1 comments/ 18953 views/ 0 favorites Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 04-06 By: Jazz E. IV. The drive home was unusually silent. While Jenn concentrated on keeping the unfamiliar power of the ZX under control, getting them home safely through the dark night, Matt's wandering mind filled with images of erotica characters – "O", Lesley, Beauty – all in the form of Dara, the Sapphire Siren – she seemed to have taken on capital letters – the Sapphire Siren – alias the wedding sylph. Although she was really not quite a sylph – a bit too voluptuous for that – a nymph, perhaps. For reasons unclear to himself, he saw her bound and gagged, being led, head down, to fates unknown. He pictured her strapped over a bolster, being thrashed mercilessly – her backside and thighs striped bright red by the relentless tawse – her pitiful cries falling upon deaf ears. He imagined her moving about a posh lounge, alternately felating guests with abandon and resignedly being sodomized by them. The visions both puzzled and stirred him. His mind aroused, inflamed with the fantastic imagery it had conjured, he was, by the time Jenn pulled into the garage, very, very much awake. Jenn giggled her relief at being home, as Matt reached over and gave her right boob a squeeze. With the urgency of their suddenly rekindled passion, they bustled into the house, shedding their vestments along the way as they headed pell-mell for the bedroom. They didn't make it. Jenn, giggling hysterically, stumbled in the hall, and Matt, his hands groping her bottom, tearing at her panties, the last remaining article of clothes on either of them, tripped over her feet and fell upon her. The sheer silk crotch of her bikini was already drenched in anticipation and gave easily as Matt, roaring with delight, tore it from her to expose her dripping snatch. Their laughing and panting lasted a few moments more as they furiously positioned themselves, then Matt drove himself deep into her with one powerful thrust. The sudden intrusion forced Jenn’s breath out in a whimpered gasp. She clasped her hands tight around his back, digging her nails in for grip; her legs flew up to cross at the ankles, pulling against his buttocks, and holding his pelvis in tight. They paused for a moment, without a sound, without a breath, then Matt pulled back, sliding his cock right out so that his glans just tickled her labia before thrusting in again. He pounded her again and again, his prick repeatedly battering her uterus, invading her most private sanctum. He drew from her the groans and whimpers of unbound lust. He concentrated on her rapidly approaching orgasm, delighting in the uncontrolled shaking of her hips, the insatiable shoving of her sex onto his shaft. Her whimpering rose to a whine and then a wail as she exploded in climax, bouncing her backside on the carpeted floor, grasping and releasing him with her vaginal muscles. Just as he thought his pecker could grow no bigger, get no harder, he felt it swell further. Banging up against her cervix he felt the trigger being pulled, and, as Jenn shook her head from side to side, digging her nails deeper into his back and singing out the continuing refrain of her orgasm, Matt plunged once more into her quim, mingling his pubic hair with hers, ramming himself hard against her pudendum, threading himself so deep into her that as his elixir boiled out into her their orgasms merged into one. His tool pumped and pumped, emptying much more fluid into his wife than his balls could have reasonably been expected to hold. Their mutual bucking and panting carried on for an eternity, until, slowly, they were able to lock lips and moan their pleasured agreement together. Finally they came to a stop, and lay motionless, tongues touching, arms tight around one another, Matt's penis still semi-rigid, still filling Jenn's vaguely pulsing vagina. Time started to tick once again. It was late. They were tired – tired and happy. In the calm, dim settling of afterglow Matt offered a nonspecific "Wow!" "You're not kidding." "I take it you're satisfied, Milady?" "Nooo," Jenn's breathy voice dripped with sarcasm, "Let's try again." Matt played along. "Really?" "Oh, no. I'm drained." "Excuse me? You're drained? I don't think so." They slowly uncoupled; each made a listless feint at picking up the clothes, then arm in arm they went up the stairs towards their bedroom. "I hope we didn't stain the carpet," Jenn muttered flatly, then twittered at the unimportance of the remark. Matt joined her chuckle as they entered the room and flopped side by side onto the bed. Throwing an arm over her eyes, Jenn heaved a heavy sigh. Matt shuffled into the ensuite and returned with a steaming hot cloth which he gently placed over her matted bush, having already bathed his own pubis. "Ahh," she intoned, as she let her hand take the cloth and clean up between her thighs. Exchanging her cloth for a dry towel, in a time-practiced maneuver, Matt remarked, “Seemed especially good tonight, eh?” Jenn replied with a smile, “Patrick was certainly perky, wasn’t he?” There was, however, an unverbalized conditional on the end of her remark, which Matt chose to ignore. Patrick the Trouser Snake was the name Jenn had given his member the first time they’d had sex. She had declared that, as it had had a life of its own, it should have a name of its own as well. The name had stuck, with a few variations like Patrick Penis or Pat Pecker. "You might even say he was rampant, eh?" Matt suggested, feeling more content than he had for a long while. "Yeah, that's for sure." She paused, trying, it seemed, to decide how to say what she obviously wanted to say. "But," Matt felt vaguely alarmed as Jenn tried to voice her feelings; "I don't know. It was very good, I mean VERY good, but, I don't know," she seemed almost hobbled by her intended diplomacy. Matt just wished she would get it out. Finally she did. "You didn't seem quite all here – to start with, at least. Like you were a bit preoccupied. You were so pensive all the way home and you still seemed to be just landing back on this planet when we got into the house. I felt like saying 'Welcome back.' What were you thinking about?" Matt knew his face flushed. What could he say? "Oh, I don't know," he stammered. He was shocked that she had noticed his inattention, his preoccupation. He felt guilty when he thought of the images he had conjured up. "Just the wedding; people at the reception." "The girl in the bright blue dress?" Jenn proposed, with a sly grin. "Well, yeah." Damn! He'd been caught. Adultery of the mind. He was guilty as sin; he had been fantasizing, almost obsessing over visions of another woman. Jesus he was a bastard. "An others," he fibbed, "like her sister and the groom's mother." Even in his guilty exposure, racy images suddenly sprung up and rushed headlong through his thoughts, unbidden, unconstructed – random scenarios that, interestingly enough, also included sister Caroline, the obese mother, the groom's mother, the bride and several other wedding guests; even, somewhat objectively, Jenn. "But you got my attention back, eh?" he smiled sheepishly. There was a note of pride in her voice when she whispered, "Yeah, I guess I did, at that." V. Over the next two or three weeks Matt was fraught with an overbearing, shapeless disquiet. His time at work was a sham, despite the 'projects' he had underway. Jobs around the house struck him as increasingly futile, the hundreds of little things to do that had, up until now always provided, if nothing else, a satisfying diversion for him, seemed pointless. He rattled about the office and rattled around the house. He was suddenly ill at ease with himself; he couldn't get comfortable when he was alone. Only Jenn's soothing presence could calm him – let him rest easy for a while. If not for their sex – recharging and invigorating him – and the afterglow that let him view the next hour or next day from a more tranquil vantage point, he knew he would have sunk into dissolution. However, Jenn still worked on a call-out basis, as well as going to aerobics once or twice a week, so, sometimes when Matt got home to an empty house, if Jenn wasn't expected back for a while, he would masturbate – slowly – before going out for a good, long run. Recalling exciting incidents of the recent past, he'd stroke himself to erection – Jenn settling naked over his stout flagpole, then riding it like a bronco buster as he molded her warm perky tits with his hands. But visions of the young woman at the wedding – Dara – began to insert themselves into his masturbatory daydreams. First he would just imagine her as she danced her seductive steps on the dance floor, then he started to imagine what must have taken place shortly after they left the reception. The boyfriend's hand on her muff, panting and slobbering while she took his tool out of his pants and jerked him off. Or maybe, reclining his seat and straddling him, lowering her tight snatch onto his shaft and bouncing, with her elbows on the steering wheel for support. He began to see visions of her opening her honey-pot for him – lying back on the bed and spreading her legs – fantasies in endless variations. Matt watched on the inside of his eyelids as Dara's thick black bush descended onto his face. He could almost feel her lips take the place of his fist, surrounding his rigid tool. His hand accelerated on his cock until his breath began to rasp, and, pumping his erection violently, his spunk erupted, running in gobs over his knuckles and into his pubic hair. He cleaned up quickly and, while the flush of release was still warming him, jumped into his running garb and headed out onto the streets. Five years earlier, when he was thirty-six and anchored to his office, he realized that he was a prime candidate for a heart attack. He had never been a really active person but since they had had kids he'd found that he could get along with almost no activity at all. He hadn't given his sedentary lifestyle a second thought until he heard about a friend of a friend who had keeled over at thirty-eight years old. Matt had never really liked running all that much but he couldn't swim worth beans, his tennis game was marginal at best, and he hadn't had a bicycle for years, so he decided to 'run for his life'. Initially it was everything he was afraid it would be – fifteen minutes of hell, giving him sore knees, sore feet and a ragged throat. But he persevered. Eventually, he replaced his fashion sneakers with real running shoes. It made a universe of difference. Suddenly it was not such an ordeal; suddenly he could actually stay out for more than twenty minutes without considering suicide. That was over four years ago. Now he could turn in a forty-five minute ten K; if he got out less than four times a week, he would get edgy. His running had been a lifesaver after the children's deaths; he knew he needed it to help him get through this too. However, recently, he even felt rattled running. The freedom of pounding road was a relief, but even that didn't quite fill the hungering spaces within. When he was alone, trying to hold the ominous veil of discontent at bay, trying to concentrate on a book, writing a report, doing just about anything, he began to be disconcerted by random and explicit visions of Dara. While he was masturbating, or thinking about it, he expected them, but out of the blue? For no apparent reason he would suddenly picture her hanging by her ankles and wrists, as in the Hall of Punishment, her face between her knees in the inverted pike position described in Sleeping Beauty; her genitals exposed, open to the whims and torments of whoever passed; or he would see her with a horse tail protruding from between her whip-striped bottom cheeks, performing dressage on the sawdust floor for the castle court. He saw her in a Sultan's palace, hanging semi-clothed, hands above her head, doing a wild dance on her tiptoes in a futile attempt to escape the jabs of the bee-sting coated needles in her thighs and buttocks; and he saw her at a trapeze, like Marilyn Chambers in Behind the Green Door, surrounded by and filled with throbbing cocks. And it puzzled him that in every scene he imagined she was in a submissive role, whereas, the only time he had actually seen her, she had full control over the situation. The strange tableaux confused him, for he could not understand why he was being haunted at a time when he was so close to collapsing anyway under the weight of this melancholy. As much as the erotic dreams didn't exactly exacerbate his depression, they certainly complicated it. While his confusion mounted, so did his dissatisfaction. He tried to keep it to himself – tried to discover what he wanted, what he was missing, why his thoughts roamed into such strange quarters, and what, if anything, this all had to do with his treatise on passion. Matt started reading more and more erotica; and rereading the titles that dealt with submission and subjugation – The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, The Story of "O", Blue Velvet, Lesley and The Gardens of the Night. In the rereading of those, he found the material to be – more than just suggestive, arousing and exciting – strangely, deliciously disturbing. Such stories caused peculiar sensations – in a way, almost revulsion – feelings of guilt and fright, yet also of morbid curiosity, even delight. Were such scenes of complete domination actually possible? Did they really occur – anywhere? He became nervous and shaky while reading; his stomach would knot up in an odd way; but he would be entranced. He invariably had difficulty putting down such a tale once begun. It was almost as if he were addicted to the sensations produced by those pieces of erotica. And the stimulation was overpowering. Very often – usually – he would need to masturbate while reading these passages, compounding his self-inflicted guilt. Only after his climax, which was always very powerful, would he be able to put down the book. Often, in fact he found that he had to stop then. He couldn't take any more imaginary stimulation – he just couldn't read any more. Once again, after being shown the pictures of her daughter's discipline at school, Lesley was being required to felate the Headmaster who had done it. She was being whipped until she complied. Matt knew the segment very well. He stroked his rock-hard penis with slow, deliberate strokes, as he read the passage again, disregarding the ignoble stains on the pages. He occasionally let the edge of the book flick over his nipples. The stress was building. He could feel the growing ball of fission in the centre of his groin. As Anton's whip finally yielded results, Matt could almost feel Lesley's mouth descend over his tool; but it was now Dara's backside Matt saw in his mind, striped red from the thrashing, and Dara's warm mouth reluctantly taking him in. The book fell limp in his hand as, throwing his head back with a groan, his orgasm rumbled up from the depths to explode in creamy spurts into his lap. Matt sat still and silent, dazed, as his breath and pulse slowly returned to normal. As awareness returned, he marveled at the intensity of the climax – a climax brought on by the vicarious passion of printed words. His masturbatory orgasms seemed to be increasing in strength, and the post-ejaculatory trances getting longer. Why that should be the case, Matt didn't know; but he was sure it was all interconnected – the whole passion/dissatisfaction thing. He had to do something, make something actually happen, otherwise he would end up spending the rest of his life jerking off. His thoughts repeatedly returned to 'The Sapphire Siren'. She probably wasn't the key to his concerns, probably not even part of the elusive solution, but she might be a place to start. In this way, finally, slowly, he decided to seek her out. What he would do or say if and when he found her, he hadn't the slightest idea. "Hi! I'm Matt and I fuck…” He'd run that scenario before, it seemed to him. Her sister had implied that she was kind of wild, even loose. Maybe, he could just ask her to coffee and go from there. Maybe, even, she'd suggest that they get intimate – "get on down" as it were. He'd never had an extramarital affair; in fact his only exposure to them had been on the television and in the movies, so he didn't know what one might expect – what it would be like. The plot line of Fatal Attraction flitted past. "Just a story," he reminded himself. Of course, he was getting just slightly ahead of himself. He had to locate her first and he had absolutely no idea how to do that, but at least he had decided on a course of some sort. Having a goal of sorts raised Matt's spirits immensely. He was still haunted by disturbing, exciting images, but now they served to keep him focused. While he wrestled with plans to find the girl, well, woman of his fantasies – tangible ideas like finding her in the telephone book – then what; the personal ads – maybe; bulletin boards on the 'Net – possible – he found himself invigorated. Suddenly he was running better, feeling better, making love to Jenn more often and enjoying it more – not that he ever didn't enjoy it – even enjoying his masturbation more while doing it less. He had actually composed an ad for the personals column of the local semiweekly rag, but hadn't yet submitted it when, in the post-race crowd of a popular fun run, the Tri-City Classic, in the parking lot of a Coquitlam mall, he caught sight of her. She had just removed her sunglasses to wipe her face before replacing them. Pennies from heaven. A moment earlier or later and he probably wouldn't have recognized her behind her shades. The old line "when what to my wondrous eyes should appear" ran through his head as he struggled to keep her in sight while making his way toward her. The ascending sun, finally burning off the last Sunday morning mists, streamed down onto the milling tide of sweaty bodies, imparting to the otherwise deserted lot a carnival mood. Thousands of recreational runners of all shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities, genders and preferences ebbed and flowed about the refreshment tables, results boards and awards podium. Head up, wide-eyed, Matt squeezed and slid through the masses, trying desperately not to lose her. He felt obsessed; it was definitely a sign – an omen. His pulse, having recovered from the ten kilometres, accelerated once again, leaving him somewhat lightheaded. She wore a tight sapphire tank and matching tights. She obviously knew that the colour suited her well. Her body was firm and athletic looking while still eminently feminine. Drenched with sweat, as he was himself, her exposed skin glistened and dripped in the clean morning air. She was at least as enchanting as he remembered, in fact, having more nuances in the flesh, she was actually more alluring than his fantasies – if that was possible. Shouldering his way in beside her as they reached a table of bottled mineral water, he grabbed a couple and handed one to her. "Hi." That always seemed such a weak opening, but it invariably fell out before one could think of anything better to say. "Nice day for a run, eh?" She took the proffered bottle. "Yeah, thanks." They snapped off the caps and guzzled the cold clear liquid in unison. "How'd you do?" "Great. It was a great run, all right." She paused, before adding, as if it were purely a matter of form, "And you?" "Oh," Matt stuttered, his brain was running a different program, "Pretty well, I guess – I hope." "Good. See ya." Before she could turn away, he said, "You know, I think we've sort of met before." He couldn't help but detect a resigned 'here-we-go-again, I'm-really-not-interested' curtain descend over her face. "Oh," she replied with about as little enthusiasm as possible, "Where?" VI. Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 04-06 Matthew Anderson was forty-one years old. The former manager of a successful printing firm, he usually portrayed the confident self-awareness of middle-aged success. His trim orderly hair was a nondescript mousy brown. It had been a rather dirty blonde in his younger years but had gradually lost the right to even that appellation – now it was just neutral. His intense blue eyes were often on the verge of squinting, as if trying hard to see just a little more detail – trying to see just a little more of everything. He had never been a real athlete, but, at 6'0", 173 lbs., he had always managed to stay in fairly good condition. Now, he had the body of a reasonably serious recreational runner – a bit too solid for competitive running – perhaps a bit too old as well – but winning the battle against middle-age spread. Nonetheless, his abdomen showed just a little roundness of affluence that could not quite be denied. His legs were muscular; his stride powerful; he moved with a loose ease. But sometimes, when he could no longer support his facade of self-confidence completely, he allowed a self-consciousness to subtly compress his upper body as if trying to deny his height – not that he was extraordinarily tall. Still, his lower body always displayed a suggestion of contentment that could not be subdued. His well-tanned limbs, contrasting against the outline of his running shorts and tank top, attested to his love of fresh air. His face still showed the scars of an acne-ravaged adolescence, although his adult complexion was healthy and flush. As much as running kept him physically healthy, he didn't do it for that reason. His running was his only defense against an ominous depression that had, for much of his adult life and increasingly so over the past two years, threatened to overwhelm him. It was the only sure way of keeping his worries and fears, as irrational as many of them were, at bay. He ran for his peace of mind, shedding anxieties and sweating out accumulated aggravations daily. Matt came to realize, that he not only missed the stress release, but actually suffered through withdrawal when he was denied his running time. He knew he was an addictive personality from the time he was in university and had abysmally failed an Alcoholics Anonymous test printed in his psyche text. He was just glad that his current addiction increased his fitness rather than eroded his liver. There was a time, he knew, when it could have gone either way. "At your cousin Patsy's wedding?" Dara's body relaxed a bit as he stumbled over his explanation. He felt himself blushing as he thought about his machinations and fantasies that night. She nodded as she began to recall. "That's right. You and your wife danced rather – ah – suggestively, eh?" A conspiratorial smile crept onto her face. "I guess." Matt felt himself blushing further beneath the flush of exertion, if that were possible; still he parried. "I seem to remember some rather sensual moves by yourself that night, too," Matt muttered. "Yeah," Dara laughed, "I really had whatsizname drooling, didn't I?" Then, in almost an aside to herself she remarked, "Huh. That's funny, I can't remember his name." Matt laughed, and thought to himself, "Not seeing him any more, eh? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound," before adding aloud, "He wasn't the only one drooling." Dara dropped her face demurely, eyeing him over the tops of her sunglasses. But she didn't show even a trace of self-consciousness when she asked, "Were you?" "Me? I – uh..." He cursed himself for saying something so stupid, but his stammer was apparently answer enough. Matt was saved as Dara smoothly changed the subject. "Do you race often?" Matt suddenly relaxed; the tension and awkwardness fell from him as they chatted about training and running and various runs they had been in. He was able to look at her admiringly – appraisingly without being too obvious – too gauche. Still sapphire, she filled her tank and tights wonderfully, her long black hair pulled into a French braid dangling stiffly down her back. Her dark, exotic eyes almost crackled above well-defined cheek bones as she spoke softly and earnestly about things – her training, her performance. Matt thought that he could almost detect a sub-text in her dialogue, a hidden meaning, a between-the-lines subtlety that, although barely perceptible, lent a degree of excitement to the conversation. There was a sort of barely discernible sensual intensity in everything she said. A single, silver chain – Matt recalled noticing it at the wedding – still encircled her left ankle, complementing, in some vaguely conspiratorial way, the silver studs in her ears and the chain that hung passively on her bosom. Her well-shaped breasts were sheathed with shiny Spandex, supported and bound beneath by a jog-bra; nonetheless, her nipples, in their high-beam state, remained conspicuous through the two layers of Lycra. Her chest heaved now and then, no longer from her exertion but from the quiet intensity of their conversation. Matt felt a tingling, illicit warmth when he finally bade her good-bye. He gave up trying to wipe the smile from his face and from his psyche. At home, he told Jenn about meeting her but recounted their chat with a nonchalance that he did not feel. Over the next few months, Matt entered more runs than was his habit. He allowed Jenn to believe that it was just that he was feeling better about himself and getting in better shape. Indeed, both of those ideas were very true, but more than that, secretly, he anxiously anticipated meeting Dara – deliberately seeking her out and engaging her in conversation at every chance. Although she wasn't at every run he attended, she was at enough. Furthermore, she seemed pleased to see him when he would find her and call out to her. They met before the start at a couple of events and ran much of the way together. Although at twenty-two years old, she was a better runner than him, her philosophy on running closely matched his. She had started reluctantly, seeing running as a necessary evil in the road to fitness, but eventually seeing it as a necessary aspect of mental and emotional health. At each successive meeting, they talked longer and longer; and their conversations turned up many things that they had in common besides running and the wedding. They both loved cycling but found little time to fit it in. They shared tastes in music, both being basically tolerant, therefore, enjoying a wide variety of artists and styles. They had similar tastes in fine foods and exotic cars – ‘lottery dreams’, Dara called them. When one of their later conversations turned to reading materials, Matt was surprised by the ease with which Dara brought up "some of my favourites" – ...Beauty, ...Eden, Justine, and assorted anonymous Victorian novels. Furthermore, she was not, apparently, even slightly surprised when Matt, almost sheepishly, admitted to having read and enjoyed virtually every title she mentioned. With that secret bared, they went on to discuss titles they still wanted to find, like Nights of the Rajah and The Adventures of Captain Devane. It turned out that, like Matt but even more so, Dara was very knowledgeable of and interested in erotica. They stood around on more than one occasion exchanging opinions on this piece and that, both in print and on film. Soon Matt realized he was divulging incredibly personal things, many of which had always been kept quite secret to that point. Standing around in various post-race assembly areas, he spoke quietly and candidly to Dara about his own life: his wife; their sex; their tragedy; his work; even his current emptiness – his nebulous longing. She too, admitted to trying to fill an emotional emptiness, although Matt detected, in her voice, the suggestion that a solution may be close at hand. Some independent back corner of his mind wondered if he might be part of that solution, but he made his consciousness ignore the idea, and went on baring his soul. Dara listened in rapt attention, nodding and making the occasional remark. She seemed sincerely interested, and it was her implicit sympathy or empathy that encouraged Matt to continue opening his heart. “I think I’m becoming infatuated,” Matt admitted to himself. Dara was a more pleasant, more refreshing, more genuine person that he had ever imagined; and the subtle husky edge of her voice was terrifyingly arousing. He tacitly allowed his growing ardor to follow its course. Finally, after a race in the fall, during which they had run together up until the last kilometre or so and Dara had cheered him across the finish line, their conversation, which had started up once again as naturally as if it had never stopped, was somewhat repressed by the cool drizzle which had coincided with the start of the race. Feeling an almost adolescent apprehension – "What if she refuses? What if she accepts?" – Matt took a deep breath. "This is it," he thought with an odd fatalism. Something in him apparently knew – had apparently divined the import of the situation. He knew but didn't know that he was at a watershed. He straightened his figurative shoulders and bravely stepped into the path of some invisible oncoming fate. "Would you like to – uh – join me…. Would you like to go somewhere for a cappuccino or whatever?" Dara responded with a radiance that made him feel faint. All through their months of intimate conversation, she had remained seriously – if not exactly aloof, then detached. She had shown genuine interest and participation in the exchanges; genuine sympathy and empathy in the revelations, but she had never, until that moment really opened up herself. She clutched his lower arm, squeezing it with both hands as she said in a quiet but seductive voice, "I'd love to," stretching the word "love" almost obscenely. "But, we're so wet," she added, almost cooing, "why don't we have it at my apartment; then we can dry off and clean up – or whatever?" "Uh, sure," Mat stuttered, "If you're sure you don't mind." There was something about the way she had added "- or whatever," that ricocheted around his head. He felt his face flush and his head reel. "I don't mind," she smiled, then, assuming control, she stood back and said, "I walked this morning, so we can go together in your car. I'll show you. It's not far." Matt's mind continued to churn as he walked with Dara back to his car. The ZX hunched, dripping in the rain. Other than Dara giving him directions, they didn't say much in the car; perhaps there was nothing relevant left to say for the moment. All Matt could think of were inane comments on the dreadful weather, which he fought back, preferring to endure the silence rather than stammer foolishly. His heart was pounding, his breath shallow, as his companion guided him into a guest slot in the parking lot of her block. They had gone only a short distance. The Lougheed/Cameron area of Burnaby was a bit of an anomaly. Adjacent to one of the city's older malls, it was a compact grove of high-rise apartment blocks and sprawling townhouse complexes. The half dozen or so towers stand out like druid monoliths. Dara's building was one of the southernmost of the bunch, just south of Lougheed Highway, off Winston. They carried their dripping bodies through the back residents' entrance and into the waiting elevator before Dara said, her eyes a-twinkle, "I'll sure be glad to get out of these wet duds." Then she looked at the indicator above the door. "Here we are." Matt had hardly noticed the rapid ascension of the car, but just before it came to a halt, he became acutely aware of the incredibly humid and heavy atmosphere of the enclosure. He wondered if his suddenly laboured breath was entirely to do with the air, or if it had something to do with the vision of Jenn, his wife, yawning and just rising from her bed, as she would likely be doing at this time on a Sunday morning. A pang of guilt rippled along his spine. "What am I doing?" he wondered. The doors slid silently open, before he could answer himself. "Here we are." The door to Dara's apartment was almost directly across from the elevator. She let them in quickly, closing the door behind him. "Convenient." she stated. "No need to parade visitors up and down the hall, past nosy peepholes." She put her keys on the hallway secretary and led Matt, still virtually speechless, into the living room. "Shall I put on coffee?" she asked, heading for the kitchen. "Uh, yes. Please." The novelty of an unfamiliar situation notwithstanding, Matt felt flustered that he was still stammering like a teenager. As Dara moved into the galley area Matt walked to the window – a slider, actually – onto a postage-stamp sized balcony. It was a south-facing suite on the twelfth floor, just about midway up, so that the windows and balcony overlooked the freeway, the Brunette River trail, and across to New Westminster. Even through the veil of rain, the view – the lush central valley, across Burnaby Lake and over to the hazy towered ridge of Metrotown – was impressive. Furthermore, there was, Matt noted, no opportunity for anyone, short of a well-equipped PI, to look across into her apartment. It was, there in the middle of the city, quite private – quite isolated. The living room was furnished in a pleasingly understated fashion. On a deep, plush, ivory carpet, two simple, modern sofas, in white leather, formed a corner with a teak end table, and enclosed a matching contemporary coffee table. On the opposite wall was a modest stereo system housed in a compact wall unit and flanked by two speakers. A television and VCR stood between the stereo cabinet and the right speaker. An answering machine lay on the left speaker and a cordless phone stood on the coffee table, next to a crystal vase of white silk roses. A few small pieces of abstract sculpture were placed here and there, and on the walls hung a couple of rather sensual impressionist paintings, their soft colours and flowing shapes adding to the mysterious ambience of the room Matt had begun to shiver, standing dumbly by the window; he realized he was dripping on the carpet. "Why don't you go ahead and jump in while the coffee's brewing. Looks like you need a hot shower to warm you up,” Dara purred, taking him gently by the elbow. He nodded mutely, his teeth chattering furiously, and allowed her to steer him into the bathroom. "There are clean towels, right here," she said, gesturing to the thick fluffy bath sheets hanging next to the tub. Beside the tub was a freestanding, frosted glass shower enclosure. As he nodded his thanks to her, his teeth rattling in his head like the lifters in an old V8, the idea of a hot shower seemed to him, surprisingly, to be more appealing than anything – anything else he could have possibly imagined. As Dara closed the door softly behind him, he adjusted the taps, shed his wet duds and virtually fell into the steaming spray. The early stages of hypothermia are easily reversed, but the reversal is not instantaneous, hence, for the first few minutes, Matt stood in the stream of nearly scalding water, luxuriating in his dolce far niente – fulfillment in sweet nothingness. He welcomed the hot water cascading over him, cleansing his dulled awareness, rinsing his growing confusion. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, his mind snapped to attention and raced with images and possibilities. Suddenly he could picture Jenn clearly, rolling out of bed, gathering her robe about her and holding it closed while she slouched into the kitchen, her slippers scuffing across the floor. He could see her fixing herself a small pot of coffee – staring blankly while she waited for it to brew, then sitting silently at the table to drink it. Her robe would gape open, revealing her smooth thighs, and hinting at treasures just out of sight; her hair would be a tumbled mess; her face, bare of make up, would glow with a pixie-like innocence; her eyes still heavy with sleep. But she would be alone – forlorn, yet irresistibly alluring. And she was waiting for him. Patiently, yes, but waiting. If he were to get home right then, what would he do? What would they do? On the table, on the floor, hot and slick! "What am I doing here?" He felt guilty and frightened and excited. "I'm in the shower of a strange – and beautiful woman. I'm married for Christ's sake!" Quietly, at that instant, the shower cabinet eased open, and Dara entered silently, stark naked, except for the silver chains at her neck and ankle; her breasts standing up as if they were proud to show that they needed no support; her tanned skin flawless and glistening with salty traces of sweat. Waves of dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, to point knowingly the way to the dark foliage visible between her legs. Closing the glass door without a word, she stepped into his body, her hard nipples threatening to pierce his chest. As she threw her arms around his neck, she said softly, without pretense, "You look surprised." Then, rising delicately onto her toes, she joined their lips in what seemed to Matt to be, at once, an incredibly passionate and innocently chaste kiss. Matt was astonished, astounded, bewildered, his thoughts racing, "This can't be real. This only happens in movies." He stood speechless and petrified. Without another sound she sank gently to her knees, dragging her fingers over his chest to his nipples where they began to calmly play. She stopped to look at his semi-engorged member for only a moment before completely engulfing him, sucking him into her mouth with a smoothness and warmth that set his nerves a-jangle. "Only in the movies," he repeated to himself, "- movies and books." Rocking her buttocks over her heels, her head bobbed ceaselessly, consuming and returning his rapidly hardening cock. His hands fell naturally to the sides of her head and, although she required no guidance at all, he went through the motions – followed the motions of her moving head on his root. "Fantastic," he exclaimed silently, "literally fantastic." It was the stuff dreams were made of. Indeed, it could have been an out-take from one of his recent fantasies. "It's just," he explained to himself, rationalizing his complete surprise, "that I never really thought it would actually happen – not really." Yet it was not only happening, it was better than he had imagined – 'way better. Almost before he was ready, definitely too soon, he felt his fluids boil up their channel to spill in wave after wave into her throat. She stayed with him, swallowing each jet, lapping and sucking at him in the moments between. She was very good at it. Keeping him in her warm mouth until he stopped twitching, she pulled back at last, and raised her eyes as she let his softening cock gently drop. They stared silently at one another for a long moment, Dara, crouching in the spray, her hands dropped lightly to his thighs, and Matt looking down into her imponderably mysterious eyes. There was something deep and exotic in them, something Matt found just a little frightening. Slowly, pulling herself up with his hands, Dara stood up and kissed, once again, his shocked and puzzled lips. His response was wooden and automatic. As he stared at her, without comprehension she turned and shut off the water. Taking his hand, she led him out of the shower, whispering only, "Come." Taking one of the thick towels from the rack, she began to rub him down – dry him off. Her vigorous rubbing re-ignited his libido, and he took the other towel to her, using it as an excuse to mold and caress her body. Pinching her nipples through the thick terry-towel elicited a warm smile from her as she dropped her towel to his crotch and began to dry his penis with long, firm strokes. He replied in kind, experiencing a tremor of excitement as he clasped the towel up into her bush. His freshly drained cock was starting to wobble and twitch its way back to attention already. He continued his drying caress of Dara's pubis with renewed vigour. Tangled Passions Pt. 01 Ch. 04-06 "I don't know why I'm doing this," Matt admitted, allowing a small, frightened voice to release some of his inner turmoil. "I love my wife. We have a great sex life." Dara, continuing to excite his stiffening prick with slow deliberate strokes, looked at him with a coy innocence that was belied by the circumstances. Tilting her head slightly to one side, she asked softly, "You may have a great sex life, but do you ever have great sex?" "Are you kidding? More than great – wonderful!" he replied in a rush, his thoughts in jumbled competition with the growing intensity of arousal between his legs. Suddenly he thought of his treatise on passion, which he had nearly forgotten. It gave him pause to wonder. "Marvelous sex, usually." But how often? How often is usually? How is it otherwise – usually? Adequate, I guess; good sometimes; but not often great. And why? Dara watched patiently, allowing her caresses to slow and lighten, as he retreated far away into some labyrinth inside his head – pondering an imponderable. Matt's hand stopped – hidden in the warm smoothness of Dara's inner thighs. Almost imperceptibly Dara allowed her towel to drop, keeping only the lightest touch of her encircling hand against his semi-rigid cock. For some considerable length of time – minutes, perhaps – while Dara waited, Matt weighed all the sparse and inadequate data he had; the pros and cons; right and wrong, moral and immoral, legal and illegal, and tried to divine the correct course of action. Eventually he realized that he was basically not equipped to make such a decision; so, simply by omission, they proceeded. Matt had not had sex with anyone other than Jenn since they had first met. His experiences prior to that were obscured in his memories by the mists of time. Even his fantasies, of which he had had many over the years, did not advise him on how to begin; his dreams were very sparse on preliminary detail, tending to cut to the chase, as it were. He was lost in a miasmic swirl of sensation. Not knowing what else to do, he let his cock-head do the thinking, and gave in to the abstruse desires that raged within. Hand still in the towel, still snug against Dara's vulva, Matt slowly came back to life. Letting the towel drop, he began to twiddle and diddle his fingers among her damp curls, slipping them furtively between her moist lips. He was delighted to find her slit slick with anticipation, and the discovery caused his own semi-erection to bump and jolt as it gained rigidity in her barely moving hand. Dara slid her hands up his chest, stopping for a moment at his hard nipples, and kissing his lips before continuing to his shoulders. Then, gently applying her weight, she pulled him down onto the thick, wet bath mat. Despite his rampant hard-on, Matt didn't believe he could get there again after such a short respite so he shuffled around and literally dove headfirst into her dark, damp muff. At first he was almost overcome by the tranquilizing effects of Dara's wonderfully pungent aroma. He allowed himself pause enough for a few deep satisfying breaths of her scent, before beginning in earnest. Dara lay still and relaxed. Her hands rested passively on the back of Matt's head. Only the occasional sigh or quiver evidenced her excitement; her labia were warm and pink and open like a blossoming water lily. Matt ran his tongue up and down her repeatedly, reaching in with his hands to hold her even wider so that his tongue could reach down into her folds and poke as deep as possible into her vagina. On each back-stroke, as he drew his tongue back up to the front of her mons, he swirled it over and around her stiff clitoris, before plunging it back into the depths. Dara's thighs trembled and her quim got hotter but the edge of orgasm seemed to be teasing her – staying just out of reach. Matt redoubled his efforts, sending the tip of his tongue even further forward, around her bottom and back, to tickle the puckered rose of her anus, and taste its sweet earthy flavour. His fingers took the opportunity to creep back and bother her clit as it stood waiting beneath his chin. Dara sighed again, tentatively lifting her knees, before letting her quaking thighs fall back to the soft rug. Then, closing her legs to squeeze Matt's face clear of her sex, she silently indicated with her hands that she wanted him to turn around again. Her eyes were closed; her face a mask of passive contentment, as he clambered about to cover her right way around. "But you haven't..." Without opening her eyes, Dara put a finger to his lips. "Shhhhh," then slipping her hands down to his buttocks, she pulled firmly, lifting her hips at the same moment to smoothly and completely swallow Matt's rigid tool with her velvet box. Using her strong vaginal muscles to caress him, she let her lips and fingers wander all over his chest and nipples. His cock twitching and surging, Matt began to stroke in and out in an increasing frenzy. He couldn't believe the magnitude of sensation building within his loins. Dara rocked her hips to meet his savage thrusts, giving an involuntary grunt as he hit bottom. Matt's bubbling, boiling arousal was burning through his core – from the engorged tip of his purple glans, through his balls and up his spine to crackle in blinding white flashes behind his wild eyes. He was suddenly afraid that he was going to faint; then it detonated. The flashes behind his eyes merged into a fireball that sent fingers of flame licking at every nerve right down to his groin. His hot liquid load – unbelievably the second in a half-hour – surged up his cock to gush out in spurt after spurt, filling Dara's quivering womb. She had swung her legs over his back to pull him into her tighter than possible just as he got there. Her eyes still closed, she smiled a smile of genuine contentment as Matt collapsed, panting heavily, onto her chest. She held him tight, and for the moment there was no movement except for Matt's heaving chest and Dara's still rhythmically grasping cunt. Matt lay still, trying to settle his pounding heart and recapture his breath. His head swirled in afterglow and amazement. He hadn't come twice like that since – well, ever that he could remember. And wasn't that the kind of thing a guy is likely to remember? As his awareness gradually returned, he raised himself off her chest and looked her directly in the face – and what a beautiful face, glowing with some sort of mystic serenity, as if she knew some secret – something he couldn't begin to fathom. "What about you?" he asked. She opened her eyes, without giving up any of her serenity. "You didn't get there yet, did you?" "Not yet," Dara replied, and her smile, tinged with anticipation, held some deep, indefinable sensuality. She gave his deflating penis another squeeze with her talented vagina, "but I'm sure we can do something about that." Matt kept his eyes on her face as he slowly raised himself up and helped her to her feet. She was a puzzle to him – an enigma. She seemed to be mildly amused at the situation and not at all concerned that he had already come twice whereas she hadn't even got there once yet. He kind of felt that she was toying with him – although, not maliciously – or patronizing him. Not that it really mattered at that point. Quietly taking his hand, she led him out of the bathroom, across the hall and into her bedroom. In spite of what her sister had implied about the number of boyfriends she'd had, Matt felt, upon entering the room, that he was, indeed, privileged to be shown her inner sanctums. There was something spiritual in the hushed presentation. He paused to admire the room. It was a show piece: more thick white carpet; the furniture – a dresser, a vanity, a stool and an easy chair – all in white with pastel blue highlights; and, with its headboard centered against one wall, draped with sheers, stood a large four-poster bed. After a moment, Dara tugged once again on Matt's arm, and towed him over to the bed where she flopped down, pulling him down beside her. Immediately, she clasped herself against him and began sucking on his nipples while running her hands over his chest. The stimulation was almost too much. Her lips on his hypersensitive nipples caused him to audibly moan. It was excruciating – wonderful, but excruciating. Matt moulded his hands to her breasts, catching her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers; then he gently pulled himself back, just a bit. As her lips came free of his chest, she murmured in a husky whisper, "I want you to tie me up." Matt didn't believe his ears, although he knew he had heard her. His hands were suddenly motionless against her firm globes. He was dumbstruck. "Now what?" he wondered, not knowing what to do next. The stillness of the moment seemed interminable. Dara spoke in a soft conspiratorial voice. "I'll show you how. The stuff's all here. Just do as I say. I think you'll really enjoy it." She pulled away, sat up and moved to her night table where she retrieved an ornate enameled chest from the lower drawer. Matt sat up and gazed at her as if she were an alien. She returned his stare with a little mock pout. "You do want me to get there, don't you?" "Uh, yeah." Matt shook his head to get himself out of his sudden trance. "Well, here." She handed him four soft leather straps, each with a silk-lined cuff at one end and a spring-hook at the other. "There are eyes in the posts," she added, leaving the box open on the bedside table and plopping herself down in the middle of the bed. She pulled a pillow from under the covers then, positioning it under her bottom, laid back, supine, her arms and legs reaching for the corners. "Start with my wrists," she said with an almost frightening nonchalance. Following Dara's instructions in a sort of a posthypnotic trance, Matt strapped the cuffs on each of her wrists and ankles then secured them to the eyebolts which he found, inconspicuously set into the corner posts of the bed frame. Once he had done that, he sat back on his heels and surveyed her bound body. She seemed even more beautiful than before – stretched and helpless, like a sacrificial offering – laid out at his mercy. Still, he didn't exactly know what to do. Dara waited for a bit, watching his eyes as they swept repeated across her exposure, and smiled; then she spoke softly. "Use your imagination." Her eyes twinkled as she nodded her head toward the chest. "There's lots of inspiration in there." Matt had to deliberately tug at his attention to temporarily escape her thrall, just so he could look into the enameled box; however, once he had he was amazed at the number and variety of things it contained: lubricants and oils and stimulating ointments; incense sticks; dildos and vibrators; scarves and feathers and straps; whips and paddles; blindfolds and gags; nipple clamps and apparatus whose intent he couldn't determine. It was like a Pandora's Box of fantasy sex. Matt's heart thumped and skipped in his chest. Tentatively he reached into the chest, not actually knowing what he was reaching for. When his hand came out, it held a long fluffy ostrich plume. He returned his attention to Dara, and slowly, lightly drew the feather's tip across her nipples. "That's right." Her voice was barely audible. Her chest heaved in a long heavy sigh, her nipples pressing out in search of more. Encouraged, Matt repeated the strokes – around and over her nipples, circling her breasts before lightly dragging the plume across her exposed neck. She sighed and moaned as he continued, scraping the soft tip down the insides of her upper arms to swirl it in her open pits. Matt paused, staring appraisingly at her vulnerability, then he turned his attention to the 'toy box' once again. Transferring the Ostrich plume to his left hand, he withdrew a second feather – a peacock plume, this time – from the chest. Matt started on the soles of her feet, running the tips simultaneously up and down both arches, until Dara writhed and moaned and complained. With one feather in each hand, one feather per leg, Matt slowly, teasingly drew their tickling touches up her legs, pausing to torment the inside of her knees before continuing up to her inner thighs, and after a moment, past them. "Oh, OH!" Dara cried thrusting and twisting her hips – trying to find relief. Matt suddenly felt completely relaxed and completely in control. "A quick study, eh?" he complimented himself. Mercilessly, he continued to swirl the feathers in interlinking circles around her now fully opened vagina. He kept the tips, still barely in contact, brushing only her labia, deliberately encircling but not touching her clitoris. "Don't!" she pleaded. "Stop! Ahhh, more! Over... A bit... Let me... AAAHHHH!" She was getting frantic in her pleading. Her head snapped from side to side as she struggled against her bonds. Matt was amazed. He had never seen such passion – such arousal. Knowing that it was all his doing allowed him to stay in control. He felt his pecker begin to twitch as he finally let the ostrich plume dance across her clit. It took only that one light brush to drive her over the edge. Her orgasm was of a magnitude that he had scarcely believed possible let alone witnessed. Matt persisted in his tickling as Dara crested again and again, one peak running into the next so that he wasn't sure if she was having one long climax or several in a row. Finally he slowed his assault, allowing the intensity of the stimulation to gradually decrease to nothing – letting her response follow suit. He watched as she lay panting, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, her eyes remaining closed. Before her breath had fully returned to normal, Matt dug into the box of goodies once again. He brought out a large vibrating dildo with which he abruptly attacked her exposed genitals. Dara's screams of surprise and dismay rapidly degenerated to howls of raw pleasure and the lusty moans of ecstatic agony. Again and again he brought her to long violent orgasm, after tormenting her with an assortment of devices extracted from the seemingly bottomless decorated box. During the entire ordeal Dara barely uttered an intelligible word; nevertheless, eventually, it became obvious to Matt that she was exhausted. Matt was surprised at the calmness with which he had participated in the libidinous spectacle. It had not been, of course, without effects on him. Indeed, an undeniable life and substance had slowly infused into his pecker once more, so before he untied her, Matt climbed aboard Dara, his sacrificial lamb, without a word and put her to his rod, riding her with more gusto than he thought he could conjure. Thrusting into her with long, quick, violent strokes he rapidly brought them to yet another – a final tremendous mutual orgasm. His third in the same afternoon; he couldn't quite believe it. Dara swooned as he collapsed onto the soft slickness of her chest. After several minutes – his heart pounding, panting harder than when he had finished the run that morning – just that very morning! – Matt roused himself. He felt a silly grin on his lips that he couldn't remove. He had just had three orgasms – three great orgasms, in one afternoon. "Un-fucking-believable!" he muttered under his breath. Dara's glistening body still heaved with each deep ragged breath. Other than that, the only movement he detected was the delicate quivering of her limbs and face. He began unbuckling her – her wrists, then her ankles. Her eyes opened slowly and dreamily, as her breathing finally calmed. "Phew, you learn fast," she whispered breathily. Her sparkling eyes were watching him as he looked up at her. She smiled with a seductive innocence that tingled his loins yet again. Then he saw the clock on the bedside table. It read almost five-thirty. "Oh shit. I've got to go." He scrambled into the bathroom, yanking his clothes on and muttering repeatedly, "Oh, shit." "Was that as good for you as it was for me?" Dara repeated the old cliché in a half-mocking, half-amused sing-song. Matt stopped for a moment and stared at her, still lounging on the rumpled bed, her leather bindings lying next to her limbs. She was a real Aphrodite – a true temptress. "It was great! Really great! The best I think I've ever had." He paused, reflecting on what he'd said. It was true; he realized that he was being completely sincere. It somehow made him sad. He snapped quickly out of his reverie, though. "I've really got to go. I'll be in shit up to my ears unless I can think of a good excuse." Looking around he turned toward the door. "As Aladdin's genie said, 'How about the truth?'" she whispered. He pretended not to have heard. "Thanks so much. I'll see you. I'll call." Slipping out the door, he heard her dreamy 'bye just before he closed it. As he hurried to his car he realized that he didn't have her phone number. "I'll deal with that problem later," he muttered to himself, "but for now..."