for her. George was physically fit and knew what he was doing in bed, but often he moved too quickly and seemed more intent on gratifying himself than satisfying his passionate wife. Real orgasms were rare for her although she usually acted as though he was really turning her on.

But she never flirted with other men, or pursued any kind of unusual behavior-by herself or with others, and her frustrations were kept a secret. She always appeared to be a happy, well-adjusted person to the whole world. And in most ways, she was. No one but her could feel the sense of emptiness and meaninglessness that rose up inside her at times. Or the hot passion that threatened to erupt periodically. She was a sex addict and hated that part of her nature. Every time she even glanced at a handsome man she imagined making love to him, imagined being naked in his arms, open, surrendering to the rawness of his maleness. Her day dreams were usually forbidden fantasies with inappropriate men. One of her favorites was fantasizing about making love to young men, such as her weight-lifting and very muscular nephew Garnett, who was only nineteen years old. She visualized him giving her multiple climaxes and sometimes blushed in his actual presence.

"I don't want to be like this," she thought every time that part of her personality came up. "I just want to love my husband and be totally faithful to him in mind, body and spirit." But if you knew about her fantasies, you'd wonder how much she really loved him.

George arrived from Alberta on schedule and his dutiful wife was at the Vancouver International Airport in plenty of time to meet him.

"Hello, darling," he yelled out as soon as he passed through the Arrivals door.

"Hi, honey," so good to see you. I've missed you so much this month." She meant those words but spoke in a monotone. Despite her best intentions she sounded inauthentic.

"Me, too," he muttered as he smiled affectionately—he'd really missed her and it showed. George was definitely crazy about his wife. She attracted him sexually and he loved her conversation, her sense of humor and her outrageous femininity. He loved her scent, which was always like a fresh orchid.

"You look absolutely exhausted, dear."

"I am. I've had to work all night for the past two days due to a plant emergency. The whole Suncor power grid failed and it took us forty-eight hours to fix it-and I think I'm coming down with a cold."

"Oh, no," she winced.

As soon as they pulled into their driveway at 2107 Maple Grove, George stopped the car and quickly jumped out.

"Darling, can you bring my duffel bag in? I'm going to crash for a few minutes?"

"Of course, dear," she replied.

Little did she know then that George was not destined to stay home very long on that weekend. He slept deeply all that evening and into Saturday morning. George worked hard when he was away and tended to get very lazy when he was home. Sometimes he just didn't read his wife's needs all that well.

"George, you've got to wake up and take this call," Monica called out the next morning. "There's another emergency at your work."

Groggy as he was, George took the call.

Shortly after, he called out to his wife,

"Darling, I hate to tell you this but I've got to fly back to Alberta this afternoon. The problem hasn't been fixed at work and right now there's no power anywhere on the Suncor site. I'd love to stay home but I have no choice."

"But sweetheart, we didn't get to make love yet—and I really want you. It's been so long. I'm actually feeling extremely horny right now."

"Don't worry dear. I'll be back in twelve days and we'll spend the whole weekend in the sack getting caught up. But for now, I'm sorry. My boss is not an understanding kind of guy so I've got to get going."

On the drive to the airport, Monica was silent and so was George—deep in thought as he was. As she pulled up to the Departure gate he said,

"Bye honey, see you very soon. Don't forget the roofers are coming over to do an install tomorrow."

She smiled meekly in frustration as he leaned over to kiss her quickly on the cheek, not even stopping to look into her eyes. Had he done so, he might have seen the tears of frustration. Monica was tired of being alone so much and was finding her husband distant and distracted when he was with her. She felt very alone and uncared-for.

As he ran off toward the swinging double glass doors, she felt waves of depression coming over her-undulating relentlessly like a heat wave in a forest fire. She tried to create some inner space by observing her inner experiences, but it was hard. Her self-pity was massive, dragging her down. Buddhist practice had taught her to stay internally detached, so that's what she tried to do. But it wasn't working.

That night, Monica thrashed around in bed—unable to get to sleep. Something was tormenting her. As she lay awake, all she could think about was sex—big cocks, hairy chests and hard muscles beside her in bed. Her vagina was soaking wet, itchy, heaving. She started to massage her mound but stopped. "I won't indulge myself—masturbating is decadent," she thought.

Finally, she fell into a fitful sleep and woke up early, feeling very tired. She got out of bed and donned a transparent white blouse and a pair of thin, blue, silk panties. Moving quickly, she totally forgot to put on her extra-support bra which meant her thick, brown nipples could be seen clearly inside that shirt. After breakfast and coffee she sat alone at her kitchen table staring out an open window, watching the humming-birds fly around a red, sweet-water feeder hanging from the one maple tree in her back yard and smelling the sweet summer air. It was a glorious day—if only she could enjoy it!

Just then the doorbell rang so she threw on a pair of track pants that happened to be hanging on a chair beside her, and ran to answer the door—forgetting how exposed her breasts were under that transparent white top. Anyone looking straight at her would be able to see them clearly. She was virtually naked from the waist up.

"Hi, my name is Karl, and I'm here to replace your roof."

Monica could see past him to a large silver van in her driveway. That van had a tall black man leaning up against it smoking a Cuban cigarillo. He was wearing shorts but no shirt and had a full head of curly, jet-black hair. It was so hot that day the asphalt on the driveway felt like it was on fire.

"And that's my helper, Jimmy, standing by the truck."

Startled, Monica responded hesitatingly,

"Well, alright then, are you going to start working on the roof now?"

"We've been up there for two hours, ma'am, and I just wanted to ask you if I could use your washroom."

"Most certainly, Karl, it's down the hall, second door on the right."

Karl was a strikingly handsome man—tall, muscular and well-tanned. He was wearing a sleeveless muscle shirt and tight athletic shorts and black thongs. As he walked down the hall Monica blushed. Against her will, a powerful desire was rising inside of her. She felt powerfully attracted to this stranger.

"Thanks, ma'am," Karl said when he came back into the kitchen. "I'll be going back to work then."

"You can call me Monica," she whispered.

"Okay, I will-Monica," he smiled back.

Karl then stood motionless staring at her enormous breasts. Her nipples were now erect, each one over an inch long, and both were quivering. She stared back and noticed his pants were bulging and she could clearly see that his penis was extremely large. Its swollen head protruded from the top of his shorts and up the inside of his tight shirt. "It must be a foot long," she thought.

"Come back anytime you need to use the toilet," she spluttered.

"I will Monica, and...thanks," he muttered.

As he reached the door he turned around to wave and saw that Monica's face was beet red. She was also sweating and breathing very heavily-and he knew it.

Monica was shocked at herself. She was a married, devoutly spiritual woman, living in a respectable suburban neighborhood trying to deal with powerful cravings to have sex with a complete stranger.

"That's crazy," she thought. "It just can't happen."

She immediately got busy doing laundry, vacuuming and cleaning her two bathrooms.

At 3:15 pm the doorbell rang again.

"Hello Karl, come in—I guess you have to use the bathroom again."

"Yes, thanks, I do."

Monica was leaning up against the granite-countered kitchen island when she felt his hot breath on her neck. She froze in her tracks when she felt Karl's penis rub up against her buttocks. For some reason, she let him continue moving against her even though she knew it was very, very wrong. When his hands moved onto her right bosom, she sighed,

"What are you doing, Karl?"

"Relax, Monica, I'm just admiring your lovely body. Your breasts are so big, soft and sexy. You're beautiful."

She did start to relax a bit. His hands were so large and strong they aroused her whole body. When he slid his hands under her top, she moaned out loud.

"That feels good, Karl."

"Can I keep massaging them then?"

"Yes, but just for minute."

Presently she turned around to face him and he moved his face close to hers. Soon they were kissing passionately—his tongue penetrating right to the back of her throat—while hers reciprocated.

"Let's go into the living room, darling," he said.

When they got there, he sat her down on a large, plush red sofa that was right in front of a large print of Van Gogh's painting, Sunflowers. Then he kneeled between her legs and pulled her track suit pants down below her knees. Her panties were soaking wet and he was able to quickly move them aside exposing a large triangle of thick, brown, pubic hair, the curls glistening. Soon his tongue was deep inside her, manipulating and biting her swollen clitoris.

"Oh my goodness, Karl, don't stop—I'm going to come."

She then let out a loud scream of pleasure that shook the whole sofa as an orgasm ripped through her entire body which was by this time covered in droplets of perspiration.

Karl stood up slowly and exposed his manhood. He moved it very close to Monica's mouth as she gasped,

"It's like an elephant's cock-I've never seen anything like it before."

"Stay still Monica, I'm going to put it right down your throat," he said in an aggressive tone which, for some unknown reason, turned her on.

Monica willingly surrendered and let him pull her head forward. She then placed her lips firmly around his long, hard tool. His entire tip, dripping with white fluid, was now buried inside her mouth, stretching it wide open. Hot precum was now continually sliding down her throat. She slowly moved her lips down his shaft eagerly trying to reach his testicles-but she just couldn't make it there. His penis was now fully erect and throbbing.

Monica slowly sucked on him for twenty minutes before he exploded into her mouth. Without hesitation she swallowed every drop of his thick white juice before slowly pulling her mouth off of him, leaving his prick bone dry.

"That was a huge load, Karl—but it tasted wonderful. Thank you so much."

"You liked it then?"

"I loved it."

"Am I as big as your husband?"

"Karl, I've always thought my husband was large but you're much bigger, it also takes you way longer to come and you shoot out three times more liquid."

"I'm glad you liked it."

Monica got up slowly, pulled her pants up and walked back into the kitchen. By this time, she had a very sheepish look on her face.

"Karl, I don't know what came over me. Nothing like this has ever happened to me since I got married. You better go now."

"All right, Monica, I will. Thanks for being so warm and welcoming."

Later that night she fell into a deep depression, overwhelmed by feelings of guilt.

"What's wrong with me," she thought, "I can't believe I let that happen—this is not who I am. I love my husband and only him." However, as she thought that a scowl betrayed her marital doubts.

When Sally called her she didn't answer the land-line. She just sat next to the phone table sobbing as she listened to Sally's message:-

"Hi, Monica, I just wanted to see if you'd like to come over for a night cap. The kids have gone to bed and I'm a bit lonely. If I don't hear from you tonight, I'll come by in the morning once the children get off to school."

"I can't bear to see her right now," she thought. "I'll go right to temple first thing tomorrow and talk to the Roshi."

Her meditation at the temple the next day was very difficult. She found no serenity, no space between her thoughts about the wild actions of the previous day. However, the smell of orange incense and the steady, slow, methodical gong beats did help her create some outer composure. To get to the monastery she had to walk slowly over a cobblestone path surrounded by lush bamboo shoots, bright green pine saplings and smooth granite rocks that were swept immaculately clean. The beauty of the place was stunning and helped shift Monica's energy into a calm, poised state. Natural beauty had always attracted her and made her feel blessed. Every aspect of the temple was designed to highlight the sacredness of life and to her everything about the temple was sacred.