4 comments/ 15151 views/ 3 favorites Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 01 By: IlizaDanil The first time we got together, I almost stopped it from happening. Or, actually, I thought that I should probably stop it, but the heat was far greater than I was, a tangible thing that wrapped around my whole being and consumed me. I wanted that burning, that smoldering, that desire. I wanted him. We met at the federal building. Homeland Security, to be exact. I was still wrestling with my redress number, having ended up on a TSA list when some shitbag of a suspected terrorist used my identity – and now I could no longer fly commercial without a hassle. It was amazing what I had to do and where I had to go to get this taken care of – I mean, c'mon, Social Security? But whatever. I was pushing the paperwork through, by myself, no attorney, no letter to my congressperson. Almost without fail, they'd see the grumpy white chick with the tattered birth certificate and every single current – and expired – passport and drivers license (I even brought all my W-2's for the last twenty years, plus a couple of shitty letters from the IRS), they'd sigh, and acknowledge that I was the victim of a fraud. Then push the super slow-moving paperwork through to the next government department to sign off. We were sitting together in the waiting area, deep within the bowels of government cubicle hell. I noticed him, gave him a grimace. Attractive man. I mean, attractive in all the ways he was unusual. More than likely Latino, and I felt like I had seen him or someone who looked exactly like him in some throwaway movies and TV shows in the 1980s, maybe even early 1990s. He had sharp, angular features, dark eyes, the most sensuous mouth I could remember seeing for awhile – which made me immediately uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, so I dropped my eyes, let them drift down his thin, wiry body. He wore black – black jeans, black shirt, black leather overcoat (today? It was flipping hot out there), black cowboy boots that looked like they were made from something exotic, maybe snake or lizard. He was sitting, sort of slouched down into his chair, his ankle on his opposite knee, his face leaning into his fist as it was propped on the arm of his chair. The picture of ease, or at least don't-fuck-with-me. I wanted to touch those lips, stroke and kiss that jaw, taste his tongue – and wrap my legs around his waist. Slap. Mentally, I slapped myself. Hard. This is not something I do. I'm a forty-ish wife and mom, recently laid off from my job, dealing with my kid's school (he's hyper-active, and probably dyslexic, and now he seems to be allergic to everything at the ripe old age of five), my husband's illness (liver problems, which also sent him into rehab) and a pile of financial issues. Did I mention that we were robbed in January? Yeah, life is sometimes like this. The least of my problems is my happy position on the no-fly list, but that's what I'm dealing with today, because I'm sick of it. I need to be able to spend a lot of money to be abused by the airlines to go some place I can't afford and feel better for two seconds before the credit card bills come in. Okay? Now I'm fantasizing about fucking a complete stranger, all the things I'd like to do with him. Geez. It has been a tough couple of months. It's no wonder I'm grouchy. I pull out my mental calendar and calculate where I am between periods, wondering if this is more hormonal than anything. PMS and Homeland Security sound like a terrible combination. I look away, flip idly through my file again. Must think about practical things, worry about making payment to prior job's health insurer to keep our coverage, next tactic with school district, accommodating spouse's schedule of multiple twelve-step meetings a day. Practical things, nagging things, un-fun things. When I look up at him again, he's still watching me. I mentally decide he needs a black cowboy hat. His long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and my face is suddenly getting hot. Oh, whatever. I'm a dumpy old lady now, or at least I feel like one. I can engage him in conversation without it being too forward. "So. What did the terrorists do to you?" I ask. "I'm sorry?" he responds, his voice deeper than I would have thought. "I ended up on a no-fly list. What are you in for?" "Oh," he coughed. "I'm – a permanent resident now, finishing up some things toward – citizenship." "Congratulations. I think," I say, letting sarcastic mom and disgruntled citizen color my words. "Where were you born?" "Dominican Republic," he replies, slowly, as if he doesn't really want to reveal this much to a stranger. "You're lucky. That's a lot more cool and exciting than Fresno. Where I was born." He's looking at me as if I'm a nut. At that moment, he gets called in, and I wish him luck. He nods to me, studying me for a long moment. My business went a lot easier than I expected. I'm not entirely sure why. I got the sign-off, a person to call if I had any more hassles. I was contemplating what I would do next, thinking I might give myself a little break and go out to Venice or Santa Monica for an hour or so, then work my way home. I needed the space in my head and my life, and my spouse could just deal. He was standing by the elevators. I gave him a tired smile, but I felt more at ease with things. "Do you want to get some coffee with me?" he asked. "Definitely," I replied, without even thinking about it. He gave me an address where we could meet, though I mostly followed him there. It was a pretty little place, kind of a hole-in-the-wall, with brightly colored walls covered with mirrors and decorated with skeletons in various costumes. I loved it immediately. His name is Juan. He introduced himself to me, and led me back to their patio, which was beautiful and green with tons of plants and sheltered from the harsh sun. There were small fountains and the soothing sound of water. Apparently, he was a regular, conversing easily with the waitress in Spanish and getting us two coffees, which tasted of cinnamon and vanilla. It was arguably too warm for coffee, but we were in a shaded, cool place, and I wrapped my fingers around my warm cup and inhaled the spices gratefully. It was far too easy to talk with him. We exchanged details about our lives, and I fearlessly told him I was married to a sick man, unemployed, and had a child with some health and learning issues. I didn't whine, and I didn't act like the battered heroine; I just told it like it is, with a grin and a shrug. This is my life. Not exactly what I signed up for. He, on the other hand, was fascinating. He had a parent who was a diplomat, and he had lived a lot of places in the world. He had been a model when he was much younger, and I was right, he was an actor, and I had recognized him. He had even been a model and muse for a surrealist painter of some renown. Where we found common ground was in a love of design and art, the aesthetic beauty to be found in the physical world. I also talked about my studio, where the husband and I created, the outsider artists I knew, the museums I loved. Juan was telling me about his house, the bungalow he owned and thrived in. I didn't say in so many words that I wanted to see it, but he must have sensed my enthusiasm. Five days later, I visited him at his house. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 02 So there I was. Married, tired, overburdened, and enthusiastically greeting my new, uh, friend at his home. It had been hard to part ways when I'd last seen him, and we kept saying goodbye, but continuing the conversation as people reluctant to part often do. We'd texted several times in the last five days and talked once. I showed up at his home, a prelude to going to lunch, expecting nothing, because I knew who I was. I was older than he thought I was. I was still about ten years younger than he was. I hadn't dressed especially special. I had taken extra pains in preparing my body, but had told myself it was just regular grooming, which I shouldn't neglect. He showed me around, and I admired his place greatly. We had a great rapport, easy conversation, the ability to joke with one another, and I was enjoying his company and his home. It was decorated in what I would call eclectic, both classic and kitsch, extravagant and minimalist. It was a classic Southern California 1920s-1930s bungalow, well-cared for, with dimly lit rooms and softly cool spaces, no need for air conditioning except on the hottest days. Juan indicated his bedroom, and I was wowed. There were jewel-colored velvets and enormous dark wood furniture, plus his favorite pieces of Central and South American art. There was an outstanding nude photograph, black and white, very old, like maybe it was from the middle of the last century. There was also an enormous bed. I turned to smile at him, trying to think of something to ask him because I suddenly found myself tongue-tied. That's when he leaned in and kissed me. Just like that. He was gentle. He touched his lips to mine in the most careful, deliberately slow way, testing the waters. I felt voracious at that moment, but I didn't accelerate. I just concentrated on his touch, feeling him, for some long and lovely moments. When I opened my mouth and took his tongue, it was warm and sweet, and still deliberately slow. I was frenzied when I was turned on, and this was both refreshing and excruciating. I wanted him. Now. A part of my mind reminded me that I had never cheated on my husband, that I had a lot of commitments and responsibilities, that I didn't even have a condom on me. But my body was literally singing with want, a burning need that felt like hot chills running up and down the insides of my legs. I had missed that feeling. I hadn't had it in so many years, I'd almost forgotten. I was angry with my husband. I knew that much. I was frustrated with him and his endless needs right now, how much I felt like I was stuck doing because he was trying to stay sober and find his health again. He had multiple appointments and obligations all week long, and I was trying to be patient with him and his focus on himself. We hadn't had sex in awhile; I had tried initiating it, and he'd been too uninterested or self-involved to participate. I knew he was still on porn sites on his iPad, when he was by himself (I wasn't checking on his iPad when he wasn't around; I had accidentally walked in on him a couple of times) so maybe it was me that gave him no inspiration. At least I knew, at some level, he was still interested in sex. With Juan, there was no baggage. Or routine. It was all new, all of it beyond exciting. The new lover is always intriguing, as he is the undiscovered country. Plus, this was clandestine, my secret self, far removed from anyone who knew me. I could be who I chose to be, with Juan. He was almost chaste at first, his hands on either side of my ribcage, holding me so carefully. When my hands began to roam his body, his fingers turned into claws, digging into my flesh. I pressed myself into his body, wanting to feel him with my whole being. Juan picked me up and put me on his bed. I kicked off my shoes, and pulled him to me, kissing his neck, along his jaw, across his collar bone. He slowly moved into my body, both of us still mostly dressed, pressing himself down onto me. I slowly unbuttoned his shirt, letting my hands explore the muscles of his chest, his abdomen, then pushing the shirt off of his shoulders. He had a gold chain on, a beautiful contrast on his darker skin. He was also almost completely hairless. He took over for a bit, gently pulling off my shirt, his fingertips tracing the place where my bra just barely covered my breasts. He found the top button of my jeans, and slowly opened them with one hand, then pushed them off of me. For a brief second, when I was down to my underwear and he was down to his black jeans, I felt that twinge of remorse. I hadn't yet gone past the point of no return; I could still stop this, remain the faithful wife. This was infidelity. This was cheating. But that isn't what I wanted, what I was burning for. I pushed him over onto his back. I was in control of myself, my emotions, and my desire. What I did, I did for me, and me alone. Slowly, like he had been slow, I began to kiss my way down his body, starting at the middle of his chest. I used my lips, my tongue, teasing and tasting, making my way to the top button of his jeans. He was hard as a rock, his erection pressing into the front of his jeans. I carefully unfastened those jeans (button fly, of course), then slowly moved them off of his body. He was wearing silk boxers – my heart melted. I was so used to the same old white briefs, the practical underwear, usually with a couple of choice holes or stains. He'd prepared himself as well...or maybe he was just always this sexy. I teased and tormented. I started at his feet, and slowly worked my way up, just as I had on my way down his belly, kissing and tracing him with my tongue. He was trying to control his breath, but it was coming faster and faster. I got to his boxers, and slowly pulled them down, mindful of his erect cock. Here it was. The absolute point of no return. I slipped out of my bra and panties, and positioned myself between his legs. He was new to me, unknown, undiscovered. His body was entirely different from the man I was used to. I slowly explored him, his long cock, the smooth skin of it, the whole area around his cock. He smelled good, he tasted good. He'd taken the time, to be mindful of how he would look and feel with me. No man had done that for me for...how long? I kissed the tender inner place on his thigh, could feel his pulse rolling fast and strong. Then I deep throated his cock, pushing down fast and pulling out slow. He groaned loud, his back arching, his limbs tensing up. I looked up at him, met his eyes, his own half-closed as I continued to suck, to stroke, to lick, using my hands, my fingers, to touch him. "No, no, no," he was saying, trying to stop me. I didn't understand. Juan was gasping for air, and he didn't pull away, but he wanted me to stop. I must have looked puzzled. "No – not yet," he gasped. Then he pulled me to him, kissing me deeply. His hands slid down my body, his left hand pushing between my legs. "You're so wet," he groaned. He pushed me up into the pillows, his hands still stroking my body. Then, while he watched my face, he moved down between my legs, his mouth going right to my soaked pussy. Now I was the one groaning, arching my back, my head pushing backward into the pillows as my hands clawed the bed. He was just a little too good, his tongue teasing and probing, just the right movement in just the right place. He'd move a way a little, sucking on me, his tongue going up into me. I was in ecstasy, my heart pounding so hard, my senses filled with Juan and only Juan. The heat was building, higher and higher, the crawl of hot chills from the inside of my feet going up through my inner thighs, the best feeling in the world. I exploded with my climax. My body trembled, the involuntary thumps and quivers, my heart beating ever harder, the wave of sweetness pushing through my whole being. For the most delicious moment, all was right with my world. I hadn't come like that in a decade, at least. He continued to taste, to probe, until I begged him to stop. I was almost too sensitive. He pushed himself up and over me, his cock still hard. I knew I wanted him more than anything in the world, right at that moment. But he was going in naked, no condom, not even a question about safety. I knew this was wrong. I knew it, and I didn't stop him or care. How dangerous was that? But I knew, at that moment, that I needed his cock inside me, and I wasn't considering the consequences. A part of me was tired of being practical and sensible. A part of me didn't even want to consider sexually transmitted diseases, pregnancy, outright stupidity. Juan carefully, slowly, inserted himself into me. He pinned my wrists down, so I couldn't just grab the tops of his hips and pull him deep inside. I wanted him. I was begging him, while demanding that he not stop. He was shushing me, his eyes on mine, his indulgent smile. Then he kissed me, and I could taste myself, so sweet and erotic, so taboo. I wanted his mouth, I wanted his cock, and I pushed my mouth on his, greedy and expectant. Slowly Juan was finding his rhythm, thrusting slowly and deliberately, holding himself deep inside me as I writhed beneath him, meeting him thrust-for-thrust. This was what sex was supposed to feel like, want and desire and the need to make someone else feel good. I had almost forgotten. "Shhh, shhh," he was saying, trying to get me to slow down, to stop. I couldn't. And then he couldn't stop himself, either. His eyes closed, his body stiffened, and then he thrust a bit faster and harder. As he started to come, he growled long and loud, dropping his face into my shoulder. His body relaxed into mine, his cock still inside me, as I panted beneath him. For now, for this space in time, I wasn't going to think about anything but Juan. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 03 We lay together, him mostly on top of me but him shifting himself so his weight was on the bed. He was kissing me so tenderly, along each eyebrow, on my neck, my earlobe, even sucking my bottom lip into his mouth. "Your eyes are so green," he said softly. A fragment of my partially-Irish heritage, no doubt. I was that mix of poor European ancestry: Eastern Europe, the southern part of Italy, and my Irishness. Hearty stock, survivors all, but hardly exotic or interesting. Bland white girl. I wasn't even attempting to be blond any more, letting my hair darken into an ordinary sort of light brown. He likes my hair. He's twirling the long strands of it around his fingers, admiring the softness of it, the gentle wave (I was forever flat-ironing it). He's amazed that I'm as old as I say, although I don't feel nearly thin enough for the current mode of fashion. I'm not in amazing shape, but I'm still feeling pretty good about my body, having finally shed the baby weight and making myself exercise to keep my sanity through everything. Juan loves my soft skin, his darker hand against my much paler breast. The nipples harden under his fingers, and he's entranced. When he begins to suck on them, I'm over the moon, cooing with pleasure. I can't even decide what I like best: the part building up to the sex, the part where we have sex, or the sweet moments after sex. It's a difficult decision, since we continue to have sex, over and over again. I'm on top one time, moving my hips all the different ways that I can, letting him slide nearly all the way out and holding him there, to tease and torment him, while he tries to push himself all the way in again. Then he's behind me, his fingers working me into a froth, one hand massaging my clit while the other strokes my breast. Then we sit, facing each other, my legs over his, our arms wrapped around each other, our eyes locked as he thrust slowly. "You are soaked," he told me. "I'm full of your come," I replied, my eyes never leaving his. He's nodding, still thrusting, and I'm still so turned on by him that I'm pretty sure I'm going to climax again – and I hardly ever come, just from fucking, even though it still feels good. Usually takes direct clitoral stimulation. It's him, and this position, and the way he's looking at me, and how crazy with desire I am – and him. We were together at his house for about three hours. I realized I needed to head home, and I was starving. He laughed, made me a sandwich as I was getting dressed. There was something so sweet about that. "When will I see you again?" he asked me. "When do you want to see me again?" I ask. "I don't want you to leave," he said. "So you need to come back soon." I'm already considering the possibilities, how quickly I can get away again. I don't want to leave, either. He wraps up my sandwich, gives me a couple of napkins, and walks me to my car. He kisses me goodbye for a long time. I don't want him to stop, but I'm about half an hour behind at this point, and the edges of my guilt are starting to bite at me. I'm finally heading home, my head swirling. Literally. I've just had the best sex I've had in more than ten years. I'm so into this guy I've known less than a week. And I'm still married, I still have a child, a whole real life full of troubles, and I'm feeling some remorse even while my spirit is singing with the pleasure of seeing Juan again. I even briefly recalled _Madame Bovary_, and how I hadn't liked the book at all in college. I get home, a little later than I was expected, but both of my guys are deeply involved in their screens – one of them a smartphone, the other an iPad – with the TV blaring. For just a moment, I wonder if I look different, if there's some obvious alteration to my being that's going to be readily apparent. But both of them barely notice that I have returned. I wander through our house, doing a few things that I do – straightening up, tending to this and that, considering dinner – and even go ahead and give my little boy a juice. He barely looks up. Should I take a shower? Should I not bother to care, unless someone notices? My lips are bruised. My pussy is completely worn out. I feel freakin' great. I feel terrible for my husband, the man I committed to. But the patterns of my life reassert themselves, despite how different I feel. I go over the employment listings, I make a dinner that neither guy seems particularly interested in, though they both eat a little. It's not unpleasant. It's just not – being with Juan. I'm imagining him. I'm recalling what we did together, my whole body vibrating with the memories. I'm thinking about his eyes, his lips, the shape of his cock. I want to touch his hair, his face. I want to make him smile. I want to make him come. In my head, I'm seeing him with me, talking with me as we go through the evening together, sharing food, sharing our night. I spoke a total of two sentences to my husband that night. Otherwise, he barely acknowledged my existence. His only words to me were "mmm," and "thank you." There's no doubt I'm kind of in a low place in my life. That my husband and I have lost the spark long ago, that we are consumed by the drudgeries of life: money, employment, insurance, less than perfect health, less than perfect learning abilities. I still love my spouse. I just don't like him very much right now. Sometimes, I kind of hate him. He's at physical therapy the next morning, and two AA meetings, one that's a weekly meditation, one that's being helmed by his close friend, so he feels like he has to be there. My morning is free. I have things I should probably do, but nothing I have to do. I text Juan: BREAKFAST? He replies: WHEN CAN YOU BE HERE? I'm married. This is not me. This is not who I am. I'm not a person who goes looking for pleasure, who likes sneaking around. I'm trying to be a responsible, level-headed grownup, to take care of business. So I shower in the evening, and again in the morning. I drop my kid off at school, and I put on my favorite maxi dress, but no underwear. I go easy on the lotions, on the makeup, but I'm still careful in my preparations. And I'm trying not to rush, or take too much time. I get to his house, armed with fresh eggs and fresh brioche, even two cafe lattes from my favorite French place. Juan opens the door, even before I'm all the way up the front walk. I hand him his latte, give him a smile. He's smiling, too, like he's trying not to smile but he can't help himself. He's guiding me into the house, leading me to the kitchen. I put down my grocery sack and my purse, tasting my coffee. "This is good," he says. I nod. "So's the coffee," I reply. He's pulling me to him, the coffee and breakfast temporarily forgotten, pushing me up onto the counter. He runs his hands up my bare legs, discovers that I'm wearing nothing underneath – and just has sex with me, right there. It hurts so good I can't even stand it. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 04 I've spent a lot of time with this new lover of mine. We've talked, a lot, about our lives, our selves, what we wish for. We've gone out to eat a couple of times, and we've had epic amounts of sex. When we have talked about my marriage, I've not put any qualifiers on it. Juan knows I'm unhappy, but that I love my spouse. Juan understands that my sex life with my husband has been pathetic, since before our kid was born, and that my husband is a former professional baseball player (only a couple of incomplete seasons in the majors) with a baseball obsession but no real future in baseball, other than maybe as a school coach, which he's not interested in. Juan also knows that my spouse refuses to leave L.A. ever again, having been born and raised in the area and being sort of snobbish about the regions (he hates the Valley, for instance, which I find incongruous). But I haven't told Juan that I'm angry and frustrated and why, that sometimes I fantasize about leaving my spouse even without someone else to go to, that I feel ignored and neglected and taken for granted and that all we do is bark at each other sometimes. I've talked about the devastating robbery, about deciding to have a child late in life, about my career in high tech. It wasn't what I chose to do with my life, but I've been pretty good at my job, which is basically designing and maintaining networks and troubleshooting. I've mostly worked for big companies that actually sell such support products, but not any companies that I liked or would work for again. I wanted this job I was offered near Santa Cruz when I got out of college, but my future husband needed to be nearer to the minor league system, and I chose him. I'm not sure if I made the right choice or not. Quite a few years back, some friends/colleagues from many years in the trenches were going to work for this start-up named Google, and tried to talk me into coming along. My now-husband was in the Kansas City Royals' farm system, and I talked to him about maybe just giving it a shot. He talked me out of it, convincing both of us that nothing would come of it, that I was better off just staying with him in the Midwest than moving back to California. Some days, I do have to remind myself not to be bitter about that one. I try to be blasé about it, but my life is sometimes a series of very bad choices, regrets for things I did do and things I did not do. I don't seem to have a lot of luck in most any regard, personal or professional. I didn't see Juan for about five days in a row, which was right when I was having my period anyway. I guess I should have been glad it started in the first place. He was out of town, telling me where he was going but not why (I didn't pry), and I had to deal with a school district meeting and evaluation in the meantime. He called twice, and texted several more times, so I knew he was thinking about me. When he came back, he asked me if I'd be available to go to one of his epic parties. I'd heard stories about them, and felt like this was a big, big step. He was inviting me into his real world, where his friends and other people he knew lived. I would meet them. I would interact with them. I would be -- what would I be? How would he introduce me? Would I be yet another friend of his, or would I be the married woman he was currently having epic amounts of sex with? I felt good about us. I don't know why, exactly. There was a certain amount of trust, and the way he lit up when he saw me. We did not discuss our future, or try to put a definition on things, and the word love was never used. I didn't make any demands, or want to know where we were going with this. I simply lived in the moment, always happy to see him, always grateful to spend time with him. About three weeks into it, my husband asked me what I'd been doing all day. I stared at him, took a deep breath. I had told him I was running errands, going to the gym, but he hadn't really listened. Just like always. "I've been making love with a beautiful man for the last several hours," I told him. I don't know what possessed me. "Sounds major," he replied. "Did you remember to get dishwashing liquid and socks at Target?" Yes, of course I did. I had them on my list. Because that's what I did. The shopping and the money managing and the housecleaning and the worrying and the dealing. My husband was pretty certain I wouldn't be having sex with another man that day. Maybe he didn't think I was desirable enough. Maybe he thought I wouldn't be interested. Maybe since he didn't want me -- But those thoughts were ultimately destructive. I had stood there, while the axe whizzed past my head, and I'd remained unscathed. My confession fell on deaf ears, as he went back to whatever screen he was interested in. So I went to Juan's party. I dressed carefully, wearing a tight little sweater dress that made my breasts and ass look amazing, and suede heels. I showed up about an hour after it started, and it was still winding up. So maybe I was still too early. He kissed me enthusiastically, but not for very long, and I asked him if he needed help. He did not; various people were already handling the heavy lifting. He did not introduce me to people. He was flitting about, handling the details, talking to everyone, a little bit manic, so I introduced myself -- by name only. If anybody asked how I knew him, I said that I had met him at Homeland Security. I didn't tell any lies. But nobody asked me many questions. People were pretty interesting, a very lively and intelligent group, missing a lot of the superficiality I was used to in L.A., though I could still find a little of that. The food and alcohol was pretty good, too. It was a lot of fun, but Juan didn't pay all that much attention to me. At one point, there must have been a good one hundred and fifty people there, filling his house and his front and backyards. I was talking to an incredibly sexy musician, a little too young for me, but still -- when I saw something I wished I had not seen. I was in a part of the house that didn't have a direct view to his bedroom door, but I could see the door in a reflection of a mirror. I didn't stand there on purpose; I was actually hanging out over by the stereo while the hot musician was talking music with me and some other guys. There were two beautiful women, who looked to be rather young, and very scantily clothed, in sky-high heels, and Juan was ushering them into his bedroom. He looked over his shoulder briefly, and I wasn't entirely sure if I saw his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but then he went in, and locked the door (I saw the old-fashioned tab-thing move into the locked position). And remained in there for at least half an hour. It was an unbearably long half hour. I know, because I actually checked my watch. When thirty minutes finally passed in the space of three hours, I said I needed some fresh air. I had downed three sangrias, and I felt completely nauseous. I knew I was in no condition to drive home, but I halfway thought I might sit in my car and try to sober up, and maybe cry my head off. This was a horrible feeling. I burned with envy, loss, and my own unworthiness. I was too old, I wasn't hot enough. And I shouldn't expect his fidelity in the first place, right? I was a married woman, having an affair with him. He was probably still sleeping with other people this whole time. I was inwardly chastising myself for my unsafe sex with him, convincing myself to sober up as quickly as possible. My hot musician friend was being wonderful to me, and he didn't know how much I needed it. He wanted to go outside with me, so we made our way through the party and into the backyard, where we sat on a bench under a tree. I'd have to manage this pain somehow, deal with this loss. I felt alone and desolate, yet again, and mused how I was quite certain that rejection was the worst feeling in the world. Maybe worse than betrayal. And I thought of my husband, and felt immeasurably awful. "Do you want another drink?" Oscar asked me. He was the hot musician. He was named after his grandfather, and he was of Cuban descent, though he grew up in the states. "I drank too many, too fast," I explained. "They tasted good, and I should have paced myself, because now I feel disgusting. I was mostly going to try not to puke on you." He grinned, saucy and young. "Let me get you something," he said. He went back into the house, and I saw Juan briefly. He came out into the backyard, looked around, was checking in with people. I hoped I was mostly invisible, across the yard on this bench, that he wouldn't see me. And I cannot explain why I was horribly disappointed when he did not take notice of me. Oscar came back with a sparkling mineral water that he'd added something to, like a tincture. I drank it gratefully. "Family recipe," he explained. "If it doesn't work, I'll still hold your hair." "You're such a gentleman," I remarked. "I'm just relieved," he said. "I wasn't really going to puke on you," I said. "I would have given you fair warning." "No," he laughed. "Not about that. Juan's been telling me about this lady he's seeing, someone he's crazy for, says they hardly spend any time out of bed. I was afraid that she might be you. But he just hooked up with someone else while you and I were hanging out." There it was. It was way too much for me to process, to consider. I didn't know what to think at that moment. So I bluffed, pretended I was holding way different cards. "Definitely not me," I said with a chuckle. "I'm too old, I'm unemployed, and I'm stuck in a troubled and sexless relationship with a former baseball player recovering from alcoholism." "So I can get your phone number?" he asked, and I wasn't sure if he was teasing. "Of course," I told him. "Because I'm such a catch in this womanless city we call Los Angeles." It was hard to act at being normal instead of distressed, but what the hell -- I was a woman, and I could always fake it. We talked and laughed and discussed music until I was starting to shiver, at which point I was pretty sure I was sober enough to drive. So Oscar, that sweetheart, said he'd walk me to my car. I wanted to get into and out of the house without seeing Juan. And I was bloody afraid that that was exactly what would happen. I hated this, not wanting him to see me, and then feeling awful when he didn't see me. It was fucking junior high school. I was too old for that shit. The party was a little less busy and frenzied, and I surmised that some people had left. I grabbed my coat and purse from the rack, and Oscar held the front door open for me. I realized at that moment that that was the last time I was going to be in that lovely bungalow, which had been my happy place for almost five weeks. Then I pushed that thought hard out of my mind. I was done now. We walked to my car, and I thanked him for making my evening. Well, he had. I got in my car, hit the start button, and rolled down the window. "Nice Audi." "Thanks," I replied. "This woman Juan's seeing also has an Audi," Oscar observed, watching me curiously. "That's weird. They're such rare cars," I said, deadpan. He smiled. "So. About that phone number," he said. I gave him a strange look. "You really want my phone number?" I said, my disbelieving tone. "If I don't get it tonight, then I have to wait until the party six months from now, and hope that you show up again," Oscar explained. "Otherwise, then I'm bugging Juan about how to get ahold of you." "Awright," I conceded, and gave it to him. Finally, he leaned in for a kiss. I cradled his face in my hands, giving him a much longer kiss than I expected to. We said our final goodbyes, and I drove away. I almost made it all the way to the freeway before I started sobbing. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 05 WHERE ARE YOU? the text demanded. I looked up briefly from my morning beverage, and ignored it. Like I'd been ignoring Juan's texts and voicemails for the last week. When I was driving home from the party, my phone had beeped. It was Oscar, texting me, telling me he was really glad he'd met me, and to please stop reading texts while driving. And if I'd already been in a wreck, to please call him to come rescue me. I had to laugh. I had to stop crying long enough to laugh. But I also noticed additional texts, and missed phone calls, which I didn't bother to check while I was driving. By the time I was home, I had convinced myself the texts and missed calls were from my husband or some other people, but I was right only in one case. Two missed phone calls from Juan, plus two voicemails, and three texts, all of them in the time from after I got to the party until I had left. I had no idea what to do about Juan. Maybe I would just ignore him forever, until he went away. I was completely raw, actually. All I had to do was picture him going into his bedroom with those two young women, the turning of the lock, and hear Oscar telling me that Juan had hooked up, and my resolve tightened. What I didn't want to hear again was what else Oscar had told me, about the woman that Juan was crazy about, so that he spent almost no time with her when they weren't in the sack, and how she drove an Audi. I argued with myself. Maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn't me. I wasn't entirely sure. Either way, it hurt. I was also debating what, if anything, to say to Juan. It felt too impossible to tell him the truth: I saw you go into your bedroom with two women, and it really hurt, although logically, I have no right to feel that way. I consider a vaguer approach, like saying that it was just too bizarre, too wrong to suddenly be integrated into his real life, and that I needed to back off now, permanently. Or saying that I regretted what I was doing to my husband, and to the well-being of my family, so I couldn't see him any more. I even considered telling him I was now more interested in Oscar than him, but that was mostly a revenge fantasy. (I had texted three times with Oscar now. Mostly just check-ins – we hadn't made a plan yet. Part of me felt like a complete asshole – though my association with Oscar was still innocent, I was effectively cheating with the good friend of the guy I was cheating with on my husband.) So for now, I let Juan hang. I didn't really owe him anything. Right? I finished my coffee, took a shower, brushed my teeth and briefly considered what I was doing with my day. My husband came in to the bathroom, told me he was going off to meet his sponsor, then one of his friends at a coffee place, but he'd be back sometime after lunch and before our kid got home. About ten minutes after he left there was a knock at the front door. I knew for a fact that people were knocking on doors during the day to ascertain who was at home, and who they could rob. Not going to happen again, god-fucking-dammit. So I answered the door quickly, hoping I looked threatening or at least crazy. It was Juan. He had about three distinct emotions: relief, rage and hurt. "What the fuck?" I asked. "Are you kidding me?" "Why haven't you called me back?" he demanded. "Why have you shut me out?" I groaned, rolled my eyes. But I unlocked the security door, walked away from him as I headed into my own kitchen and he followed me. I almost offered him some coffee, and then decided not to. Folding my arms in front of me, I asked in the coldest, quietest voice I could manage: "What are you doing here?" He was really upset. For just a second, I was a little frightened of him. "I can't – you didn't – one day, everything's great, and the next, you won't even speak to me. I have been going crazy! Did you know that? I am going out of my head!" Very calmly, as steady in tone as I was before, I replied: "I didn't know you were going to be fucking other people at your party. It was too much for me to handle. I know I have no right to feel rejected, to be hurt – but there it is. Then I realized how incredibly stupid this all was. There's no place for you in my life." Now Juan looked destroyed. He was always such a cool customer, so controlled, and to see him in this state was jarring, and disconcerting. "Don't you care about me at all?" he asked, and his voice was ragged. I huffed a laugh. "Of course I do. I'm consumed with you. You're the best thing to happen in my life in a very long time. I can't stop thinking about you. But clearly, I can't – easily share you with others. Which is irrational. You and I – we have no rules, no parameters, no expectations. It is what it is. And it's beyond foolish, especially for me." "What about me?" Juan demanded. "I can't even keep you at night, even though I can smell you in my bed, taste you in my mouth. I have to wait for you. I'm always waiting for you! I tell people about you, but I can't tell them the truth, about your life with your husband and child. I can't even tell you how I feel, because I'm afraid you'll run away!" I stared at Juan for a long moment, considering everything. "Wow. This was really a bad idea." "No, it wasn't," he insisted, moving toward me. "This was no mistake." I should have stopped him. He got right into my personal space, his body so close I could feel the familiar rush of heat. I still wanted him. I couldn't stop. So I went with the one thing that I knew would hurt him. "My husband could come home at any minute, you know," I told him. "I'm not ready to destroy him over something that's already over." "Not over," Juan insisted. He began to touch me, to kiss my forehead, the side of my face. I should have pushed him away, but I didn't. I was at least determined not to reciprocate, though it was killing me. He then started to unzip my hoodie, his fingers tracing down my naked breast. "We can't," I sighed. But he wasn't going to take no for an answer. His body was pressing me against the kitchen counter, and he was preventing me from moving away from him, even when I tried. I tried to scoot away, and he pressed into me harder. I reached for the counter ledge for leverage, and he snagged my wrist, pulled it away, locking both of my hands in one of his. My heart was beating a lot harder. I was frightened, and unhappily turned on. How far would he take this? I knew what I could do, how to defend myself, but it would mean actually physically hurting him, which I still could not do. I could head-butt him, hard, go for his eyes, or snap my knee into his groin, smash my hands over both ears – but that was a last resort, if I had really wanted to stop him. I quietly demanded that he let me go, and he responded by yanking my yoga pants down with his other hand. I told him to stop as he unfastened his jeans, pushed them down, his erection pressing against me. Then he guided himself inside me, while I writhed against him, still trying to get away. He penetrated, pushing into me while I still struggled, both of us unbelievably turned on. He pressed his mouth on mine, holding tightly to the side of my head so I couldn't move away, my two hands still locked in his other hand. I began to cry. I couldn't help it. I wasn't being raped, or violated – I wanted him too much. But my helplessness, my need for him so overwhelming that I couldn't walk away, how untenable this situation was – and I was weeping with my sadness and frustration, my weakness and my want. He pulled away, taking my hands and kissing both of my palms, pulling out as he pulled off his shirt, pushed all the way out of his jeans and boots, and knelt before me, pulling my pants all the way off. He pushed my legs apart, and began to lick my pussy, all the ways he could give me pleasure. There was a naked man in my brightly lit kitchen, going down on me, the light coffee skin of his legs as he was kneeling in sharp contrast to the white tile of my floor. Tears slid down my face, as I gasped and moaned and wept, holding onto the counter for dear life. What if my spouse walked in right now? What if I was finally caught, and my hand was forced, a confrontation with all three of us there? I would have to confess, face up to my failures, make some hard decisions. Maybe it was time anyway. I couldn't continue with the way things were. I was too unhappy. Juan's tongue flicked and probed, and my thighs vibrated with it. No matter what else, he was making me feel really, really good. This was the want I couldn't escape. I didn't want to come, but knew it was inevitable. My clit was engorged, the juices were flowing, and those hot chills were working their way up my legs. I came, so hard, my feet flexed in a painful spasm, my shriek so loud I was afraid the neighbors would hear. And I kept coming, his mouth and tongue working me into a frenzy until my arms couldn't hold me up any more. Juan's face was wet. He was watching me, as I gasped and panted, a few tears still sliding down, and he wiped his bare arm across his face. He slowly stood up, and I wondered vaguely if his legs had gone to sleep, kneeling on the hard floor. He was watching me, his eyes burning. I was frightened again, and for good reason. He suddenly and forcefully pushed me around, pushing me hard into the counter again, taking me from behind as he shoved his cock into me, none of his slowness and gentleness in evidence. He pushed my body down onto the counter, his hand locked around the back of my neck. "Do you think you can get away from me?" he menaced, his voice low and dangerous. He was thrusting, hard, the front of my hips and tops of my thighs crashing into the hard counter. I was going to be bruised. "Do you understand, mija?" he growled and gasped. "This is mine. I can't live without this. I can't live without you. I love you too much. Mi diosa. Mi amore." He was going to make me come again. I hated the command he had over my desire. I wanted to fight him, even still. "Pendejo!" I spat. "Puta," he snarled. "Ojete!" I snapped back. He lay on top of me, still thrusting, weaving his fingers into mine on both hands. His body tightened as he started to come, and I wasn't far behind. My heart was beating in my ears, and the head rush was making me temporarily deaf, pinching my head in a strange little headache. The sweet wave of pleasure and endorphins washed over me, as a flood of come began to slide down my inner thighs. The feeling usually drove me crazy. "Are you okay?" he finally breathed. No. Definitely not. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 06 We'd had sex in my kitchen, which I had just carefully cleaned the day before. I had been inhaling the scent of bleach on my counter, while he fucked me from behind, pounding into me. Now he had found a clean dishtowel, was running it under the warm water, wiping us both up. "You know more Spanish than I thought," he finally remarked. "Yeah. And you called me a whore." "I called you a goddess, first," he reminded me. "You called me an asshole." I almost told him that he was an asshole. We were pulling our clothes back on, and I felt a small bit of desolation when he pulled his boots back on. As if he was getting ready to leave. But he and I sat on the sectional, drinking iced tea, flavored with peach and mint. "You have a lovely house," he told me. "No, I don't," I smiled. "I hate this place. I hate the textured walls, and I hate the eggshell color. I hate the ants and the mice, and I hate the lack of storage. It doesn't just lack soul. This place is soul-crushing." "You could sell it." "We're renting," I sighed. "Mr. Baseball doesn't want to own anything, if he has to move suddenly for his imaginary job." Juan studied me. "Do you consider yourself rich or poor?" he asked me. It was one of the things we had never discussed. "I don't know," I confessed. "I've been working class, or lower, most of my life. Raised by a single parent with personal issues and the inability to hold a job longterm, lots of government cheese and school lunch programs. I never starved, though. And I went to Stanford, so I can't really whine about a lack of opportunities." I had hated Stanford. I'd worked abysmally hard to get there, and it was so difficult, an unexpected challenge, and I barely made it through even with a couple of semesters on academic probation. I was also so lonely and isolated, I had latched onto my future spouse, who was there on a baseball scholarship and felt a lot of the same sadnesses and desperations that I did. We got each other through. I had thought he was my soulmate at the time. "How much is your car payment?" he asked. I was a little offended, but I let it go. "I own it outright. I bought it at auction. It was a repossession, and I had to pay through the ass to get it rekeyed, but it was still a bargain, barely more than a year old and very low miles, since the prior owner hid it to keep it from being repo'd," I explained. "I decided when I turned forty-one, that I needed a decent car for once in my life. I was actually shopping for a Toyota or Volkswagen at the time." I paused. "Are we having the money talk?" "I – realize that I don't know everything about you." "You've only known me for six weeks," I replied. "And we've mostly had sex, not talked. So I try and keep the bills paid, and not live beyond our means. My husband is a little foolish with money, but always less than four figures, and we both got screwed when the stock market took a dive. The credit cards get used, then we work hard to pay them off, and then they get used again, so we pay them off again. It's not entirely functional. But we're not starving, either." "What's in your future?" he asked. That was a leading question. "I need to find another job," I said. "I don't really want to do what I was doing, and I'm a little afraid that my skills and knowledge are not up-to-date with the current tech. But I have few options. There's lots of stuff I've applied for, and one potentially good position coming up in Seattle." "What about your marriage?" I shrugged. "Would you move to Seattle?" he asked me. "I wouldn't mind," I said. "If that's where my next job is, that's where I'm going. I love Seattle. I have to think about more than myself. My kid needs to be in a good school system, or I need to be able to afford a private school." "What about your husband?" "He needs to grow up. I'm not going to miss out on yet another great job for him. He hasn't worked in over two years; his last paying position was a minor league base coach. If he doesn't want to move, that's fucking tough." Juan was considering me for a long moment. Then he leaned in, and began to kiss me. He pulled me to him, and his hands began to move under my shirt. I checked my watch, told him we had about an hour, and we were stripping down again. It occurs to me that I have never before had sex on this sectional. It also occurred to me that I didn't like my real life interfering with my sex life. Being with Juan was like a separate part of my existence that didn't intersect with the reality of my home and family. His house had been something of a romantic sanctuary for me, where I could be the person I wanted to be. Here, in this house, I was who I really am, the tired and rumpled mom with too much on her plate. His home was dimly lit, was deliciously appointed for sex. This house was brightly lit, stark and sterile, furnished with the most bland and utilitarian furnishings, constantly in the state of chaos provided by a five-year-old boy. Seeing him in this setting was almost incongruous. The contrast was painful, not even considering that he was in a position to be revealed as my illicit lover. His place versus my place was like the contrast between candlelight and fluorescent light, and I realized he could see every flaw in my forty-plus body. I concentrated on his face, watching his eyes, as we moved together, the familiar dance. He was being slow and gentle again, none of the frenzy of our craziness in my kitchen. He spent a lot of time kissing me, tasting my mouth, his lips on my neck and shoulders and breasts. When he fucked me, he was deliberate and controlled, relishing each thrust, each stroke. When he came, his entire body trembled with it as he tried to push his cock deeper into me. I was lying in his arms, determined to remember that love was love and sex was sex, and love was never sex and sex was never love. He was asking me if he should leave before my husband came home, and I told him to do what he wanted to do. So when my husband came home, I introduced the two of them. My husband was his usual vague self, clasping Juan's hand and then going straight to the fridge. We obviously had no alcohol, and his doctor was warning him to stay away from the soft drinks for now. So we had a large selection of spring waters, sparkling waters, vitamin waters, and sports drinks. "Have we met?" my husband asked Juan, after asking me about the hiding place of the multivitamins. "I don't believe so," Juan replied. "You look totally familiar," my husband said, taking a long drink from his water as he took his vitamins and pills. "Juan is sometimes an actor," I told my spouse, reciting the forgettable movies my spouse likely saw with Juan in them. My husband responded enthusiastically, was asking Juan what he was working on lately. Then Juan started asking my husband about his baseball career, which took up a good twenty minutes. "So how do you guys know each other?" my husband asked. "We were both waiting for help at Homeland Security at the same time," I replied, glancing at Juan. "No shit," my husband replied. "That no-fly list is a fucking beast, isn't it?" Juan glanced at me. "Yeah, it is," he agreed. "You leaving the house today?" my husband asked me. I shrugged. "Okay, cool," my husband said. "I'll take the kid out to the park or something while you get the groceries and hit the hardware store. We're out of mousetraps. Oh, and you might take my truck to get washed. The birds are at it again." "Anything else?" I asked, faking my sweet voice. "I'll let you know. I may have a prescription for you to pick up. Nice to meet you, Juan. What were you guys planning on doing today?" "Juan and I were planning on having crazy-hot sex, right here on the couch," I replied. "Okay, good," my husband replied, turning on the TV, immediately searching the listings for his baseball game. "She's hilarious, isn't she?" he said directly to Juan. "Completely," Juan replied, his eyes locked on mine. There it was, then. Everything I didn't or couldn't tell him about my marriage, and all of it blazingly obvious. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 07 So I've essentially confessed twice to my husband that I've been messing around on him. And he hasn't really acknowledged it either time. Maybe it doesn't interest him. Two days after Juan just showed up at my house, he then asked me to come to his house. I wasn't sure if he wanted to clear the air, or to find the place where we were only a couple of weeks ago. We'd been texting back and forth. His first text to me, after he left my house, was: YOUR MARRIAGE IS OVER. I had texted back: JUST THE GOOD PARTS. For my part, I didn't want to discuss it with Juan. It wasn't really any of his business. I was thinking that a rational break at this point was probably the logical step. Break things off with Juan, and then decide how to break things off with my husband, to stop playing at being a married couple and just agree to live more separate lives, to raise our son cooperatively but just quit this pointless charade. I'd been done for awhile. I'd been contemplating this separation the last few weeks before he ended up in rehab, but I didn't want to bail on him in his hour of need. I'm not sure he noticed I was there for him, but he would have noticed if I wasn't. And I didn't take a great deal of pains to prepare myself to see Juan. I reminded myself that the last time I had been to his house, I had really dressed up – for nothing. I did only what I would do to go to the store or maybe a doctor's appointment: showered, hair straightened, and clean casual clothes. I was even a half hour late. He opened his front door, looked relieved, brought me inside. He had made us lunch, and sat me down at his patio table, pouring me a juice concoction. I wasn't very hungry, but I could eat. But I purposely refused to give in, to relax and be in the moment with him, to be as happy and enthusiastic as I normally was within these walls. I hadn't planned on coming back here, ever. I certainly wasn't going to make this easier on him. I put up some barriers, and withdrew behind them. Finally, he reached for my hand, caressing it on the table. I hated that his touch always caused a physical reaction with me. I wished it away, this power he had. I wanted to feel nothing. He took my hand and led me away from the table, into his house and toward his bedroom. "I don't think so," I said. "I don't really want to go back into that room." He turned so he was walking backwards, holding both my hands as he backed into his bedroom. "Are you not hearing me?" I grumbled. "I'm not comfortable in this room any more." He had prepared his bedroom, and it was sweet and sad and irritating, all at the same time. He'd switched out the bedding and other fabrics. There were candles burning and rose petals on the bed. He pulled me toward the bed, picked me up and put me on it. "Are you not used to hearing the word no?" I griped, sitting up and making my way off the bed. "Please," he begged. "Just stay here with me. We don't have to do anything." "I just told you I wasn't comfortable in this room." "Please," he said again, taking an enormous rosebud from a vase and stroking my face with it. I rolled my eyes, but I got back on the bed. "Relax, please," he told me. "You're making me more anxious." I grabbed a pillow, and dropped my body onto the bed, near the foot, shoving the pillow up under my head while I turned to look at him. He crawled over so he was closer to me, could touch me. I didn't reciprocate. "You should know two things," he said to me, stroking the rose over my cheek, along my neck, and down between my breasts. "I have used a condom with everyone but you. And I told you I loved you, and you have yet to respond." I closed my eyes, feeling a wave of pain. "This is the real world, now," I told him. "Not the fantasy we've been living in. You've seen my life, all the defects and flaws, by the light of day. There's no more pretending." "I wasn't pretending." I opened my eyes. His were so soft, pleading. "I don't know what you want from me," I swore. "I'm a real person you've only known for six weeks. If that. You realize that out there in the real world, I have monthly periods with awful cramps. Every day I take a shit, yell at my kid, and spend an hour doing laundry. My real life is the opposite of fabulous, and I have very little to look forward to. And today I should be down at the EDD, checking on the status of my unemployment." He shook his head. "I'm not sleeping with you today," I announced. "No pressure. I just want to talk with you. To understand, mija." "Understand what?" I demanded. "We had a few insanely great weeks together. But passion doesn't last. Believe me." "Not true," he said. "There are literally thousands of women in L.A., all of them gorgeous and younger and with a lot less baggage. Why don't you go find one of them? I don't think it's that hard for you." I thought again of the two lovely young women at the party, and I rolled over onto my back, looking away as I informed him: "You just want what you cannot have." "Maybe I made a mistake – at that party," Juan said. "Maybe I was not so satisfied, after all. Maybe I did not realize what I would lose." I took a deep breath. "Probably happened for a reason," I surmised. "So I would let go. Get on with my life. Except now I have to explain to Oscar that I misled him and I was who he thought I was. I hate lying to people, but I'm too old for him anyway." "You met Oscar?" "Yeah. We exchanged numbers. Bad idea. But I was pretty raw." "You're the woman Oscar met?" I looked at Juan again, and he was pretty upset. "You went off and fucked two girls," I pointed out. "So?" "I thought you left. I looked for you all over the place, tried calling you." "I wasn't sober enough to drive." Juan was thinking about something, his eyes distant while he pulled at his bottom lip. "Oscar is going crazy over this woman he just met," Juan said slowly. "Jesus Christ. I am having a busy month." Juan decided to take my wrist and drag me to the head of the bed. He pushed me back onto the pillows, and put his body over mine to hold me down while he reached for something, then tied a rope around my wrist. "Really?" I asked. "Aren't we supposed to discuss boundaries and safe words first?" I struggled against him as he tied my other wrist to another rope. "Not cool," I warned him. "This time I will scream rape." He responded in Spanish, looking very pleased with himself. "You're not eating anything, malparido," I warned him. "It's adorable, how much Mexican Spanish you speak. I should teach you some Dominican colloquialisms." Adorable? "Chinga a tu madre," I snarled. There were some advantages to growing up in Fresno. "No. I'm going to fuck you, instead," he smiled. "Because you got some big huevos, little girl, and you fuck me better than anyone fucks me." He couldn't take my shirt off, since he'd tied up my arms. So he cut it off, producing a knife and proceeding to destroy a long-sleeve t-shirt by happily slitting it down the front and along each sleeve. He loved it when the blade was near my body, because I froze, not wanting to get sliced. He lay the flat part of the blade against my skin once or twice, delighting in how I flinched. When I locked my legs together and refused to let him remove my jeans, he threatened to get out the knife again. So I had to relinquish the rest of my clothing, though I sometimes managed to kick and bite at him while he pulled them away, which only made him hotter. I informed him that I was going to sink my teeth into his cock while he straddled my chest, using his hand to stroke his cock along my cheek. Juan told me in graphic detail what he wanted to do with me, but that it felt too good to just fuck me when I was helpless like this, his teeth sunk into my neck while I screamed and bucked and swore. He came three different times, never pulling out of me, his fingers feeling the place where the ropes bit into my wrists, loving how trapped I was, his smug grin as he allowed himself to do whatever he wanted. Finally, he worked his way to a sitting position while still inside me, pulling my legs over his legs. Watching my face, he began to massage my clit, rubbing it carefully with his thumb and finger. "I'm not going to come for you," I said hoarsely. "If you don't, I won't untie you," he promised in a husky voice. Fine. Then we'd be here all day. I clamped my mouth shut, watching him through narrowed eyes. But it felt so, so good. I'd been restrained and almost helpless this entire time, and the feeling was frightening and dangerous and beyond erotic. He had complete control. I was entirely at his mercy. And he had been relentless, almost cruel, doing whatever he pleased with my body while I was powerless to stop him. I fought him. I was going to talk myself out of orgasm, but I was heating up under his hand. The fear that went with restraint enhanced the sensations Juan was creating with his fingers, his smile still a little too smug as he watched me struggle against him. I had told him I hated him when he was fucking me, though I really didn't. Now I refused to say anything, to even groan and moan with the pleasure of it, the sounds of a woman in sensual ecstasy. But my breath was coming faster, the shakiness of it, when the climax suddenly overwhelmed me. Juan controlled my freedom, and my body, and he even made me come at his command. This relationship was beyond insane. Now he was so careful, so gentle, untying each wrist while he still stayed inside me, shushing me gently as I gasped for air. Both of us were soaked in sweat, and he was kissing the side of my face, whispering words of love in Spanish, terms both sweet and nasty. I was pretty sure when he finally freed my arms, I would punch and slap at him, push him away as I made my escape. Instead, I was wrapping my arms around him, the cold sheen of perspiration on his shoulders and back. He reached for and was rubbing each wrist where the ropes had bitten into the skin; one spot was so abraded that it was bleeding a little. "Sin ti no puedo respirar," he said into my ear. I think he said he couldn't breathe without me. "Te amo," I whispered. Juan took a long, shaky breath. "Tu eres mi vida," he breathed. I think he just said that I was his life. Dark Jeans, Dark Eyes Ch. 08 We lay together in his bed, the familiar space, the spicy scent of some of the candles mingling with the roses and rose petals, which were everywhere. This had been my happy space for some very intense weeks. Then I had hated it, never wanted to set foot in it again. I tried to remind myself of the two girls at the party, of all the women he had fucked in this room, but I couldn't manage to get angry. I was too exhausted. He was talking to me, so quietly, telling me things about himself I hadn't known, thinking aloud about my current situation, talking about my living with him. He was lying on his back, and I was in his arms, lying halfway on the bed and halfway on him, my face against his chest, listening to his heart. For some reason, a Joy Division song was in my head, and I would hum it now and again. We were a mess, covered with sweat and come and rose petals. I actually faded off to sleep, first time ever with him. He was holding me, now talking only a little, and I just zonked out. Then he was gently waking me, leading me to the bathroom where he started the shower and pulled me in with him. He was enormously gentle, soaping me up and washing my hair. I stood there, sort of yawning and trying to clear my head, while he quickly soaped himself up and washed off, me reaching for the sponge so I could give his back a scrub. This pleased him; he leaned in and kissed me, the water pouring over both of us. I was actually starving. My stomach rumbled while we were in the bathroom, as he was putting lotion on my body, a concoction that smelled of plumeria. He then bandaged my two wrists, applying antibiotic and wrapping gauze around each, but said he couldn't do anything about my neck. I didn't know what he was talking about, so I went to the mirror. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I groused. There was a large bite mark on my neck, the impression of his teeth. I shook my head, groaned, and dropped my head into the mirror with a thunk. "I look like I tried to commit suicide," I grumbled, looking at my wrists. He laughed, pulled me to him, kissed me again. He was in a great mood. I pointed out that I had nothing to wear on top, because of him. (He'd even destroyed my bra, which he indicated wasn't nearly sexy enough, compared to what I usually wore with him.) He handed me a shirt from his closet, a burgundy button-down. "This is silk," I pointed out. "Yes," he said. "I'm going to mess it up," I warned him. "Whatever," he said, helping me to put it on. He buttoned the cuffs over my bandages, and straightened the collar over the bite mark. I rolled my eyes, but I was still secretly pleased. Juan took me back to his patio, sat me down again. The light was different; there was more daylight here in the early morning, kind of made the place golden. Later in the afternoon, the sunlight came from a different direction, was more dappled, and there was a lot of greenery making it shady and cool. It was an altogether different meal than the one I had had with him when I first got there today. He brought out about three platters of food, poured me some white wine with bits of orange and grape floating in it, then sat on the small padded bench with me, instead of us in separate chairs on either side of the small table. Our bodies were entwined, and he kept feeding me what he wanted me to try. I was lost in the moment. It was way too easy to succumb. "It's not always going to be like this," I warned him. "So much gloom and doom," he teased me, leaning in to kiss me after I swallowed some wine, tasting my mouth. "What if I can make this happen? Don't you trust me?" I gave him a look, and he laughed. "I trust you," he reminded me. "I'm cheating on my husband with you," I taunted him. "What makes you think I won't cheat on you?" "It's not who you are. You were faithful to a man who doesn't even care what you need. Now you should be free." "Being with you doesn't exactly make me free," I argued with him, pointing at my bandages. "Free to be with me," he said. "I'd get to keep you at night." "I don't think there's enough room for me here." "I'll make room," he promised. "I'm a package deal, Juan. I have a child, a very destructive child. I don't think we can kid-proof this entire house. Plus, I'm too broke to get a divorce. My husband needs his son as much as I do – he and I should raise our little boy together." Juan had already devised what he thought I should do. And most of it made a lot of sense, although the living arrangements were pretty unconventional. It hinged on my getting a job or at least some contract work, and for my husband to find employment as well, or at least to qualify for disability, for neither of us to demand child support from the other. To have a place where our kid lived and for us to stay with him, each of us taking care of him in turn, while we each had another place to stay on our off days. He seemed to think through this arrangement we would find the lives we both needed and financial balance. But I wasn't entirely convinced any of this was a good idea. I feared change in this circumstance. Even if conditions were far from ideal, things weren't in complete upheaval yet. I was even afraid that if I lived with Juan, that I'd come to regret it. "I don't know how you feel about monogamy," I told him, "but I'm pretty certain that in my current state that I'm not polyamorous." "Not what?" "Multiple sex partners," I explained. "If you're fucking other people, then I'm fucking other people." This amused him. "Give me your phone," he said. I gave him a strange look, but I unlocked it and handed it to him. He was thumbing through several screens, finally held the phone to his ear. "Oscar, como estas?" he said. "It's Juan." He paused. "No, she's fine. Better than. You have to stay away from my lady, mijo. Now." He paused again. "That was just a mistake. She's my life, hermano." He paused again. "I know that, too. Let her go." Then he hung up without saying goodbye. "That was pretty fucking rude. Oscar was incredibly kind to me when you weren't. Isn't he your friend?" "Do you believe in me now?" Juan asked. I could only smirk at him. I wasn't giving in, just yet. Once again, I waited until I was sober before I headed home. I'd had about four texts from my husband, and he wasn't very happy with me. I tried not to think all the way home as I went to the store and then got takeout. My spouse started in on me as soon as I walked in the door. Lately, he bitched, I had been sort of flaky, hadn't been holding up my end. He was feeling put out. "Why are we still together?" I asked him. "Because I don't think there's been much substance to this marriage for a few years." "Beats the hell out of me. You wanted a kid, so we had a kid. You're always doing what you want to do." "That's not true," I said slowly. "I've missed out on jobs, to stay with you while you were in baseball. I live in L.A., even though I'm sick of it, for you. I stayed with you through rehab. You haven't even brought in a paycheck in the last two years, and I've never ridden your ass about it. And it hurts so much that you resent your son, when he's the most important person in my whole world." "I don't resent him. I mostly just resent you." That's it, then. I didn't expect this to go down so fast, in this way. I'm overwhelmed. "I can't sleep in the same bed with you any more," I said quietly. "I'll leave if you want to stay. But if you want me to stay, you're going to have to go somewhere else tonight." "You can leave," he snapped. Wow. I went to our bedroom. I grabbed my rolling suitcase, threw in some clothes, trying to remember to grab the stuff I liked, and started to pull things out of the bathroom. This was it. I felt crazy-deranged at the moment. I had a list on my phone of stuff to pack for a trip, and I went through it quickly, grabbing my phone charger, the small jewelry roll (I had been robbed of my jewelry box, and had had to start all over), even my MacBook. I had about four bags when I went back out to the living room. "Is there someone else?" he asked me. I lied to him, but it was the only way. "No. There's only me. But I think both you and I have been far too unhappy for awhile." He looked sad, and for a moment, I almost relented. "I'll see you in the morning. We'll start to figure things out," I told him, kissing my little boy on the head as I walked out the door. My heart was tearing apart at that moment. I tossed my bags in the backseat, got into my car, the tears starting again. God, I was tired of crying. Here was my plan: I was driving to Juan's house without calling or texting. If I was going to catch him in the act, I wanted to do that now, while I was already broken in pieces this evening. Just make one awful night of it, then start to put my life together again in the morning. I could always go to a hotel. I drove up to his house. There were still lights on inside; it was still early enough. I was bracing myself for the worst, made a point of parking where he couldn't see my car, rather than in his driveway. Then did the walk of doom to his front door, and rang the bell. His was a look of surprise. "Are you alone?" I asked. Juan looked puzzled, then nodded. "If you do anything – and I mean anything – that I don't like, I'm outta' here, and you will never see me again," I told him. "You're spending the night?" he asked. I nodded. And then some. "Did you bring your stuff?" he asked. "In the car." He leaned out. "Where's your car?" "On the street," I told him. "I wasn't sure if I would have to drive away quickly." Now he rolled his eyes. "Go get your car. It's safer in the driveway." I did, grabbing the four bags on my way back into his house. He took them from me, and put them in his bedroom. For the record, I had been to his house only one time before when it was no longer daylight. Not a good precedent, actually. He was in the middle of his evening, and I felt a lot of uncertainty suddenly. There was a cocktail on the coffee table, and something he'd been reading, and some music playing. "You sure about this?" I asked him. I wasn't feeling all that sure myself. "Mmm-hmm," he said, putting his arms around my waist, rocking me gently. "Are you hungry? Do you want to talk about it?" "No, and no. Please just take me to bed." I give it four months.