Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 04-06

Matthew Anderson was forty-one years old. The former manager of a successful printing firm, he usually portrayed the confident self-awareness of middle-aged success. His trim orderly hair was a nondescript mousy brown. It had been a rather dirty blonde in his younger years but had gradually lost the right to even that appellation – now it was just neutral. His intense blue eyes were often on the verge of squinting, as if trying hard to see just a little more detail – trying to see just a little more of everything. He had never been a real athlete, but, at 6'0", 173 lbs., he had always managed to stay in fairly good condition. Now, he had the body of a reasonably serious recreational runner – a bit too solid for competitive running – perhaps a bit too old as well – but winning the battle against middle-age spread. Nonetheless, his abdomen showed just a little roundness of affluence that could not quite be denied. His legs were muscular; his stride powerful; he moved with a loose ease. But sometimes, when he could no longer support his facade of self-confidence completely, he allowed a self-consciousness to subtly compress his upper body as if trying to deny his height – not that he was extraordinarily tall. Still, his lower body always displayed a suggestion of contentment that could not be subdued. His well-tanned limbs, contrasting against the outline of his running shorts and tank top, attested to his love of fresh air. His face still showed the scars of an acne-ravaged adolescence, although his adult complexion was healthy and flush.

As much as running kept him physically healthy, he didn't do it for that reason. His running was his only defense against an ominous depression that had, for much of his adult life and increasingly so over the past two years, threatened to overwhelm him. It was the only sure way of keeping his worries and fears, as irrational as many of them were, at bay. He ran for his peace of mind, shedding anxieties and sweating out accumulated aggravations daily. Matt came to realize, that he not only missed the stress release, but actually suffered through withdrawal when he was denied his running time. He knew he was an addictive personality from the time he was in university and had abysmally failed an Alcoholics Anonymous test printed in his psyche text. He was just glad that his current addiction increased his fitness rather than eroded his liver. There was a time, he knew, when it could have gone either way.

"At your cousin Patsy's wedding?"

Dara's body relaxed a bit as he stumbled over his explanation. He felt himself blushing as he thought about his machinations and fantasies that night. She nodded as she began to recall. "That's right. You and your wife danced rather – ah – suggestively, eh?" A conspiratorial smile crept onto her face.

"I guess." Matt felt himself blushing further beneath the flush of exertion, if that were possible; still he parried. "I seem to remember some rather sensual moves by yourself that night, too," Matt muttered.

"Yeah," Dara laughed, "I really had whatsizname drooling, didn't I?" Then, in almost an aside to herself she remarked, "Huh. That's funny, I can't remember his name."

Matt laughed, and thought to himself, "Not seeing him any more, eh? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound," before adding aloud, "He wasn't the only one drooling."

Dara dropped her face demurely, eyeing him over the tops of her sunglasses. But she didn't show even a trace of self-consciousness when she asked, "Were you?"

"Me? I – uh..." He cursed himself for saying something so stupid, but his stammer was apparently answer enough. Matt was saved as Dara smoothly changed the subject.

"Do you race often?"

Matt suddenly relaxed; the tension and awkwardness fell from him as they chatted about training and running and various runs they had been in. He was able to look at her admiringly – appraisingly without being too obvious – too gauche. Still sapphire, she filled her tank and tights wonderfully, her long black hair pulled into a French braid dangling stiffly down her back. Her dark, exotic eyes almost crackled above well-defined cheek bones as she spoke softly and earnestly about things – her training, her performance. Matt thought that he could almost detect a sub-text in her dialogue, a hidden meaning, a between-the-lines subtlety that, although barely perceptible, lent a degree of excitement to the conversation. There was a sort of barely discernible sensual intensity in everything she said.

A single, silver chain – Matt recalled noticing it at the wedding – still encircled her left ankle, complementing, in some vaguely conspiratorial way, the silver studs in her ears and the chain that hung passively on her bosom. Her well-shaped breasts were sheathed with shiny Spandex, supported and bound beneath by a jog-bra; nonetheless, her nipples, in their high-beam state, remained conspicuous through the two layers of Lycra. Her chest heaved now and then, no longer from her exertion but from the quiet intensity of their conversation.

Matt felt a tingling, illicit warmth when he finally bade her good-bye. He gave up trying to wipe the smile from his face and from his psyche. At home, he told Jenn about meeting her but recounted their chat with a nonchalance that he did not feel.

Over the next few months, Matt entered more runs than was his habit. He allowed Jenn to believe that it was just that he was feeling better about himself and getting in better shape. Indeed, both of those ideas were very true, but more than that, secretly, he anxiously anticipated meeting Dara – deliberately seeking her out and engaging her in conversation at every chance.

Although she wasn't at every run he attended, she was at enough. Furthermore, she seemed pleased to see him when he would find her and call out to her. They met before the start at a couple of events and ran much of the way together. Although at twenty-two years old, she was a better runner than him, her philosophy on running closely matched his. She had started reluctantly, seeing running as a necessary evil in the road to fitness, but eventually seeing it as a necessary aspect of mental and emotional health.

At each successive meeting, they talked longer and longer; and their conversations turned up many things that they had in common besides running and the wedding. They both loved cycling but found little time to fit it in. They shared tastes in music, both being basically tolerant, therefore, enjoying a wide variety of artists and styles. They had similar tastes in fine foods and exotic cars – ‘lottery dreams’, Dara called them. When one of their later conversations turned to reading materials, Matt was surprised by the ease with which Dara brought up "some of my favourites" – ...Beauty, ...Eden, Justine, and assorted anonymous Victorian novels. Furthermore, she was not, apparently, even slightly surprised when Matt, almost sheepishly, admitted to having read and enjoyed virtually every title she mentioned. With that secret bared, they went on to discuss titles they still wanted to find, like Nights of the Rajah and The Adventures of Captain Devane. It turned out that, like Matt but even more so, Dara was very knowledgeable of and interested in erotica. They stood around on more than one occasion exchanging opinions on this piece and that, both in print and on film.

Soon Matt realized he was divulging incredibly personal things, many of which had always been kept quite secret to that point. Standing around in various post-race assembly areas, he spoke quietly and candidly to Dara about his own life: his wife; their sex; their tragedy; his work; even his current emptiness – his nebulous longing. She too, admitted to trying to fill an emotional emptiness, although Matt detected, in her voice, the suggestion that a solution may be close at hand. Some independent back corner of his mind wondered if he might be part of that solution, but he made his consciousness ignore the idea, and went on baring his soul. Dara listened in rapt attention, nodding and making the occasional remark. She seemed sincerely interested, and it was her implicit sympathy or empathy that encouraged Matt to continue opening his heart.

“I think I’m becoming infatuated,” Matt admitted to himself. Dara was a more pleasant, more refreshing, more genuine person that he had ever imagined; and the subtle husky edge of her voice was terrifyingly arousing. He tacitly allowed his growing ardor to follow its course. Finally, after a race in the fall, during which they had run together up until the last kilometre or so and Dara had cheered him across the finish line, their conversation, which had started up once again as naturally as if it had never stopped, was somewhat repressed by the cool drizzle which had coincided with the start of the race. Feeling an almost adolescent apprehension – "What if she refuses? What if she accepts?" – Matt took a deep breath. "This is it," he thought with an odd fatalism. Something in him apparently knew – had apparently divined the import of the situation. He knew but didn't know that he was at a watershed. He straightened his figurative shoulders and bravely stepped into the path of some invisible oncoming fate.

"Would you like to – uh – join me…. Would you like to go somewhere for a cappuccino or whatever?"

Dara responded with a radiance that made him feel faint. All through their months of intimate conversation, she had remained seriously – if not exactly aloof, then detached. She had shown genuine interest and participation in the exchanges; genuine sympathy and empathy in the revelations, but she had never, until that moment really opened up herself. She clutched his lower arm, squeezing it with both hands as she said in a quiet but seductive voice, "I'd love to," stretching the word "love" almost obscenely. "But, we're so wet," she added, almost cooing, "why don't we have it at my apartment; then we can dry off and clean up – or whatever?"

"Uh, sure," Mat stuttered, "If you're sure you don't mind." There was something about the way she had added "- or whatever," that ricocheted around his head. He felt his face flush and his head reel.

"I don't mind," she smiled, then, assuming control, she stood back and said, "I walked this morning, so we can go together in your car. I'll show you. It's not far."

Matt's mind continued to churn as he walked with Dara back to his car. The ZX hunched, dripping in the rain. Other than Dara giving him directions, they didn't say much in the car; perhaps there was nothing relevant left to say for the moment. All Matt could think of were inane comments on the dreadful weather, which he fought back, preferring to endure the silence rather than stammer foolishly. His heart was pounding, his breath shallow, as his companion guided him into a guest slot in the parking lot of her block. They had gone only a short distance.

The Lougheed/Cameron area of Burnaby was a bit of an anomaly. Adjacent to one of the city's older malls, it was a compact grove of high-rise apartment blocks and sprawling townhouse complexes. The half dozen or so towers stand out like druid monoliths. Dara's building was one of the southernmost of the bunch, just south of Lougheed Highway, off Winston.

They carried their dripping bodies through the back residents' entrance and into the waiting elevator before Dara said, her eyes a-twinkle, "I'll sure be glad to get out of these wet duds." Then she looked at the indicator above the door. "Here we are."

Matt had hardly noticed the rapid ascension of the car, but just before it came to a halt, he became acutely aware of the incredibly humid and heavy atmosphere of the enclosure. He wondered if his suddenly laboured breath was entirely to do with the air, or if it had something to do with the vision of Jenn, his wife, yawning and just rising from her bed, as she would likely be doing at this time on a Sunday morning. A pang of guilt rippled along his spine. "What am I doing?" he wondered. The doors slid silently open, before he could answer himself.

"Here we are." The door to Dara's apartment was almost directly across from the elevator. She let them in quickly, closing the door behind him. "Convenient." she stated. "No need to parade visitors up and down the hall, past nosy peepholes." She put her keys on the hallway secretary and led Matt, still virtually speechless, into the living room. "Shall I put on coffee?" she asked, heading for the kitchen.

"Uh, yes. Please." The novelty of an unfamiliar situation notwithstanding, Matt felt flustered that he was still stammering like a teenager. As Dara moved into the galley area Matt walked to the window – a slider, actually – onto a postage-stamp sized balcony. It was a south-facing suite on the twelfth floor, just about midway up, so that the windows and balcony overlooked the freeway, the Brunette River trail, and across to New Westminster. Even through the veil of rain, the view – the lush central valley, across Burnaby Lake and over to the hazy towered ridge of Metrotown – was impressive. Furthermore, there was, Matt noted, no opportunity for anyone, short of a well-equipped PI, to look across into her apartment. It was, there in the middle of the city, quite private – quite isolated.

The living room was furnished in a pleasingly understated fashion. On a deep, plush, ivory carpet, two simple, modern sofas, in white leather, formed a corner with a teak end table, and enclosed a matching contemporary coffee table. On the opposite wall was a modest stereo system housed in a compact wall unit and flanked by two speakers. A television and VCR stood between the stereo cabinet and the right speaker. An answering machine lay on the left speaker and a cordless phone stood on the coffee table, next to a crystal vase of white silk roses. A few small pieces of abstract sculpture were placed here and there, and on the walls hung a couple of rather sensual impressionist paintings, their soft colours and flowing shapes adding to the mysterious ambience of the room

Matt had begun to shiver, standing dumbly by the window; he realized he was dripping on the carpet. "Why don't you go ahead and jump in while the coffee's brewing. Looks like you need a hot shower to warm you up,” Dara purred, taking him gently by the elbow. He nodded mutely, his teeth chattering furiously, and allowed her to steer him into the bathroom. "There are clean towels, right here," she said, gesturing to the thick fluffy bath sheets hanging next to the tub. Beside the tub was a freestanding, frosted glass shower enclosure. As he nodded his thanks to her, his teeth rattling in his head like the lifters in an old V8, the idea of a hot shower seemed to him, surprisingly, to be more appealing than anything – anything else he could have possibly imagined. As Dara closed the door softly behind him, he adjusted the taps, shed his wet duds and virtually fell into the steaming spray.

The early stages of hypothermia are easily reversed, but the reversal is not instantaneous, hence, for the first few minutes, Matt stood in the stream of nearly scalding water, luxuriating in his dolce far niente – fulfillment in sweet nothingness. He welcomed the hot water cascading over him, cleansing his dulled awareness, rinsing his growing confusion. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, his mind snapped to attention and raced with images and possibilities. Suddenly he could picture Jenn clearly, rolling out of bed, gathering her robe about her and holding it closed while she slouched into the kitchen, her slippers scuffing across the floor. He could see her fixing herself a small pot of coffee – staring blankly while she waited for it to brew, then sitting silently at the table to drink it. Her robe would gape open, revealing her smooth thighs, and hinting at treasures just out of sight; her hair would be a tumbled mess; her face, bare of make up, would glow with a pixie-like innocence; her eyes still heavy with sleep. But she would be alone – forlorn, yet irresistibly alluring. And she was waiting for him. Patiently, yes, but waiting. If he were to get home right then, what would he do? What would they do? On the table, on the floor, hot and slick!

"What am I doing here?" He felt guilty and frightened and excited. "I'm in the shower of a strange – and beautiful woman. I'm married for Christ's sake!"

Quietly, at that instant, the shower cabinet eased open, and Dara entered silently, stark naked, except for the silver chains at her neck and ankle; her breasts standing up as if they were proud to show that they needed no support; her tanned skin flawless and glistening with salty traces of sweat. Waves of dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, to point knowingly the way to the dark foliage visible between her legs. Closing the glass door without a word, she stepped into his body, her hard nipples threatening to pierce his chest. As she threw her arms around his neck, she said softly, without pretense, "You look surprised." Then, rising delicately onto her toes, she joined their lips in what seemed to Matt to be, at once, an incredibly passionate and innocently chaste kiss.

Matt was astonished, astounded, bewildered, his thoughts racing, "This can't be real. This only happens in movies." He stood speechless and petrified. Without another sound she sank gently to her knees, dragging her fingers over his chest to his nipples where they began to calmly play. She stopped to look at his semi-engorged member for only a moment before completely engulfing him, sucking him into her mouth with a smoothness and warmth that set his nerves a-jangle. "Only in the movies," he repeated to himself, "- movies and books."

Rocking her buttocks over her heels, her head bobbed ceaselessly, consuming and returning his rapidly hardening cock. His hands fell naturally to the sides of her head and, although she required no guidance at all, he went through the motions – followed the motions of her moving head on his root. "Fantastic," he exclaimed silently, "literally fantastic." It was the stuff dreams were made of. Indeed, it could have been an out-take from one of his recent fantasies. "It's just," he explained to himself, rationalizing his complete surprise, "that I never really thought it would actually happen – not really." Yet it was not only happening, it was better than he had imagined – 'way better. Almost before he was ready, definitely too soon, he felt his fluids boil up their channel to spill in wave after wave into her throat. She stayed with him, swallowing each jet, lapping and sucking at him in the moments between. She was very good at it. Keeping him in her warm mouth until he stopped twitching, she pulled back at last, and raised her eyes as she let his softening cock gently drop.

They stared silently at one another for a long moment, Dara, crouching in the spray, her hands dropped lightly to his thighs, and Matt looking down into her imponderably mysterious eyes. There was something deep and exotic in them, something Matt found just a little frightening. Slowly, pulling herself up with his hands, Dara stood up and kissed, once again, his shocked and puzzled lips. His response was wooden and automatic. As he stared at her, without comprehension she turned and shut off the water. Taking his hand, she led him out of the shower, whispering only, "Come." Taking one of the thick towels from the rack, she began to rub him down – dry him off. Her vigorous rubbing re-ignited his libido, and he took the other towel to her, using it as an excuse to mold and caress her body. Pinching her nipples through the thick terry-towel elicited a warm smile from her as she dropped her towel to his crotch and began to dry his penis with long, firm strokes. He replied in kind, experiencing a tremor of excitement as he clasped the towel up into her bush. His freshly drained cock was starting to wobble and twitch its way back to attention already. He continued his drying caress of Dara's pubis with renewed vigour.