Antonio never thought much about his wife's trips to the beach, every summer. When he was younger and she was in college, he'd even taken to going with her. Maria was a joy to be around, full of life and energy, even though she was nearly fifteen years his junior--his colleagues in the Economics department thought it a bit inappropriate, but everyone was in love with the spunky young Maria.
Dark hair, deep olive tones in her smooth skin, light eyes, and full lips to go with her very put together frame. The boys ever did drop their jaws at Maria, even though her attire was always more "long skirts and blouses" rather than the "hip-huggers and tight shirts" of the day.
She fell in love with him for his broad mind and aggressive nature, and he fell in love with her for her kindness and sexiness. It was a different relationship for both of them, but with her graduation and his retirement to part-time teaching while he wrote his book, their marriage was acceptable to her very conservative parents despite his being nearly forty at the time.
But though Maria enjoyed the classrooms where she taught (high school English), and was adventurous and full of spirit--their love life and home life was wrought with all the problems of a couple that had little in common. So, Maria would take to the beaches a few hours from their home in Georgia, and for a long time Antonio would join her.
While bronze and in great shape, Antonio never liked laying about half-naked and wouldn't have bothered, but Maria grew up near beaches and he was desperate those first few years to find something they could both enjoy. His stoic and methodical nature was in contrast to the freedoms of wind and air and sea and people--but she appreciated his trying.
It was in those moments, at the beach, that he remembered that his young wife was a beautiful woman. Though bookish any other day, Maria wore very revealing bathing suits--and moreso every year. So much so that Antonio had become protective of his bride--which disturbed him. He did not like the idea of containing or limiting her. He withheld nothing from her; she was his joy even if he had none himself.
Once, she'd gone so far--and this was years ago, perhaps the second or third trip to the beaches--as to remove her top and lay under the sun. Laying forward on the towels, her legs ran for miles... young men gawked shyly and older men gawked openly (as old men do) at her long and firm legs, those lightly muscled thighs, and her delicately covered ass only accidentally hidden beneath scraps of nylon tied at the hips.
Maria was a sight, voluptuous and firm, a tight waist accented by her most dazzling feature--large, soft breasts that spilled out under her, licking the towel and exciting the boys. Antonio had enjoyed them many times, but their love-life was more dutiful than exuberant and he always did feel as though she wasn't enjoying him enough. It led to a decline in their bedroom activities, except for those nights at the beach house. Only there did it seem she loved him physically as much as she loved him emotionally--and Antonio, with his powerful mind and practical sense, knew it was her exhibitionism that excited her more than her husband.
As the years moved along, and his writing became more full-time, he'd drifted from his wife. His family had always placed a high value on marriage, hers as well, and neither of them considered divorce--or ever would. They were partners, if not young romantics, and the business of their lives (and young son) was more important than the realization of some romance novel.
Theirs was a marriage like so many others. Divided by many things, but dedicated nonetheless.
Antonio aged well, and by the time he was nearly fifty, his grey-hair was more prominent than the black, his physique took on that lean and creased look that older men get when youthful muscle gives way to the years. He was fit, and a fine Italian gentleman, tall and broad shouldered--but nobody would mistake him for a young man now, as sometimes happened with Italian gentlemen.
Maria only grew more beautiful, at least in his eyes. She lost the firm muscle-tone of her twenties for a womanly softness of an active lady in her thirties. Where she'd once had sharp accents in her legs and tummy, she had a flat and smooth look to her--more in common with a model than a volley-ball player. She lamented not being as fit as she once was, but Antonio ignored her and encouraged her to do the same... she was a vision, and her insistence that she was part her prime always disappointed him.
So, as the years went by, and she took her summers to the beach, he thought nothing of it. It was a place of happiness for her, she could share the sun and surf with friends and let men gawk at her, and she could regain her confidence--which dwindled in the winter months. It was a cycle, and Antonio respected cycles.
So, when he finished his third book early in the year--and wanted to celebrate by going with her to the beach this time... he was surprised and unprepared for her response.
Her brow furrowed over their morning coffee, and she was short and adamant in her answer.
He was unaccustomed to asking twice for anything, and desired reasons above all things. His curiosity would not surprise her. Not in the least.
"You don't like to go, and I won't have a bad vacation, Antonio--not this year. I need to get away for a bit, you know that." she was sincere and her eyes pleaded with him to understand.
But Antonio knew little of pleading, and respected it not at all... but he could deny her nothing, his wife. She was always his weakness and moments like this, moments that made him feel generous, were often successful ways of getting what she wanted.
"Hmmm.", he thought, "Yes. Yes, I see. You may go by yourself; I had only wanted to celebrate the book. But we can do as much when you return." Often, people thought Antonio to be rigid and robotic, his manner of speech always to the point and formed thoughtfully--Maria had loved that about him, because she knew it was only his way when others believed it intentional.
"Thank you, darling." she replied. Looking into her coffee, she felt guilty.
. . .. ... .....
Antonio could not say why he went along after her. Perhaps to surprise her, but that was not really his habit. Perhaps because he changed his mind, but he rarely ever did that either. Some would say he did it because he suspected, but even he and his ego would not admit to that--as he didn't suspect anything. He would move the wheels in his accomplished brain around over and over, trying to understand why he went... but the years never gave him any answers and the wheels did not produce certainty.
But, regardless, as he looked through the window of the beach house, and saw his wife in the arms of another man, he did what only Antonio Sparazza would have done in that situation.
He sat beneath the window, and thought about what he was seeing.
He was not a jealous man. Truly few men could compare to him. He was accomplished, handsome, intelligent, and interesting. So was it jealousy over this flawed creature with his wife? He'd seen the man for only a moment, and he was not impressed.
The long blonde hair was fairly scraggly, unkempt. He looked skinny and somewhat frail. It was surely not his...
Antonio crept up and glanced through the window. He stood for a few minutes, watching his wife writhe beneath this boy until she screamed and gushed and tensed--her olive skin blushing deep crimson the whole time. She had never truly acted that way with Antonio--but when the boy stood up to spend himself on his wife--Antonio sat back down.
No... The boy was not large, either. His calculating mind began eliminating the reasons for this. Though strange in his ways, Antonio was not purely egotistic, just methodical.
The boy was not physically better than him. From the looks of him and his clothes and how he'd spoken, it was unlikely he was mentally superior. He doubted Maria loved this boy, as he was sure she loved only him. And, ultimately, he could think of no reason other than himself that this could happen.
He began considering himself. Did he not love enough? Warm enough? Had he not made love to her often enough or well enough? Was he not as exciting as he once was?
Far from an exercise in self-pity, he turned his brain on himself and judged each part of him thoroughly. Ultimately, weighed against Maria and her kindness and love for their children and her support of his career and their unique appreciation for each other... he realized that there was something just missing.
Some variable that was not so easy to assume and evaluate. And the only one who would know was her.
. . .. ... .....
He waited patiently while the boy left. Had he stuck around and laid with Maria all night, Antonio would be more heartbroken. He couldn't understand why her infidelity only mildly angered him, and why her emotional replacement of him would have deeply saddened him. Antonio knew little of emotion. That was Maria's job. She was his joy and fear, even if he had none himself.
When he heard her shower turn on and the bathroom light burn the night back through its tiny window, he casually made his way into the beach house. Little more than a cabana, with a few amenities, it was small and compact. The smell of their sex was in the room, her clothes looked... torn? Mangled? Had she not seemed to enjoy herself so much, he'd have thought there to be a struggle and fight here?
Antonio made his way to the little couch in the corner and waited while the steam in the shower rolled across the ceiling. He wondered if she was washing herself everywhere, even there... was she ashamed of this? Was she cleaning herself to hide this encounter from others later?
Being Antonio meant living with questions all the time--running through his head like a runaway mob... never ceasing. It made it hard to be simple, and very easy to overcomplicate things.
When the water turned off, his heart raced a bit. This might be a fight. They hadn't truly fought... well, ever. There were tiffs and disagreements, but he won those usually. Or she placated him. Same end, really.
So, when she stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in towels. Her skin still blushed and her face so youthful with her long black hair pulled back, her legs both long and visible nearly to her sex and her breasts wrapped tightly and flowing nearly over the cloth... she was still beautiful. Moreso now? Because of the shower or circumstance? He saw her differently now, for sure, but why?
She glanced at him, looking surprised for only a fraction of a second, and then her demeanor became casual--in that frank way of speaking he was accustomed to.
"May I get dressed now, before we talk?"
For the first time in his life, he started talking without thinking... something in him was taking over while his heart pounded and feelings of anger and pain and sadness made their way through the concrete surface.
"No, no, I don't think there's much to say. This... this is over now." His expression, usually blank and unmoving was furrowed and beginning to clench.
She tried for moments to be as unflagging as he usually was, but could not. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she could do little more than look away and begin sobbing into a hand towel. He watched her in pain. And it felt satisfying. It felt vindicating.
"Before I go, I want to know why." he felt something welling up inside of him.
Between sobs and moments of hesitation, she told him.
"You treat me... like... a very bad friend. You never... love me.", she managed.
He felt anger spill forward out of him before he could stop it.
"Never... loved you? I gave you everything! What haven't I given you? What has this boy given you that you believe I have withheld?" he began yelling and she began shaking.
"He was a man to me... he... used me as a man... as a man would use a woman." she felt her heart pour out secrets as she burned under his stern gaze.
"Use you? We've made love many times! Why isn't that enough, dammit? Why isn't that enough?" he was now losing control, as repressed emotions ran away with his sensibility. He wanted only to be right now, only to prove himself right, and prove that she was wrong and horrible and a whore.
"You come to me rarely. You..." her hesitancy was ending and her tears were replaced by the spiritedness that made him love her and hate her all the more.
"...you come to me like a minister to his duties. You spend yourself in me and consider that love!" she yelled into his chest as she broke down again.
He was taken aback and knew he should hold her, should let her scream and yell into him and take that pain away and bury it with whatever he was feeling himself. But, something dark in him was stirred by all of this. By the wrongness of it all.
"You would have me use you like a whore? Like this boy? You would have me take you and rape you like some common slut, and treat you not as my wife but as some thing... some...", the words were truly not in his vocabulary and it frustrated him all the more knowing he could not articulate something important to her--proving to himself that there were things about Maria he did not know as he would not have such problems had he ever understood.
He was panting, angry at himself and betrayed and confused. She was crying softly, in shame and anger.
And Antonio, who had never laid a hand on his wife before, not in ten years of marriage... put a hand to her chest, above her breasts--flushed and rising and falling in tune with her sobs--and shoved her out of his way, knocking her to the floor and bowling a nightstand over in the process. Her towel fell loose on her as she lay on the floor and tried to recover from shock and astonishment at what had happened. Her breasts, round and heavy, spilled out of the white terrycloth and her modesty was forgotten.
Her long legs were parted and he could see her pussy glisten and her look of confusion only made her excite him. But then the lamp tottered off the broken table and that moment was lost.
The crack of the lamp breaking and sudden blackness of the beach house left him troubled and frustrated until he saw the dull glow of the beach in the moonlight. He pushed her aside as she was crawling back to stand before him and made his way outside--leaving his wife and her desires behind him.
The breeze felt and smelled intoxicating. He felt powerful. He felt himself return to normal; whatever beast was rising in him was subsiding. His methodical nature was taking over again. He would leave here. He would file papers. He would get the children. He would...
The half-broken lamp knocked him to the ground, and he felt blood trickle down his neck while he knelt in the sand--trying to reason what was going on.
"You bastard! You..." she was crying again and scared and angry. Maria's affairs these last few years had been short-lived and sudden. She hadn't really ever planned on them, but more and more she had come to like the attentions of the other men and when talking led to drinks the next year and drinks led to walks along the beach the next and walks led to kisses under moonlight and moonlight kissed led to feeling a strange man slide fingers down her bikini and between her lips and over her clit and sinking one and two and one and none into her...
...she had become addicted to feeling sexy. To feeling reckless and passionate. Antonio was a good lover. He was capable and frequent enough. But this wasn't love. Something inside of her craved more than love--it wanted to be taken. Last year was the first time she let those fingers happen.
His name was Dustin, and he couldn't have been more than twenty, but he fucked her with his long fingers and when she had cum, and dug her nails into his neck from the force of it and gasped and cried for how unexpected and deeply satisfying it was... she didn't know how to feel. She held onto him, his hands pawing her tits, confused at what this had meant.
So engrossed in her perplexity she had been, and so wrapped up in the orgasm she had forced upon her, that when he pulled his cock out--long, a bit thin, but hard and angrily purple and needful--she let him push her forwards against the tree they'd been making out under.
She wrapped her arms about the tree, and felt the bark scrape against her as he rubbed his young prick across her ass. He moaned things about how sexy she was, how full and ripe her ass was, he groaned about doing things to her--many of which she didn't know about or what they meant--and she felt like a whore. An absolute fuck-toy. She wasn't a person anymore, just a thing that this young man was about to slake his thirst on.
He grabbed her hair in one hand and leaned over her, making her arch her back and roughly whispering into her ear...
"Take this all the way, and all I wanna hear is 'thank you' when you do. Have you got that?"
She didn't know how to respond, every nerve in her body was enflamed and she could only think about how badly she needed something... anything... to get her off again. She couldn't say it, she knew that.
"I... I-I... can't...don't..." her words and pleas were met with a jerk on her hair and her nipples sliding roughly against the tree. It hurt. She yelled out into the empty beach as her sensitive breasts were pushed against the bark again.
"The fuck is wrong with you. You want this fucking cock in you so bad, I can feel how hot you're getting from here. All you sluts are the same, you just need someone to...", he jerked her hair back further and now her throat was exposed to his over hand closing tightly over it, "...encourage you. Now, I'm going to fuck this pussy, and I don't fucking care if you like it or not, and you're going to say 'thank you' real sweet to me when I do or you ain't gonna like what happens."
And before she could respond, and to her shame, she felt him sliding into her--not quickly, but steadily and without regard for anything. Her mouth was open and she was trying to stay silent, her eyes clenched shut and she could feel all of him enter her. And as she was working up the mind to respond how his man wanted, he bumped against her cervix and she cried out in pain.
"Ooowww, not--", she cried and he jerked his cock out of her quickly, leaving her empty and confusing and dripping wet.
"Stupid bitch... fuck. Fine. Fuckit, you don't want to play along, I'll just get this over with my way and you can cry about it later." he said flatly. He ran his cock in and out of her tight pussy, very shallow, and she thought he was going to fuck her again--finally. But then she felt him leave her, and his hand tighten around her hair, and the tip of his long cock press against her other place.
"No... not..." she mumbled as his hand held her body taught through her hair and his other hand covered her mouth, "Mmmmnnnnn....MMMNN!!!" Her protests were lost into his palm as he roughly and uncaringly drove his cock into her ass, to the root.
The pain was excruciating. And exciting. And as he fucked her ass in the open air and muffled her screams and then cries and then moans, she began bracing herself better to let him fuck her more deeply. She stopped thinking and caring and wondering about it all and just let herself be used and fucked long and hard and aggressively by this man. This stranger.
When he grunted and came inside of her, and buried his cock deeply while he caught his breath--she closed her eyes and cried some. She wept for whatever innocent part of her she let go, and she wept for how much she enjoyed it and wanted more. Mostly she wept because there was that emptiness in her again as he pulled out, she couldn't hear him as he mumbled thank you and said things about seeing her around.