Wife and Ex-Wife Ch. 02

Nina decided that pasta was the simplest and quickest thing to prepare. She got out a box of spaghetti, took down a jar of meat sauce ("This okay? You're not a vegetarian, are you?"), and put Patrick to the task of cutting up some artisan bread and making a substantial salad. There were all kinds of salad fixings in the refrigerator—Romaine lettuce, tomatoes, olives, carrots, and so on. He got right to work, manipulating a cutting knife with impressive skill while Nina heated up a big pot of water and also started warming up the sauce.

The meal was simple but satisfying, and afterward Nina managed to dig out some cookies for a modest dessert. Neither of them were big on sweets, so this was just the ticket.

Throughout the meal, neither of them said much. Nina was still stunned at how fast their relationship had become physical; in fact, she couldn't remember a time—even in her semi-wild college days—when she'd slept with a man on a first date, especially a date that had started in the afternoon. The whole incident in the park now caused her to blush inwardly (and maybe outwardly also). How could she have allowed him to touch her in that spot so soon after getting acquainted? Was she really as sex-starved as that?

But another thing held her tongue over their impromptu dinner. Their sudden intimacy made the whole idea of small talk seem preposterous. Nina quickly got the sense that Patrick hated that sort of thing—indeed, it was becoming clear that he only wanted to speak of consequential matters, and even then used the minimum number of words to get his point across. Maybe that came from being an artist rather than some other type of creative person, such as a writer. More likely, it was his natural hostility to idle chatter that led him to becoming an artist in the first place. A picture can convey so much in a single image; and now Nina saw that, in his intense glances at her, he was similarly seeking to convey meaning without speech.

The result was that she became absurdly tongue-tied, as she was much more used to communicating by speech. The last thing she wanted to be was to come across as an airhead or a chatterbox, and so she said little or nothing. Patrick didn't seem to mind the silence; in fact, he appeared to welcome it. His soft, tender smiles in her direction did more to reassure her of his feelings toward her than any amount of language could.

But as the meal was winding down, Nina became increasingly agitated. What does he want to do now? Just go home? That would be a horribly anticlimactic way to end this incredible day! Maybe I can get him to stay a little longer.

As they were taking the used dishes into the kitchen, she said with faux offhandedness, "Like to watch a movie?"

"Yes, that would be nice," he said.

Nina inwardly heaved an immense sigh of relief. Well, I have him for another two hours or so.

By mutual consent, she chose an old film noir from the 1940s that Nina had on a DVD. Watching the riveting black-and-white film with its sinister musical accompaniment, Nina rested ever more comfortably in Patrick's arms. Toward the end of the film, she was sitting in his lap, her arms draped around his neck while his were placed casually but firmly around her waist. Every now and then he nestled his head against her chest—and on one occasion he calmly placed a hand on her breast and gave it a little squeeze.

Nina didn't know how to react to that. Okay, you've already had me twice—but I hope you're not one of those guys who think that, the moment you've become intimate with a woman, all her body parts belong to you, to do with whatever you wish. But the gesture didn't lead anywhere, and after a few seconds Patrick released his hold and placed his hand back around her waist.

The movie was over, and Nina was again consumed with nervousness—so much so that she began noticeably shivering. She pressed Patrick's head against her breasts, kissed the top of his head, and said shyly, "Would you like to stay the night?"

"Yes," he said simply.

Nina envisioned only a little cuddling and then a long and restful sleep—the first time she had had a man in her bed since her traitorous husband had deserted her. That thought itself made her wonder exactly how restful her sleep was really going to be, but she figured she could deal with that.

As they ambled into Nina's proper bedroom upstairs, Patrick wasted no time doffing his robe and parading around the large room naked. Nina almost rolled her eyes at him. But then she noted to her alarm that his member, already half erect, was quivering with anticipation, even though he wasn't even looking at her.

You're not going to tell me you want more action? What sort of insatiable person have I gotten myself involved with?

She didn't know what she was letting herself in for.

Looking at him askance, she said, "I suppose you want me to take this off."

He looked casually in her direction and said, "Yes, of course."

She removed the nightgown, pulling it over her head. She had to admit that being naked with Patrick was exciting and fun—and she couldn't help admiring the shape of his muscular back and the curve of his firm bottom as he walked around the room as if he owned it. When he turned to face her, he was almost fully erect.

"Would you like to suck me?" he asked in a strangely calm voice.

"On my knees, I suppose?" she asked.

"You don't have to do it that way."

"It's okay," she said accommodatingly. "I don't mind."

She fell to her knees in front of him and gave his cock a thorough survey, holding it with two fingers and scrutinizing it in every direction, before putting the first few inches into her mouth. The paradoxical mixture of hardness (in the shaft) and softness (of the skin) delighted her, and she didn't fail to stroke his balls gently with her hand as she licked and sucked. When Patrick seized her head with both of his hands and tried to get her to take more of his organ in, she protested with a squeal: she was particularly subject to gagging in such situations, and she made it clear to him that she wanted to proceed at her own pace. He relented and let her do as she wished.

But after a few minutes of this, he seemed to grow impatient. Pulling his member out of her mouth, he lifted her up and almost tossed her on the bed, where she fell awkwardly, legs splayed. That seemed to be his intention, and he took her thighs in his strong hands, burying his face in her muff. The suddenness of the act caught her by surprise, and she let out a cry as his mouth—both tongue and lips—fastened on her clitoris. She was already a little wet, but her juices flowed far more copiously under his stimulation. She wondered whether this was just another aspect of foreplay, but it soon became obvious that he was intent on bringing her to a culmination without further ado.

And he did. She couldn't remember the last time she had come so fast; and when she did, she clutched the sheets with both hands and emitted an embarrassing grunt that mortified her. He continued his licking, already becoming familiar with how to extend her orgasm for minutes on end. After gazing at his bobbing head, she fell back and just enjoyed the experience of having a bone-shivering climax that seemed to go on forever.

At last he let up, and he slid up her body and looked down at her with that infuriatingly calm expression of his. She was breathing raggedly, her vision blurred, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. Patrick gave her a curious look and said impertinently:

"Why do you stick your tongue out when you come?"

She got a little peeved at that. "I don't know . . . I just do! Does it bother you?"

"No. I rather like it."

"Well, good for you."

It was just about the first time he had engaged in what might be considered frivolous banter, and for all her irritation at the question she found herself warming to him. He's not quite as inhuman as he sometimes seems to be!

But these and other thoughts were quickly extinguished when he entered her.

At first he propped himself up by the elbows as he did so, but after a while he lowered himself onto her body, embracing her so hard that she had trouble breathing. It didn't help that he also fastened his lips on hers for what seemed like minutes without a break. She was still not entirely comfortable with having a man's member in her, and Patrick didn't help matters by pumping her with increasing force as his own urges got the better of him. Then all of a sudden his thrusts all but ceased—and then they stopped altogether.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she gasped.

He said nothing, but buried his face into her neck as he lay with his full weight on her, his cock firmly embedded in her but unmoving. She was utterly perplexed at this sudden surcease of activity—but then, as those soft grunts (nothing more than sighs, really) emerged from his throat, she could feel his emission pouring into her as his cock pulsed within her.

Once again, he remained within her for several minutes, then finally rolled off of her.

Breathing hard, she said, "That was amazing! I've never had anyone do that to me before."

Almost smirking, he said, "Glad you liked it. I like it too."

"How can you come so many times? That's three for you, isn't it?"

"I don't know . . . I just can." He seemed to be deliberately mocking her when he added: "Does it bother you?"

She repressed her anger and said, "Well, I'm a little out of practice!"

"That's a shame," he said—and that was meant quite literally, not as a taunt.

He took her in his arms and stroked her gently all over—the back of her head, her back, her thighs, her bottom—especially her bottom. While doing so, he planted little kisses on her face, neck, and shoulders. Once he raised up her arms and gave a kiss to her underarm, causing her to squeal in surprise.

The inevitable happened, even though to Nina it was something almost supernatural: he became hard again.

"Oh, Patrick," she began, "you don't really want—"

He brusquely interrupted her. "May I go into your bottom?"

She was stunned. "What?"

"May I go into your bottom?" he repeated, slowly and precisely, as if speaking to a dull-witted ten-year-old. "You said I should ask you. So I'm asking you."

"Patrick," she said wearily, "I don't know if I can manage another round."

"I can," he said without the least immodesty.

When she felt unable to reply, he said (and the word seemed torn out of him), "Please?"

She looked him in the face. For once his calmness had given way to a look of fervency, even agitation. You're not used to begging, are you?

"Okay," she said in resignation.

All at once he was full of action. But what he did was to get out of bed and head toward the bathroom.

"Where are you going?" she said in alarm.

"Lube," was all he said.

She assumed he was going to get the dispenser of hand lotion that he had used before; but instead, he came back with a little blue jar.

"Cold cream?" she said incredulously. "That's what you're going to use?"

"Yes," he said blandly. "It works best."

The implications of that remark were not lost on Nina. Oh, so you've tried many different lubes with many different ladies, have you? And by painstaking trial and error, you've discovered that cold cream is what best facilitates your invasion of a woman's bottom.

"You want me to get on all fours?" she said, figuring that resistance was futile.

"No—you can stay flat on your stomach."

He immediately applied a hefty dollop of the white stuff to her posterior, and she couldn't resist feeling that this preliminary action was in some ways more obscene than what was to follow. Snatching up some Kleenexes from the nightstand to wipe his fingers, he arranged himself on top of her prone form and at first did nothing but rub his cock in the crack of her buttocks. Then, with the effortlessness of frequent experience, he plunged into her.

She was still somewhat opened up from his previous entry, and so she felt little pain when he inserted a full half of his length into her in a matter of seconds. The act still caused her to gasp, but only from what was still the novelty of this form of penetration. Soon he was fully in her, and again the sense of being filled overwhelmed her in a way it never did when a man entered her the orthodox way. He reached his hands around her body to seize her breasts, and he had no hesitation in placing his entire weight on her as he ground his hips into her bottom.

Nina had never felt more helpless and vulnerable. It was almost as if she were a sex toy that was handily provided with an orifice for rear entry. There seemed little she could do either to hinder or to advance the process, and she lay utterly passive while he pummeled her bottom and rubbed his face in her hair, her cheek, and her shoulder. After a while his separate thrusts melded into one continuous violation of her bodily integrity—but one that she was entirely prepared to endure, for reasons she herself didn't fully understand.

And when he slipped a hand from her breast down to her sex, she knew what was in his mind. Once again he was planning a simultaneous climax—whether because the idea of it tickled some perverted desire or his part or, more charitably, because he sought to offset the discomfort she was experiencing by eliciting in her the same pleasure that she—although through scarcely any action of her own except by allowing him unfettered access to her body—was granting him.

And so it happened. His discharge triggered those little sighs that she had already come to expect; and as his mouth was close to her ear, she could both hear them and feel his hot breath as he came. The wetness that was flooding her posterior was matched by the wetness of her own emission as his fingers teased out yet another climax from her, again prolonging it as he remained embedded to the hilt long after his orgasm was over.

Once more she had to plead, "Patrick, please . . . you have to come out now."

And once more, the very act of pulling out of her orifice caused some pain—the first she had experienced in this round.

She was practically unconscious after it was over, and she hardly noticed his leaving the bed to go to the bathroom and wash up. When he returned he said, "Was that okay?"

It took her several seconds to respond, "Yes, that was okay." It was in fact a lot more than that, but she wasn't sure she wanted to encourage him. The whole act still caused her to feel a bit squeamish.

"Didn't hurt?" he said.

"No, not much."

"You came?"

"Yes."

"Good."

There was a bit of silence. Then Nina said: "Why do you like that so much?"

Now it was Patrick who took his time replying. "It's—very intense."

"I'll say!" she said fervently.

"Nina," he said, although he wasn't looking at her as he spoke, "I—I want intimacy. I want intensity. I want intensity of intimacy. It's when I feel most alive—it's when every person should feel most alive. This—this act does that for me. I hope it does it for you."

Extravagant and not entirely comprehensible as his words were, Nina sensed that Patrick meant every one of them.

"I don't know what to think," she said. "It's— Remember, I hadn't done this before until you . . ." Until you forced yourself into my bottom in my bathroom.

"I know that. But I just hope you come to feel as I do."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. Then, as she turned her head to look at him, she saw him staring fixedly at the ceiling. For a moment she wondered whether he was even aware of her presence: he seemed lost in thought, and she suddenly felt incredibly remote from his consciousness. It was exactly then that he said, in a barely audible voice:

"I love you."

She couldn't believe her ears. And so she spoke words that she very quickly came to regret.

"You love me? Oh, Patrick, don't give me that! You don't even know me—you have no right to say those words to me. You shouldn't tease people that way." Then, to add to her imprudence: "You just want my body."

For several moments his face registered no response, as he continued to gaze up at the ceiling. Then his features underwent a bizarre change: his face crumpled up in the very picture of misery and outrage. He carefully removed the blanket that was covering him and got up from the bed.

"Maybe I should go," he said.

The idea filled Nina with such horror that she gaped incredulously at him. She realized that, whatever he had really meant with his words, her own were appallingly hurtful and insensitive. She flung her arms out in the desperate hope of latching onto any part of his body that she could, but she missed. Seeing her, Patrick sadly took her arms in his hands and gently but firmly directed her back to a reclining position in the bed.

"Nina, it's best if I go."

"Oh, God, no!" she said in a strangled voice. And with that, she all but leaped from the bed and clumsily fell into a heap before him, blocking him from leaving the room. She made no attempt to take hold of him; instead, she covered her face in her hands and rocked back and forth on the floor. She was crying now, but every so often she managed to say, "Please don't go."

In one corner of her mind she was baffled as to why she was begging this man to stay—this man who had felt her up within an hour of their acquaintance, then (at her invitation, certainly) twice penetrated her vagina and then twice (the first time emphatically not at her invitation) invaded her sphincter in a way that made her feel violated and abused as she had never been before. But even then she had a dim sense that Patrick wasn't just seeking quick and cheap physical pleasure wherever he could get it. Why she would ever accuse him of that, she now couldn't fathom.

As Patrick looked down at Nina, now sobbing uncontrollably, his heart was squeezed as it had not been for a long time. She lay there naked, and practically in a fetal position, looking like some enormous baby that had inexplicably been abandoned by its mother. He bent down, took her in his arms, and picked her up, laying her gently on the bed. Then, forestalling any further pleas on her part, he at once slipped in next to her. She at once nestled herself in his arms.

"Just hold me for a while, please," she said into his chest.

"All right," he said.

"You'll stay?"

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean what I said—any of it."

"It's okay."

She burrowed her face into his chest as if by doing so she could somehow find a way of entering into his body and his heart. Already, the touch, smell, and taste of him was intoxicating to her. As he stroked her gently, kneading her back and shoulders so that the tenseness she felt there was gradually relieved, she started to relax—but she still clung to him, having thrown her arms around his neck as if she were a little girl seeking solace from her beloved father.

When Patrick began massaging her bottom, she knew what was to come. Resigning herself to the inevitable, she followed his guidance in rolling over onto her back.

He entered her with delicacy and grace: it seemed to be his way of acknowledging that he himself had been hasty and intemperate in his reaction to her harsh words. Her pussy was aching from his previous penetrations, but it was also aching to be filled once again. This coupling was even more meaningful than the others, for it was evident to both that it was an embodiment of his sincere affection for her, while her receiving him into herself was a plea for forgiveness and a symbol of her awareness that his feelings were genuine.

At times, as before, he stopped his thrusts, and both relished the mere act of physical union—a union enhanced by his kisses all over her face and his stroking of her breasts, back, and bottom with his searching hands. When he started pumping again, he sought to plunge as deeply into her as possible, but only as a means of sealing the emotional bond between them. He remained in her for a full twenty minutes; and when he came, he did so by merely gazing down at her, his expression almost unwavering as he sent his seed into her. She, in turn, was mesmerized by his gaze and was almost unaware that she herself had achieved a quiet but intense climax only seconds after he had.