Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 07-09

VII.

For a while Matt had been a bit of a perpetual student. He had gone UBC directly after high school and spent the mandatory five years getting his B. Com. Then, without a break, without even making the generally recommended change of venue, he plunged right into the MBA program at the same university. He met Jenn while doing that, despite a social life that was rather hit and miss. It took place only during the occasional breaks from studying and was rather amorphous in form. Attending a large noisy party at the off-campus parents' home of a friend of a friend, Matt had thought he would stick it out for the night to see if he could get lucky – which he realized was not very likely – or, at least get drunk – which, conversely, was highly probable. However, he had been introduced to Jenn before he’d had too much to drink and, having his attention suddenly occupied, had neither gotten laid nor drunk. Mind you, he did get her phone number. Their first couple dates had been almost old-fashioned in their chastity – a movie, a pizza, a beer – however, as gradual as it was to start, their relationship blossomed. They rapidly became fast friends – friends first. Maybe they had both felt, Matt sometimes thought in retrospect, the well hidden, deep current of sensuality which they shared, but they hadn't kissed until the third date, and then only as friends. Still, they necked on the fifth date, and groped on the sixth or seventh, before getting down and dirty in the back seat of her parent's car on about the eighth date. As much as it was a slowburn, they had definitely caught fire.

Matt had realized then that he thought about her all the time; even when he should have been listening to lectures or transcribing notes. His marks suffered a slight setback during those initial hot and heavy stages of their relationship. Nevertheless, he managed to stabilize; his feelings for Jenn, and he suspected hers for him, grew – but grew firm and steady.

He finally graduated and landed a job managing Rightaway, a modest but growing industrial printing business. The company took off under his guidance – "Shit house luck," he usually contended. In a relatively short time, what with bonuses and profit sharing, Matt was pulling in an impressive income. H and Jenn were married as soon as she graduated, and soon enough he had parlayed his managerial position into president. The printing business continued to be quite lucrative and the company continued its success under his leadership. Buying out his partners, Matt eventually became the major shareholder in the firm. Meanwhile he had been able to make some very good, income-generating investments to support Jenn and himself, so that he could retire somewhat more than just comfortably whenever he or they decided.

He had always been into photography and had taken a few good pictures of Jenn when they were dating, and early in their marriage – before kids. He had felt, at the time, they were the best he had ever done, and maybe they were. Still, he reached a pinnacle when he did several series of Jennau naturel, a few years ago. They had been done over the period of six months while their youngest child was about two. Jenn had basically recovered her shape, as much as she ever would after childbirth. She radiated a sense of fulfillment and happiness that was magical. Matt had surprised her in some shots; posed her in others; and joined her in still others. Setting up the motordrive on a tripod, he had captured them in multiple images – making love. And that's what the pictures showed, not just the animal heat of raw sex but the shimmering aura of true erotic oneness. Jenn's nakedness in the pictures of her alone spoke in volumes about latent lust and enticing sensuality, while those of the two of them in action removed only the latent factor. They were the best works Matt had ever done, even if the camera had done many of them alone. Although Matt, like most people probably, hated the sound of his own voice on tape, and was usually hypercritical of his own appearance in pictures, there was something – some sort of mystique – about those pictures that moved him – moved them both. Despite the fact that they were essentially pornographic pics, they were some of the few pictures he had ever taken that he considered to be more art than photography. They had more to them than expanses of bare skin, entangled bodies, rigid and glistening parts – more to them than what could just be seen. Although he often thought he would like to try serious erotic photography again, he wasn't sure that he could ever recapture the raw, sensuality, the overpowering passion of those early pictures. He rather felt anything he did after that would be just snapshots, as, indeed for the most part, it was. The lack of art in his occasional nude or lewd picture always saddened him. Even though he never expected to be able to attain that level of art again, he was always just a little disappointed with his snapshots.

He had taken countless pictures – candid, action and portrait – of the girls with results as good as or better than most professionals. Still, he lamented, even they – his daughters' beautifully angelic faces shining out from the pictures – lacked that flash of artistic genius he had achieved only for that short time in those earlier pictures of Jenn – "in the nude and getting screwed."

Even that changed after the accident. How could it have not? Everything changed. He felt that any glimmer of art he ever might have had left – vanished – was stolen right out of his soul along with his children.

After the accident, Matt took a partial retirement. He withdrew from the president's chair and simply sat on the board to offer assistance as a part-time executive officer and consultant. If he hadn't had the love and support of Jenn he knew he would have just disintegrated.

"And now I do this to her?!" he admonished. Although, he sometimes wondered if it was to her or himself that he was "doing this”; furthermore, he wondered just what "this" meant.

The difference between dreams and fantasies is that, given the opportunity, most people would try to realize their dreams; opportunity or not, most people believe, deep down, that fantasies should remain fantasies. Unfortunately, it is not always easy to tell one from the other. At the fringes, they merge. At what point does the dream become too outlandish, too wild, too intense for realization? At what point in the increasingly realistic reworking of a fantasy does it become an attainable goal? Matt's fantasies of torrid sex, anonymous sex, kinky sex, dominant sex – what he thought of as his improbable fantasies had often strayed back across the line – back from the soft focus and shimmering coloured phantasm of the ethereal to the realm of possibility. "That could happen. Yeah." But his experience with Dara was something else. He would have, before it happened, thought of a situation like that as not just improbable but so unlikely as to only have ever occurred in the minds of authors, film-makers and fantasizers. He had to re-evaluate his position – his beliefs. Of course, he knew, even then, that there was no question of his not trying it again, given the opportunity. It was unbelievable – inconceivable that it had not only taken place, but had happened to him. Matt had no idea whether he was becoming entangled in the gossamer of dreams or the web of fantasy.

When he saw Dara, at the next run, he didn’t know exactly what to expect, but she greeted him, lining up at the start, like an old friend. "See you at the finish," she called over. Was there really such a blatant sensuality implicit in her voice as he thought he detected? No one else seemed to have noticed.

"Have a good one!" he called back to her.

Her smile was radiant, as she gave him the thumbs up and turned her attention back to the start.

In anticipation of things to come, Matt inadvertently ran his best time. He had unconsciously tried to keep up with the fleeting figure of Dara – his personal siren – to no avail. As he crossed the finish line, in a haze of exhaustion, she appeared at his elbow and led him away with quietly murmured congratulations. At the water table she whispered, "Let's not hang around too long." It was just like a post-hypnotic suggestion.

Back at her apartment, things went very much as last time except that Matt needed less instruction, was less incredulous, more in control. Their post-run affair began to roll freely. And every meeting added a new detail – a little something new: a sensuous ointment, a flavoured lubricant, incense, ticklers, elastic cock-rings to prolong his erections and delay his ejaculations. As running season was in full swing, they managed to meet three more times in that first month, by which time she had him fastening her down on all fours and sodomizing her; after first gagging her and spanking her backside until it was a jumble of red handprints. He continued to experience multiple orgasms of a strength and intensity he had only known in adolescence, if even then. Matt just could not believe this was happening to him. It didn't seem possible. Surely this kind of comic book fantasy didn't happen to forty-one year olds. But then he would find himself hustling away surreptitiously after a race, and before he knew it they would be naked and sweaty. Every time he ejaculated, whether into her mouth, her cunt or her ass, he would shake his head, and tumbling off an orgasmic peak into the high valley of afterglow, he would say to himself, "Yes, I think this really is real."

As much as he had thought he would always be open with Jenn, he did not tell her of the affair – did his best not to let on that something was – what? – amiss? afoot? For her part, Jenn, apparently, just thought he had suddenly stepped up his interest in running events. Inasmuch as he was currently running well and running a lot, she was not surprised. Furthermore, she had told him that even though he was a tad distracted at times, he seemed happy for the first time since the accident. He had smiled and told her that he was. He masked his confusion well.

Not only did Matt feel like a heel for what he was up to, he felt guilty about the pleasure he derived from his infidelity. He was doing exactly what he despised others for doing: neglecting his wife for a younger woman. Yet, he was not neglecting Jenn. They continued to have satisfying sex – satisfying love, regularly. But thinking of Dara's relative youth always made him think about his deceased daughters. How could he reap such pleasure out of being alive when they – his treasures – had been the ones who had really deserved it, and their time had been so fleeting, their enjoyment of life so brief. Unconsciously Matt began to extend his feelings of guilt to encompass not just his fornication, but the undeserved pleasures of living that he unjustly still enjoyed.

But he couldn't stop. His affair with Dara became more and more interesting – increasingly convoluted and complex. At each successive visit to her apartment, Matt would think, "This has to stop. It can't go on like this; there's nowhere else to go." Still, he wasn't going to be the one to put the brakes on. Not yet.

VIII.

Summer passed. Matt was in great shape. The excitement of his affair with Dara continued to exceed his wildest dreams, although he began to notice, as things progressed, that she had become increasingly distracted during their sessions. Deep down he interpreted it as the beginning of the end; she was getting bored with him. Perhaps that was for the best anyway. Still he would let it run its course. He wouldn't be the one to call it quits. As the fall marched forward inexorably, and the running season wound down, Dara began to tell Matt a little about the 'health club' she had joined. She told him that it was a place run by a group of like-minded people where one could indulge in the kind of sexual and sensual scenarios that she liked best – the kind she and Matt had been refining over the summer. Matt's attention was piqued. Her voice got seductively dreamy as she went on to describe carpeted rooms with four-posters; leather straps and shackles on the walls; leather divans next to night stands whose drawers held feathers and lubricants. She explained that it was very secret and very exclusive. One only found out by explicit invitation.

"Are you inviting me?" Matt was keyed up, but unsure of what exactly this was leading up to.

"I've told my – er – sponsor about you," Dara whispered, dropping her eyes as if she were somehow ashamed. "He suggested that I extend a introductory invitation to you." She stopped for a moment, and looked into Matt's face, trying to read it. He was peering at her intently through slightly squinted eyes, trying to read more from her. She could only barely detect the turmoil of dread and excitement washing his brain.

"Oh," he muttered inadequately, "When?"

"How about after the run next weekend?" There was something odd about the way she had spoken – something small and frightened. "I can sort of sponsor you, if you want." She had somehow lost her panache. She was suddenly not the one in control.

"So who is?" Matt thought to himself, his puzzlement only glimmering deep in his face, "Certainly not me."

"Stewart said it would be all right."

"Who's Stewart?" Matt's question was a little more brusque than he intended but the name of another man in this exchange had taken him by surprise.

"Oh – um – he's my – ah – he sponsored me – into The Club." She was flustered for a moment, and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. "So, would you like to have a look?"

"Oh." Matt sensed once again that it was another critically important 'moment' – some kind of crisis point or juncture – a watershed; but he still didn't understand exactly what it was about. He was just sure that it would be his only chance – the only one like this he would ever get. And of that he was absolutely certain. He simply knew that he could not pass it up; something inside him warned that if he did, he would regret it until eternity. "Okay. Sure, I guess.” What else could he have said? He had a week, then – a week to do what? Chicken out?

A line from an old David Bowie song skittered across his thoughts. "Turn and face the strange, ch-ch-changes." Those words seemed suddenly more than just a little fitting.

Later he would see why Dara always spoke about The Club with capital letters – and they always had been obvious in her voice. It was all very strange; and was it just coincidence that in the second book ofThe Story of O, the chateau at Roissy is referred to as The Club? He pondered.

Dara had asked him almost pleadingly, after they had taken quick showers at the change rooms following that next race, to recline the seat of the car and not try to figure out where she was taking him. The trip took about twenty-five minutes. Dara seemed tense and unwilling to converse, while Matt, trying to control his growing apprehension as his run-induced tranquility receded, had closed his eyes rather than stare vacantly at the ceiling liner of her Precidia. They paused once in a tree-lined lane, as Dara lowered her window momentarily, apparently at some sort of controlled entrance; they proceeded again without a word. When they finally stopped, just a short while later, Matt was quite disoriented, and was surprised to find they were in the parking lot or courtyard of a conservative institutional building.

Completely surrounded by foliage and forest, Matt had no idea where they were. The position of the sun suggested south, and, in that direction, sky was visible through the trees. To the north, the interstices of the trees remained black as if they were against a mountain or hill. The place seemed preternaturally quiet, until a deep rumbling, like that of a working engine, seeped in from the south. "The river, perhaps," Matt mused. He didn't have time to solve the puzzle, for Dara took him by the arm and wordlessly led him to a door in the building. There were no identifying features on the building. It was obviously designed to remain anonymous. At the entrance all of his attention, his fine focus, was set on the door as Dara quietly carded the lock, opened it and ushered him in. Unconsciously holding his breath, he thought he detected a changing atmospheric field, something new in the air, as he crossed the threshold.

Once inside, they stopped, Dara apparently unsure, and waited for a moment in the hushed foyer, until a man of perhaps fifty or so, wearing finely tailored lounging clothes, appeared from another door and approached them.

Dara stuttered as if she were about to begin introductions, but the man ignored her, extending his hand to Matt. "Welcome. I'm Stewart."

"Matthew Ander..." Matt began, shaking Stewart's hand with more confidence than he actually felt.

"No need for last names here," Stewart interrupted. "Dara has told me about you," he began, taking Matt by the elbow and steering him through the doorway from which he had appeared, into a large, almost classically furnished office. "I believe our ‘society’ – if you will – will be of interest to you." He directed Matt to an exquisite antique chair and settled himself in a large leather swivel behind the desk. He had not yet acknowledged Dara's presence. She had silently followed them into the office and now stood at attention slightly behind Matt's chair.

Stewart began to describe the facility. Visions of the island in ...Eden, the San Francisco house described earlier in the book, the prince's castle, the chateau at Roissy, and Villa Rif in Florville swirled through Matt's mind as Stewart spoke of lounges and parlours, bedrooms and cells, rooms for exercise and discipline. "I'll give you a brief tour of the place, then we can have a drink while we discuss what you think. Okay?"

The question took Matt by surprise. "Er – sounds fine to me."

"You can wait here," Stewart said, addressing Dara for the first time. Other than a nod, she didn't move. Matt thought that, perhaps, her recent distraction was starting to make some kind of strange sense.

He was shown only a few rooms, but even such a small glimpse filled him with an overwhelming sensation of excitement mixed with curiosity, arousal and, no small amount of fear. They peeked into a gym on the ground floor, where several people worked out at various stations. There was nothing too unusual about it except that they were all nude. Up the elevator, in a lounge, a few people – men and women, all well dressed – were sitting around quietly talking, while a young woman wearing only a leash sat at the feet of one of the gentlemen. In a smaller sitting room, a man sat sipping a drink and reading a newspaper while a naked figure hunched over his lap, actively felating him. The last stop on the tour was on the top floor. Stewart indicated a heavy closed door and pointed out the small lens in it. Putting his eye to the peephole Matt took in the fish-eye view of a stark room – a cell. On the bed, apparently alone, was a woman. She had her face on the pillow and her arms reaching for the bedposts; her knees were pulled under her and apart to expose her anus and her pudendum. She was perfectly still as leather straps fastened her securely to the bed frame. Red handprints were just visible on her well-rounded and invitingly spread buttocks.

Matt could find nothing to say as he was escorted back to the office to conclude what he now realized was his preliminary screening. He was still not sure exactly what it all meant – not sure of all of the ramifications of what he had been shown. Dara was waiting beside the chair when he returned. Following Stewart's example, he completely ignored her. Stewart told him that they were prepared to offer an introductory membership, if he was interested. Despite feeling a little dazed, Matt nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. I am interested. Definitely."