4 comments/ 19175 views/ 2 favorites On the Other Side By: ScorchingFlame He had asked her to wear a skirt – she found that odd, she always wore skirts around him. Why would he feel that it was important to specifically request she wear one? As she mounted the steps to his apartment, a cooling breeze lifted her skirts slightly, a whisper of things to come. She took in a sharp breath, and let it out slowly "Try not to get worked up TOO quickly" she reminded herself. Something about him, about thinking about him, set a hot flame burning somewhere below her navel. Almost as soon as she knocked, he opened the door and stepped out. "Um, hi, nice to see you too?" she said, taken aback. He turned from locking the door, and looked down at her "Let's go shopping." She felt her skin flush deliciously. This could only mean one thing! She was aware of his fantasy, and her skin tingled at the thought of being the one to make it a reality. "My legs will collapse before we make it to the car!" her mind raced. He opened the door for her, always the gentleman, and let his fingers trail along her thigh as she got in. She hadn't been in his car before, and the unfamiliar territory made her shy again. She chattered nervously on the way to the mall, the more logical side of her brain chiding her "You're going to annoy him to death before you even get there!" When he helped her out of the car, she let her skirt slide up her legs a little more than necessary – and he raised an eyebrow in appreciation of the gesture. Her heart pounded with excitement in her chest. She tried to cast a sidelong glance at him as they walked, wondering if he was nervous as she. His always calm exterior hadn't changed. The mall was fairly crowded, considering it was the middle of the week. Teenagers swarmed the food court like vultures – eyeing the food and each other. Her heels clicked on the polished tile floor as they walked. She tried to think of something normal to say, but failed. Spying the movie theatre – she said "Maybe later we can see if there is anything worth seeing playing?" He smiled, and she thought it was more at the nervousness obvious in her voice than at her suggestion "That might be nice." Touching her elbow, he steered their course into a moderately populated department store. She began browsing through the summer tops, not really even seeing what she was looking at. She felt his hand at the small of her back as he whispered "Do try to act normal!" She felt her cheeks redden as she pulled a lacy black shirt from the rack, pretending to be checking its cut. He looked like any man dragged shopping with a woman – glancing around the store with a bored look on his face. She kept up her act, actually seeing a few decent shirts, when she felt his breath at her ear "OK, that dressing room in the corner, 3 minutes, door 2." She hadn't even seen the redhead enter room marked with a 1. As they approached the dressing room, he was just ahead of her. She glanced around, paranoid, but no one was paying attention. She slipped past him as he held the door for her, and stifled the giggle that tried to escape. Her eyes flew wide as she heard an aggravated sigh in the next stall, and his hand covered her mouth. He shook his head, and his hand became a single finger – held over her lips to remind her to be quiet. Removing his hand, he sat down on the bench and slid his hands to grip the band of her black cotton thong – pulling it languorously down smooth legs. The only sound was their breathing and the rasp of the cotton against skin. They thought about the fact that someone was changing right next to them, and she felt a new surge of moisture where her panties had just been. Hard nipples sprang to life under her shirt; it was so hard not to make a sound. The suppressed moans became goosebumps all over her skin. Suddenly, he lifted her at the hips, and brought her down on his very stiff cock. She hadn't even seen him unzip his pants! She wrapped her legs around him, and forgot where she was as his thumb found her swollen and throbbing clit – a low moan rumbled in her throat. Her eyes flew open – and found his looking on disapprovingly – a soft hiss of air rushing through his teeth to shush her. They were still a moment, but then heard renewed sounds of movement from the stall next door. Standing her back on her feet, he turned her to face the bench in front of him. Understanding what he wanted, she leaned forward and grasped the hard edge of the bench. Two fingers of his left hand massaged her mound for a moment, then reached to cover her soft lips. She licked and sucked her own wetness from them – mimicking what she liked to do to his hard cock – using suction to draw his fingers in and out. His hand tightened around her face as he thrust forward – causing her to suck in air through her nose. The fingers of his right hand found the spots he knew would drive her crazy as he drove into the tight pussy – slowly and silently. A faint sigh was heard from the next stall – the reminder of others so close causing her to echo the sigh as her body rode the increasing waves of pleasure. Climax was close for both of them. Lost in the excitement of what they were doing, he grunted – "Oh god he must be close" – the thought causing a low rasping in her throat. His hand slid from her face, down her arm to cover her small hand on the bench. She sighed at the movement – and heard other movements in the next stall. "Can she hear us?" she questioned herself. Their bodies betraying them now, the sounds and smells of coupling echoing so that they sounded as if they were coming from the next stall. He finally spent himself in her as she convulsed silently – muscles straining with the need to keep quiet. She sighed her relief and he bunched her panties into his pocket, smiling knowingly as he held the door open for her. As soon as they were out of earshot of the dressing room, he asked her "Would you like to look at shoes too, while we're here?" On the Other Side of Passion Chapter 1: The Vow It was her wedding day, the tears she cried were thought by the well-wishers to be tears of joy, and in actuality they were tears of sadness. She was marrying this man, a man she cared for deeply, a man she knew that she would have a good life with, a man who was stable and secure, a man who would love her without limits; forever. She knew it was the right decision to make; in her head. Her heart longed for another. She stood holding her breath in the confines of the falsehood of white taffeta and rhinestone, her lacey undergarments itching and digging into her skin, the under wire bra, nipping at her. The spiked heels threatening to topple her over as she struggled to remain upright; her knees weak and rubbery; her feet throbbing. The beautiful bridal bouquet of fresh pink and white roses trembled in her hands, a forgotten thorn gauging the tender white flesh of her fingers. The veil clouded her vision, but still she could see this man, looking somewhat like the proverbial penguin as he gazed upon her, his eyes filled with love and adoration. This was a good match, maybe not made in heaven, but still a good match. With him she was ensuring her future, her heart ached for the other and she thought of him as she uttered the promises of love and faithfulness. The ring was slid on her finger, she slid the ring on his, with the lifting of the veil and the seal of a kiss, and it was done. Her fate sealed. She suffered through what seemed an endless reception. The cutting of the cake, opening of presents, endless hugs and pecks from relatives she had never met before, the tossing of the bouquet and the shower of birdseed, now that was done too. He whisked her off to the car, decorated in crepe paper, condoms and balloons; they pulled into the hotel parking lot, just a brief overnight stay before their exodus in the morning, and up to their hotel room. Once inside the room, he helped her to remove her gown and confining undergarments, physically she was freed, yet she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. He laid her on the bed, the cheap hotel bedspread rough against her skin, there was no foreplay, no preamble, just a stroke of his cock, and he plunged into her. He made love like a boulder, hard, unyielding, and stifling. Within minutes, their marriage had been consummated and he rolled off of her huffing and panting, falling into a fitful sleep. She slid out from under the covers, opened the complementary bottle of cheap Champaign, downing it in big gulps until the bottle was drained. She went to the bathroom and showered, trying desperately to wash away the awfulness she felt. After the shower, she wrapped herself in a coarse hotel towel and sat on the toilet, the water dripping off her long brunette locks and running down her back, chilling her. She stared at the tiny band of gold, contemplated the gleam of the diamonds and her future. Her thoughts turned to the other man, the nights of passion they had shared. She knew she was fortunate, some people never experience the type of intense, hot passion that she had. How many times do you find passion like that she mussed, once, maybe twice in a lifetime? She thought of him, his body; lean, hard, muscled. She thought of his cock; long, stiff, hard, relentless. She thought of their nights together, nothing was off limits, nothing was taboo, he never weakened, never gave out, he was always ready. She sighed and became wet as she thought of him. Her pulse began to quicken, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire, she spread her legs and began to massage her clit; thinking of him. Faster and faster she rubbed, rolling her nipples in one hand, massaging her clit with the other. Her breath came out in short gasps; she moaned and trembled as she finished herself. She donned her trousseau and slid back into bed, falling fast asleep. Her dreams were troubled ones, her sleep not restful; her night was filled with dreams of him. Her husband woke her up, by raising her gown and sliding his fingers into her wetness. “Ummm, you’re wet. Dreaming about me?” he asked. She faked a smile, and bid him entrance. Moments later, they were dressed and in the hotel lobby, sipping coffee and munching on stale doughnuts. The honeymoon was little more than a blur to her, off to Vegas, gambling, a tour of the Hoover Dam; all you can eat buffets, an endless supply of drinks and showgirls. Now the plane was landing, time to settle in to married life. The days turned into weeks, there was work, cleaning, laundry, cooking; all of the entrapments of womanhood and married life. She had tried to give him little hints of how he could be a better bedmate, but always it was the same. Fast, hard, and over way too soon. She was becoming frustrated and lonely. She kept trying to convince herself, repeating the same theme in her head. Passion is a lie, it isn’t real, and it doesn’t last. Love is real, this is real; her Passion had left, he had left her alone, the bliss she felt in his arms was temporary. This is real, this is my life; these were the things she kept trying to convince herself of. As the weeks turned into months, her frustration turned into despair. She wanted to be a good wife, she wanted to love him; and she did. They were the best of companions, but the worst of bedmates. Everyone commented on how perfect they looked together and how happy they must be. She repeated these comments over and over to herself, if everyone else saw it, it had to be true. She pulled the car into the parking lot and discreetly slipped inside of the dimly lit adult book and toy store. If she was going to remain faithful, she was going to have to create her own passion; she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. She walked down the aisle searching for the perfect one, the ultimate lover. The vibrator she selected was flesh tone, long, and hard, it reminded her of her lost passion. This passion would never let her down, it would never leave, it would remain silently, tucked away in a secret location, it would wait patiently for her, it would do her bidding, whenever she requested. Embarrassed, she purchased the item, tucking the brown plastic bag under her arm and rushed home to introduce herself to her new love. Her husband wouldn’t be home for hours, she had plenty of time. She lay on the bed, taking her time to slowly arouse herself; how badly she needed this. Stroking herself almost to climax, she slid the piece of latex and battery into her. At first the vibrating rhythm felt foreign; strange. It pulsated making a noise not unlike that of a small desktop fan. The pulsations began to feel better and better; she began to slide her hips in an up and down motion, gliding it deeper and deeper into herself. Her pulse quickened, her nipples hardened, her pelvic muscles tightened, and with a gush she had fulfilled herself. She turned off the device and lay on the bed still quivering in orgasm. She thought of that song by the Rolling Stones; “Mother’s Little Helper”; this was her helper, her savior, her life raft in a sea devoid of passion. Today was the day, their first year anniversary. She utilized her “little helper” as often as she could, she cooked and cleaned; she had remained a faithful, dutiful, wife. He was treating her to a dinner out tonight, she got ready. She took her time, carefully fixing her hair, applying make up and dressing. She heard him as he came home from work and advanced up the stairs, she saw him in the mirror behind her. He slid a small velvet box out from underneath his jacket, opened it and slid the necklace around her neck. It was a small heart inlayed with diamonds. How sweet, she thought to her self. She turned and kissed him, a mere peck on the lips. He grinned and began to grab at her breasts, handling them with all the tenderness of a chef kneading bread dough. Sloppily he kissed her, sliding his hands up her skirt, pulling down her panty hose. He led her out of the bathroom and lowered her onto the bed. Clumsily he unzipped his pants, flipping out his penis. He entered her, pushing himself into her depths. It was a brief interlude, over in a matter of minutes, she stood in front of the mirror, straightened her hair as she uttered a disappointed sigh. Dinner seemed to last for hours, endless dribble of meaningless conversation. “How was your day?” “It doesn’t seem like it has been a whole year.” Endless admonitions of love and adoration. She had a gift for him; tucked away under her bed she had bought a lacey negligee, fish net hose and heels. She intended to give herself as a gift. She faked a smile and fought her way through dinner. When they arrived home, she lit the candles that she had strategically positioned through out the bedroom, donned her seductive garb and bid him to come in. “Wow, all for me?” he said grinning as he admired her form. He pulled her close, inhaling deeply of her erotic scent. He fumbled with the garters, almost ripping the tiny g-string away, he greedily plunged into her. He huffed and groaned as he rocked, he finished quickly with a moan and a shudder. He slid his fingers into the slickness of his cum, gliding them up into her. Slowly he began to stoke her; eagerly she arched her back encouraging him with her response. “You like that?” he whispered into her ear. “Yes” she responded. He stroked her faster and faster, deeper and deeper. Her heart raced in anticipation “Yes” she thought to herself “Yes, make me come” she exclaimed under her breath. Her pelvic muscles tightened in response, her wetness was now genuinely hers, her nipples hardened, and her breath came out in short gasps as she came. “More, more” she uttered as she grabbed his hand guiding it in to her. He lowered his mouth to her breast licking and suckling her. At this moment, for the time being she had forgotten her lost Passion, having found these new sensations from familiar hands. He stoked her clit, tickled the entrance to her vagina, tugged at her pubic hair, plunged himself into her softness and wetness. He sucked her nipples, nipping gently at them, he ran his tongue down her belly, and lowered him head between her legs. This was something he’d never done to her before, and she gasped in delight as his tongue lapped at her clit. Who was this man? What had he done with her husband? She gasped in utter bliss as she came yet again, weak and trembling she urged him to take a break and to lay with her. She fell into a fitful slumber, happy and content, finally. She got up extra early and prepared a breakfast for her husband the breakfast was worthy for a man such as him. He sauntered down the stairs, fresh from the shower, adjusting his tie. “No time for breakfast today, love. I have a big meeting.” With a peck on the cheek, he was out the door. Alone, she munched on the bacon and sipped her coffee, contemplating the band of gold around her finger. She decided to go shopping to cheer herself up. She found herself prowling the aisles of the adult bookstore; selecting a new toy for herself. The weeks passed since their last encounter, there had been sex, but nothing like what had transpired on the night of their anniversary. She found her mind beginning to wander back to her lost Passion. She missed him so. She found herself so down, so lost, she went to her doctor, sought consolation from her friends, shopped and shopped, she even started to go to a counselor to find ways to relieve herself from the memory of her lost passion. Her husband instinctively knew something was wrong, he sensed her melancholy, but couldn’t understand why. He tried to be supportive, he tried to be a good man, he tried to go on, tried to keep her going, tried not to question the sleeping pills, the antidepressants, she looked to him for help and found none. She was in a state where she could only help herself; there was no solace, no shelter from the storm that roared within her. They lay on the couch, watching a movie; he was wearing only a pair of sleep shorts. She ran her fingers through his mat of thick, coarse chest hair, tugging on it playfully during the slow parts of the movie. “Ummm,” he muttered, “I like that.” He reached up behind her head and guided her lips to his mouth, kissing her deeply, sliding his tongue into her mouth. He slid his hand up her sleep shirt and fondled her breasts; her nipples became erect under his hands. Automatically, she lowered herself onto her back, sliding her shorts down, assuming the customary position of their lovemaking. “No, no, not like that. I want to pleasure you tonight.” He raised her up into a sitting position, spreading her legs and guiding her to the edge of the couch. He felt for the remote, turning off the TV. He gently spread her lips apart with his fingers and slid his tongue in between them, tickling her clit. “Finally,” she thought to herself as she raised her pussy up into his face. Her mind was racing as he brought her past the point of mere arousal; instinctively she lowered her hand to her clit and began to massage herself. He sat back on his haunches watching her. She realized that she was being watched; she wasn’t alone this time like she was all of the other times she made herself cum. Self-consciously, she stopped. “Don’t stop,” he guided her hand back down to her clit, still slick with his saliva. Obligingly, gratefully she continued. He slid his hand down the front of his shorts and began to stroke his cock, bringing it to full stiffness. He spun her around on the couch and positioned her on all fours; he guided himself into her. He rocked wildly at first, then slowly barely entering her. She raised her hips up and began to rock, forcing his cock deeper inside of her. He forced her down, forbidding her better access to his cock. He slid a hand down her ass, pinching it. He slipped his finger into her wetness, lubricating it. She tensed against him, unsure of herself. “Relax, Love,” he whispered to her. With a deft movement he slid his finger into her ass, she gasped in shock. Although not all together unpleasant, definitely unexpected. He rocked his pelvis against her deeper and faster, he was also sliding his finger in and out of her ass, making circular movements with it. She gasped in delight, she felt her muscles tighten, and she felt the warm gush of her come as it ran down her labia. “That’s my baby. Come all over my hard prick” he moaned. “Come, come more for me.” He rammed himself into her, causing her to come again in an explosion of pleasure and release. She had needed this, she had needed this night. She was awakened by a kiss on the cheek. She snuggled down into the afghan he had wrapped around her. She had fallen fast asleep on the couch, he left her drifting in slumber and bliss. He was dressed and ready for work, he gave her breast a little pinch, grinned and left for work. She was sore from last night’s activities, sore and very happy. She uttered a contented sigh, and slipped back into slumber. She wrapped the Christmas presents she had purchased, it had been months since that night on the living room couch, whenever she was feeling down or disappointed by the long dry spell she was currently enduring, and she remembered that night. She wrapped his presents with loving care, creasing the paper sharply as she taped it into place. She was feeling particularly down today, while at the mall selecting presents, she saw her Passion. He walked through the mall as if he owned the place; his tight jeans hugging the bulk of his cock, making it appear all the larger. His brown leather coat was slung carelessly over his shoulder, his head held high. She remembered the time they had gone shopping together, his arm draped around her shoulders in a possessive gesture. That seemed like a lifetime ago, she had been happy then, he had seemed happy too, Passion had been sweet, the memory was still sweet; bittersweet. She repeated over and over to herself, passion is a lie, passion is a lie. She ducked into a little shop and pretended to examine the depths of a blue cashmere sweater; he hadn’t seen her, as she fondled the sweater, the diamonds of her wedding ring snagged it, tearing a hole in the fragile, soft fabric. Hastily she purchased the sweater; she hung it in her closet, a silent sentinel to the losses caused by passion. Christmas Day came and went, New Year’s passed, the unrelenting cold of winter held her in its grasp. She stroked the fur of the puppy her husband had bought her for Christmas; they had been together for almost two years, childless. He sensed her loneliness and purchased the puppy as a faithful companion for her. The puppy was growing into a dog by their second anniversary. The dry spell continued on. She pondered how it could have been so good that night and so bad all the times there after. She consoled herself with her toys, pretended they were Passion, wished they were her husband. Summer in the park, the dog strained on its leash; expressing the enthusiasm she wished she felt. Her husband trotted after them, scouting out an empty spot under a shady tree for their picnic. He called to them having found the perfect spot. Eagerly she gulped from the cold bottled water he handed her. They ate deli subs and chips, feeding bits and pieces from their lunch to their hungry pooch. In the distance she spotted him, his shorts sliding up and down his lean thighs; her heart raced as she watched him. Her grip on the dog’s leash loosened and the dog pulled away from her, bounding toward him. “Oh no!” exclaimed her husband as he chased the dog. She leapt to her feet and began to call to the dog. He whistled motioning for the dog to come to him, the dog obeyed, jumping up at him, licking his face. “I am so sorry,” she apologized to him as she grabbed the dog’s leash pulling him away. She pretended that he was a stranger. “I want to see you,” he whispered to her in his soft seductive voice. Her cheeks reddened as her husband approached. She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, she mouthed back the word “Ok”. She intercepted her husband guiding him and the dog back to the shade of the tree. Sweaty and exhausted from their outing, she leaned against the wall of the shower letting the cool water run down her body. “Is there room for two?” Her husband slid back the shower curtain and climbed in. He took the soap from her hands and began to lather it up. He ran his soapy hands down her back, the clean scent of the soap assaulting her senses. She could feel his cock straining against her ass, he bent her over, careful not to get water in her face. He guided his cock into her, he pushed harder and harder; relentless. When he was finished, he gave her a kiss and exited the shower, leaving her to finish bathing. Trembling she applied her makeup, she knew where to find her Passion, for over two years she had avoided this place like the plague. She was careful not to drive down his street, careful to avoid all of his routine haunts, now she was seeking him out. She entered the darkness of the bar and saw him sitting at a table in the back. Her knees weak, she walked over to the table and took a seat. He sat silently, appraising her. An eternity passed before either one of them could speak. He looked intently into her eyes, inhaled deeply of her scent, he slid his hand up her calf, and seeming not to notice the considerable discomfort he was causing her. She gathered her composure and confronted her Passion. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked. He looked so good, he looked as good as she had remembered. He leaned back in his chair allowing her to fully assess him. Begrudgingly, almost against her will, she did. “How’s married life?” he asked shooting her a disarmingly devilish smile. Her heart felt as if it were going to pound out of her chest. What in the hell was she doing her she thought to herself. Why had she tempted fate? She still wanted him, from the bulging of his Levis, he still wanted her. She clacked her wedding ring against her glass, to remind herself of her vow. Should she lie? Should she tell him that she was blissfully and happily married? Should she lie as Passion had lied? There was no point, he would see right through it, and no one knows a lie better than a liar. On the Other Side of Passion “I can’t be here, I can’t do this to myself,” she said as she gathered her purse. He grabbed her hand to stop her, she jerked away from him as if she had been burned by fire. He slid his hand up her arm, sliding it under the sleeve of her blouse, he stroked her shoulder. “I have missed you,” he said, his fingers forming seductive circles, gently pressing into her flesh, melting it under their warmth. She drew a deep breath in, she tried to gather her composure, she tried to find her will, but it had left her. He stood and led her out of the bar and to his truck. He navigated the truck through the narrow streets of town, as he shifted gears, he slid his hand up her thigh, stoking the softness of her tender skin. Run she thought to herself, run now, but she couldn’t she was his unwitting captive. He led her up the stairs to his apartment, kissing her deeply. How long had it been since she had received such a kiss? His tongue slid its way past her teeth, gently caressing her tongue; she melted into him, her back arched in response. He slid his key into the lock, opening the door and guided her in. “Tell me you want me,” he said as he unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons of her blouse. She could form no words, she moaned in response. Her breasts strained against their confines, the tricot forming a prison. She reached behind her undoing the clasp and releasing them from their binds. He unsnapped her skirt with a singular deft move; it fell to the floor in abandon. He lowered her panties, and dropped to his knees in front of her. He spread her legs, opening her throbbing lips and began to lick her already swollen clit. She moaned in pleasure, forcing herself against him. He pulled her down onto the floor beside him. He lowered his faded jeans, releasing his manhood. She looked at it appreciatingly, how perfect it was, hard, engorged, pulsing and ready. She grasped it in her fist and guided it into her mouth, she could hear him moaning, directing her; she paid no attention, she sucked it until she could taste him in her mouth. He pulled at her hair, pulling her away. He lowered her onto her back, she could feel the cool of the hardwood floor and it nipped at her back. He guided himself into her, she gasped as he slowly plunged deeper and deeper. The act was a little uncomfortable for her, it had been so long since she had felt him inside her, she remembered his size, but her body had adjusted to the smaller girth of her husband. “Easy, easy” she bade him. Passion obeyed, taking her little by little as she adjusted to him. She wrapped her legs around him and when she had yielded sufficiently to accommodate his size she rocked her hips against him. They climaxed together, their bodies entwined; a mass of flesh, sweat, and pleasure. They lay together in afterglow, basking in the warmth of bliss. She was pulled out of her revere by the ticking of a nearby clock. She glanced to see what time it was, it was getting late. Hurriedly she put her clothes on. “Rushing home to hubby?” he asked as he rose from the floor. She didn’t reply, she glanced back at him as she closed the door behind her. Her mind was racing as she drove home. What had she done? She had broken her vow. She was certain lightening bolts would fly from the sky and vaporize her, but none did. She could feel the wetness of Passion as it rolled down her thighs. She had to confess to her husband, yet she knew she wouldn’t. She had felt passion again, she was torn. As she chopped the vegetables for their salad, she wondered, was passion real and love a lie? How could passion feel so good if it were a lie? Certainly passion was just as real as love, could she have them both? Could she have Love and Passion? She heard the key rattling in the lock, heard the turn of the knob and the opening of the door. She collected herself, smiling at her husband as she placed the salad on the dining room table. “How was your day?” he asked. She smiled at him, shrugged her shoulders as she passed him his salad. She changed the topic of their conversation as she played with her food, the evening sunlight glistening in the shadows of the diamond of her wedding band. Chapter 2: Reckonings and Realizations She shut the window tight against the first drafts of fall’s chill. Through the sheer draperies of her bedroom window she saw his truck as it wound it’s way up her street. What was he doing? She thought to herself. She hadn’t seen him since that late summer afternoon, she hadn’t known passion since then either, and how she longed for it. The truck didn’t stop, but slowed as it rolled by. She stepped away from the window and into the bathroom, she knew he wouldn’t stop, Passion wouldn’t come to call, and it would pass her by as it always did. She filled the tub to the brim with steaming hot water and bubbles, slowly lowering herself down into the mix. As she floated, the warmth relaxing her tense muscles, her mind began to wander, returning to thoughts of her Passion. She hadn’t told her husband of her passionate encounter, she never intended to, this guilt, this secret she alone would bear. Her passion belonged to her alone and would never be shared with another. She remembered his long fingers as they caressed her flesh, bringing her to a burning crescendo. She thought of his body and its weight upon her as he slid into her again and again. She thought of his lips, soft and torturous. She could still smell his sweat as it slid down his chest and onto her in the heat of their encounter. She slid down further into the soapy water, her nose barely floating above the bubbles, sighing. She remembered how she cried that night, cried for the passion she felt, cried because of the passion and of how briefly she basked in its heat. She cried tears of guilt and shame, she had broken a promise, she had injured her love and he was painfully unaware. Passion had claimed her once again, and left her once again as well, she was alone, deserted by Passion, lost in Love. She heard footsteps ascending the stairs, she heard the door handle turn. The footsteps didn’t sound like her husband’s, yet were strangely familiar. He stood in the doorway appraising her; she gathered what bubbles were left, trying to hide her nudity from his unabashed stare. “What are you doing here?’” she could barely hear her self form the words. He reached for a towel, grasped her hand, and pulled her out of the tub. “Stop that!” she exclaimed as he briskly dried her dripping hair. She swatted at him in vein. “You can’t be here, you simply can not be here.” She stated as she groped for her terry cloth bathrobe. His brisk towel drying had become entrancing, he was stroking her nether regions with the towel, causing her to throb and swell. “You left your door unlocked, lucky for me eh?” he grinned as he bent to kiss her. “I’ve missed you, and from the feel of things, baby missed me too”, he said as he stroked her clit, spreading her labia with his fingers. He navigated her from the bathroom and onto the bed. With a moan of delight she gave herself over to Passion once again. When they were both spent, he rose from the bed and put on his clothes, leaving her chilly and alone. “Hubby will be home soon, sorry if I spoiled the marriage bed”, he said pointing out a circular spot of wetness on the comforter. He left the same way he entered, through the unlocked back door. Cold, frustrated, alone, she began to cry. Passion had no right to leave her feeling the way it had, how could pleasure hurt so badly? Her husband arrived home to the whirring of the dryer and the swish of the washing machine, “Laundry day?” he asked. She embraced him deeply; ashamed of what had transpired earlier on. Love would never leave, Passion always left, she thought to herself. She suggested they go out for dinner; he shrugged his shoulders yielding to her request. She couldn’t bear to be in this house another second, she couldn’t bear the smell of Passion which hung on her and lingered in the house like dark clouds rising before the storm. Another Thanksgiving Day, another Christmas Day, another New Year’s Day, time came and time went and at long last, spring was upon the two-story house in suburbia, her house, and her home. She continued her interludes with Passion, tempting fate every time. She continued to flirt with Love, anxiously waiting for Passion’s release from her discontent. She thought about abandoning Love for Passion, though Passion offered her nothing in return. Passion had no heart to love her, Passion was only body; Love was soul. She thought about confessing Passion to her Love, but it was her secret and her guilt to bear alone. She had sex with passion, made love to her love. She wished she could have them both in one, but it seemed an impossible dream. “What are you thinking about?” he asked as he tugged gently on a lock of her hair. Her body still pulsed in the ebb of her passion; she turned to face him, forcing him to meet her gaze. Passion never looked her in the eye, Passion never had to face reckoning; today Passion would. “I’m leaving him, I haven’t told him yet, but I’m going.” He said nothing, he didn’t flinch, and he didn’t blink. He rolled onto his back, gripping the sheets, covering himself as he turned. “I don’t want you to leave because of me,” he said as he stared up at the ceiling exhaling deeply. “I have nothing to offer you, you know where I stand” he went on to say. She slid out from under the covers and began to get dressed. He had told her before that he would never love her, in her heart she thought that her passion was turning into love, she hoped that in time he would love her. She could live with less love in her life, but not less passion. “I’m not,” she lied, “I’m leaving because of me.” Her love was heartbroken when she told him, she felt the pangs of guilt as she packed her clothes and walked down the stairs. She hadn’t told him that she was leaving forever, she hadn’t told him why, only that she needed some time, time to think things through. That was no lie, she did need time, time with her Passion, time with her Love, time with herself. She got a small efficiency apartment in neutral territory, a safe distance from the both of them. She missed Love; she sought refuge in Passion’s arms and tried to find love there. The months passed, an uncelebrated anniversary passed. She hung decorations on her very own Christmas tree. This year, she had purchased gifts for Passion and for Love. She still saw Love; they were close friends, not partaking of each other physically, but shielding each other from their own private storms, shielding each other with their friendship. Passion never complained that she still had ties with Love, passion never complained about anything as long as he got his fair cut. She had long ago removed her wedding band, yet she still felt its tie, felt it on her finger, felt the pressure of the band of gold. She and Passion met at her little abode frequently, she was eagerly awaiting his visit tonight. She had a surprise for him, she tightened down the straps to her negligee and adjusted the thong, sliding her feet into her black spiked heel shoes, and she waited for him. She had been practicing for weeks, practicing walking, practicing dancing in the shoes, and practicing stripping for him. When she heard a rap at her door, she raced to answer it; Passion was leaning on the doorframe nonchalantly. “Oh, how nice” he said as he looked her over. Lustily he grabbed her, pulling her toward him. His tongue traced its way down her neck; he slid the straps of her gown down, his tongue lapping greedily at her nipples, causing them to strain against the lacy fabric. “No, no, I want to dance for you.” She proclaimed as she pushed him away. He swatted her on the ass; sliding the thong out of the way he slid a finger up her tiny ass. “Stop it!” she exclaimed, her mind was racing, she didn’t just want sex, she wanted to make love to him, she wanted to pleasure him, she wanted to give him herself tonight. She felt as if he were mocking her, turning her own desires against her. “Ok, ok,” he replied as he lowered himself onto the couch, “But keep in mind you’ve already caused one hell of a problem” he said as he adjusted his erect penis. She put in a slow, seductive song and began to sway to the rhythm of the music. Half way through the song, he grabbed at her sitting her on his lap. “We have got to do something about this problem you’re causing,” he said as he lowered her hand onto his crotch. She gave into his advances, which were causing quite a problem in her. He was relentless, the lashing of his tongue as it sought out all of her pleasure spots, he pinched her, pulled her hair, nipped at her, plunged into her. He knew exactly what she wanted, he knew how to make her come, slow at first, then faster and faster, deeper and deeper. He played with her ass as he rocked inside of her uttering the words “That’s my good little slut”. “You’re a good whore, you’re my little whore,” he cried out as he came. At that moment in time, that’s exactly what she felt like “a little slut, a little whore.” She was beginning to see the true face of Passion, recognizing it for what it truly was, realizing what it truly was, lust, not passion, white, hot, unbridled lust. She had sold out Love for what she had thought was Passion, only now did she begin to understand, after Passion left, as he always did, she began to cry. What had she done? She thought to herself. She had fallen in love, not with love, not with passion, with the lowest form of emotion, the most primal part of being, lust. She buried herself in her work, busied herself with projects and friends, trying to forget her epiphany, maybe if she didn’t think about it, it wouldn’t be true. She still tried to find refuge in Passion, tried to warm her chilled heart, which was burdened with guilt and remorse for what she had done to Love. There was no refuge to be found, no softness only hard, unyielding, lust. She fulfilled his every desire, yielded to his every whim, in futility she tried to create love in Passion. She found only physical pleasure, lust wore her down; passion wore her out. She was a prisoner to them both, loosing herself in them, loosing herself in her love for them. After their escapades she would lie in the dark, looking up at him, tracing the outline of his face, touching him, running her fingers through his dark mass of hair, trying to look deeply into his eyes, which always avoided her gaze. She loved this man, this Passion, as he drifted off to sleep; she whispered to him “I’m in love with you.” She thought he didn’t hear her, but he had, he continued to pretend to be asleep, but his mind raced, he didn’t want her love, he didn’t feel her passion, he wanted her body, her soul was her own, now here, in the dark she was offering it to him. She had made no demands on him; her confession was enough to make his blood run cold. Love meant commitment, love meant marriage; love meant a proverbial life sentence. Love meant pain, eventual abandonment, he could; he would never allow himself to love, he had to end it. He could not destroy her, he would try to push her into leaving him, and he would try to show her what he really was. He began to pull away from her, he began to call her less and less, and he began to make excuses for not stopping by, for not staying over. He pumped her time and time again, pulling his clothes on and turning his back on her. Still she waited for him to come around, to see how much Passion meant to her. They had gone out to dinner and had a couple of drinks; it was close to their one-year anniversary. He opened the door to her apartment and led her inside; he pulled off her shirt, and slid her denim skirt up around her hips. Whisking her underwear aside, he entered her, at first she balked, then she yielded to her passion. He didn’t climax instead he stopped, backing her over the arm of the couch, leaving her crotch resting on its arm, he spread her legs wide, pushing first one finger in, then two. Knowing just where her weak spots were he forced her to come with a loud cry of pleasure escaping her lips. He greedily lapped the thin watery liquid from his palm, smacking and licking his lips and he sucked it off of his fingers. He sucked and licked at her cunt, nipping her clit with his teeth, causing her to gush yet again. He slid inside of her, she was slick and wet, the walls of her vagina grabbing at his cock, umm he liked that he thought to himself. This was their last fuck, the last time he would fuck his “good little whore”. With a shudder she came, the wetness running down the shaft of his cock, dripping onto his balls. “Oh God” he cried out as he pushed deeper and deeper causing her to come again and again. At long last they were spent, the arm of the couch glistened with the byproducts of their lust. “You’ve never done that before”, he whispered as he helped to sit her upright. She was somewhat dazed, lost in thoughts of her own. He cradled her as they sat on the couch together. He inhaled deeply of her scent, he tasted her skin, he cared deeply for this woman, his Passion, but he had to let her go, he didn’t love her, he never would, and he never could. Awkwardly, he pulled on his jeans and boots. “Do you have to go tonight?” she asked laying back on the couch inviting him in. Not facing her, he whispered “Yeah, I’ve got a big day tomorrow.” He left without looking back. As he navigated the truck down the streets toward his home, he thought of her, thought of her come. She had never come with him inside before; it was a wonderful sensation, warm, wet, and tight. He wished he had more time to explore this new talent that she had acquired under his skilled direction. He would love to have her come again and again, squeezing his cock, washing it with her passion, but he had made his decision, he had to escape before love tried to claim him. As he showered, trying to wash away the guilt of his decision, cleanse himself of her memory, drown her scent, the burn of her touch, he thought to himself, I really am a son of a bitch for doing this to her. I really am a son of a bitch for doing this to her love. He had taken the place of her love, not only in her bed, but also in her heart. He hoped in time she would forgive him, he hoped in time she would realize his sacrifice and that it was for her own good. He hoped in time he would forget. She eagerly flung open the door for him; she was dressed for bed, surprised by his unexpected visit. She reached to kiss him in their customary greeting; he stopped her guiding her to the couch. He delivered his monologue as practiced, he had spent the last couple of days practicing what to say, and it came out of his mouth automatically. He could see the look of shock on her face, the hurt in her eyes, but she said nothing. The tears rolled down her cheeks, he could see them glistening in the dark. His heart felt the first pangs of remorse, he wished he could take it all back, but he couldn’t. She needed to go back to her Love; she needed to be rid of him. She held him, grabbing on to him tightly, saying goodbye in her own way, he held her tightly as well. She stepped back from him, analyzing him, carefully calculating what to say next. “What did we truly have to celebrate?” she asked. “A year of successful copulation” she answered her own question, her response low and under her breath. She shut the door behind him, sinking to the floor crying as she heard his truck pull away. Life went on, she went to work, ate, slept, and went out with friends who rallied to her aid as she struggled through this difficult time of healing. Some how the colors didn’t seem as bright, the sun not as warm, she felt dark and bleak, dead on the inside. She was trapped in a hell between Passion and Love, lost in a canyon, too hurt by Passion, hurting Love too much because of passion. She felt lost and alone; there was no one to whom she could turn. One night it was storming, the windows of her apartment rattled with the fury of the wind and thunder, rain fell against the roof, pounding as if it were trying to gain entrance. She was alone and afraid, it was late and she didn’t know who else to call. She tried calling Passion, only to be informed by his answering machine that he was unavailable. On the Other Side of Passion She called Love, he answered the phone on the first ring as if he knew it was going to be her on the other end. He could hear her sobs on the other end of the line, “Don’t cry, I know you’re afraid.” His voice was soothing to her, calming her. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and braved the storm to rush to her side. A short while later there was a knock at her door. There stood Love, drenched, shivering against the chill of the rain. He brought emergency provisions, her favorite gourmet coffee. Together they weathered out the storm, sipping coffee, drying her tears. She felt safe, she felt warmed by Love. Chapter 3: Rescue Attempts When at last the storm ended, she looked up at him, her eyes reddened and swollen from the tears that fell. “Why did you come?” she asked. He looked surprised by her question; he brushed her hair away from her face, running his fingers through her locks. “Because you needed me,” he replied. “I’ve offered you nothing and yet you came, after all the hurt I’ve caused you.” Her brow was wrinkled into a frown as she struggled to come to grips with his statement. She looked over the rim of her coffee cup at him, sizing him up. Physically he hadn’t changed, maybe emotionally he had grown, she wasn’t sure what, but something was different. Maybe it was the look in his eyes; he looked at her in a way he’d never looked at her before. He looked at her before as if she were sexless, ordinary; nothing spectacular, he looked at her with all the enthusiasm that one would show while watching an old black and white rerun on TV. Now, there was a spark where familiarity lay, a gleam as if he were adoring a rare piece of art; erotic, beautiful, desirable. The look in his eyes frightened her, excited her; peaked her interest and aroused thoughts that she had not had for him in a very long time. “I don’t recall asking for anything in return, you called, I came, it’s just that simple.” He replied shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t expect anything from you. I didn’t come because I wanted something. Don’t you get that? I don’t expect any kind of repayment. I’m here just solely because I want to be, I want to be here for you.” He angrily slammed his coffee cup on the table, rising to leave. “Don’t you know I love you? Love doesn’t keep score, love doesn’t expect a payback. Love is because love is, there is nothing you can do to earn it, nothing you can do to keep it, nothing.” He slid his jacket on fumbling for his keys. He was frustrated with her, after all this time, all the years, everything they had gone through, she still didn’t know him, he thought he knew her, he didn’t. “Stay the night,” she bade as she timidly lay her hand on the sleeve of his denim jacket. “We don’t have to do anything, we don’t have to talk, we don’t have to figure things out, just stay with me.” He sank to the couch, placing his keys on the coffee table. He reached up, caressing her face. “Ok,” he said as he removed his jacket. A short while later they lay together in the dark, she cuddled up against him, sighing lightly in her sleep. She felt so good, she smelled so good, this was good, even if it was just tonight, his heart sang with hope, maybe, just maybe they could work things through. He could forgive all she had done, he would never ask, hopefully, she would never ask either. Maybe if he forgave her, she’d forgive him, maybe they could go on together. He slid his hand up her hip, feeling the silky nightgown beneath his fingertips. He became aroused, he felt his penis harden, his wanting for her was driving him mad, not tonight he thought to himself, way too soon. The next morning, they made arrangements to meet for dinner. At dinner, they made arrangements for the following week to go to a movie. After the movie, they made arrangements to go out for drinks after work the next day. She called him more frequently now, he didn’t call her, and he wanted to be sure she had all of the space and time that she required. They laughed together, chatted like best friends, teased and joked around. She heard no word from Passion, once in a while, she would call his house just to hear his voice on the answering machine, and she would never leave a message. She was growing weary, angry, frustrated, and distraught with Passion, she felt contempt for Passion, and the contempt hardened her resolve never to seek out Passion again. Her contempt turned into hatred. Yet she would lay awake at night thinking of him, his hands which knew how to pleasure her, his lips firm and unyielding against her flesh, his cock erect and large, his voice, his whispers in erotic tongue. She began to doubt what she had felt for Passion, she wondered if it weren’t lust on her part, lust disguised as love. Where did one end and the other begin? Where were the boundaries between, lust, love, and passion? She began to search for answers. He walked her to her front door after yet another dinner date; she smiled now, where before she wouldn’t even raise her head to meet his gaze. She was beginning to brighten, showing interest in her self and her appearance. To him, she didn’t need any improving, but she had always considered herself unattractive. He praised her vehemently for her efforts. She had allowed him to kiss her goodnight now, allowed him to drape his arm casually about her shoulders, allowed him to hug her, and to hold her hand. Love was patient, Love was kind to her, Love never pushed, Love waited for her to take her small steps, Love endured. He waited on the steps for her to ask him in, she did. He waited for her to make the first move, she did. She wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, burying her face in his chest. She nipped at his chest hair, pulling them with her teeth. He slid his hands deep into her back pockets, pinching playfully at her butt. She raised her face to kiss him; she slid her tongue into his mouth. He slid his hand up to the small of her back, tracing tiny circles. She pulled him inside her apartment, closing the door and locking it behind him. She guided his hand up her blouse, over her ribs, resting it on her breast. He slid his thumb under the elastic band of her bra, tracing her nipple, teasing it erect. Her kisses were deep and passionate, he groaned in wanting. Gingerly, he took her hand, navigating it to the front of his jeans; she could feel his cock straining against its confines. She didn’t pull her hand away, but continued to massage him, bringing him to full hardness. He slid her blouse over her head, unsnapped her bra, admiring her breasts in the fullness of their arousal. He lowered his head and began to lap at them eagerly with his tongue; she threw her head back, arching her spine. She slowly unbuttoned her jeans, unzipped them and lowered them to the floor. He could smell the desire on her heavy and intoxicating. She dropped her underwear, stepping out of them and kicking them out of the way. She reached for his zipper, lowering it, grabbing his belt loops and pulling she slid down his jeans and underwear. She dropped to her knees, looking up at him. She grasped his prick, and began to suck, softly at first, then harder and harder. He felt as if his knees would give way, instinctively he wound his fingers into her hair, and began to guide her head in a back and forth motion encouraging her onward. He stopped her before he came, she led him into her bedroom, lay back on the bed, spreading her legs wide, she granted him entrance. He advanced into her slowly almost loosing his come. He pushed into her deeply, relishing the tightness, the wetness, and the grip of her cunt on his dick. He wanted it to last forever, but in a matter of minutes, he lost all control, spilling into her. He rolled over, sliding onto his side; he pushed a finger in, swabbing it in her vagina, slick from him. He sucked her tits, nipping at them with his teeth; he rubbed her already enlarged, sensitive clit, causing her to spasm with delight. He didn’t stop until she cried out in the heat of her orgasm; he didn’t stop until he exhausted her. Drowsily she cuddled into his arms, falling fast asleep. In moments, he joined her in the numbness of slumber. They continued on like this for weeks, being companions at the dinner table and in the bed. She knew she loved him, but she was dismayed, she continued on her quest for answers to the riddle, which haunted her. She loved him, but she yearned for Passion. Passion without love left her empty, love without passion left her in despair. She had not heard a whisper from Passion, she began to loose hope, she began to accept what she thought was fate. She could live without passion, but she couldn’t without love. If she chose Love, she resolved herself that this would be her fate. She knew it was rare to find someone who truly loved, the way that Love did. She should be grateful for his love. She began to repeat a familiar chant “Passion is a lie.” “Passion is not real.” “Passion is temporary.” He talked to her on the phone, behaved like the perfect gentleman, he tried not to loose hope, but she gave no promise, no indication that she would return home. She told him that she loved him, she held him at night, she gave herself to him willingly, but he could see that something in her still wasn’t right. He could see sadness and loss in her eyes, the more he was with her the more he began to see. He didn’t know what she was lacking, he chose not to dig too deeply, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear her response. He would continue to prove himself to her, he would continue to be there for her, he would continue to love her, and he hoped someday she would love him too. He longed to see the look of passion in her eyes and love in her heart; love only for him, Eros, felacio, agape’, all the forms and levels of love, for him. He wanted her to feel for him the same way that he felt for him, but he feared she did not. He dreaded the words that he feared someday would come. He accepted her love for what it was and hoped it would grow into more. He continued on patiently. She didn’t return to her home, in the process of being lost between Love and Passion, she had begun to find herself; she had developed her own identity, which required neither Love nor Passion to exist. Her tiny apartment was her refuge from Love and Passion, her domain, her respite from the thunder in the distance. She had a true love for Love and a true want for Passion. Love had been extremely good to her, she knew he wanted her to return to their domicile, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t until she had conquered her quest. She was afraid of love, she was afraid of passion, until she had her answers; in her solitude she would hide. She had to unravel the secrets of passion and love.