On the Other Side of Passion

Chapter 1: The Vow

It was her wedding day, the tears she cried were thought by the well-wishers to be tears of joy, and in actuality they were tears of sadness. She was marrying this man, a man she cared for deeply, a man she knew that she would have a good life with, a man who was stable and secure, a man who would love her without limits; forever. She knew it was the right decision to make; in her head. Her heart longed for another.

She stood holding her breath in the confines of the falsehood of white taffeta and rhinestone, her lacey undergarments itching and digging into her skin, the under wire bra, nipping at her. The spiked heels threatening to topple her over as she struggled to remain upright; her knees weak and rubbery; her feet throbbing. The beautiful bridal bouquet of fresh pink and white roses trembled in her hands, a forgotten thorn gauging the tender white flesh of her fingers. The veil clouded her vision, but still she could see this man, looking somewhat like the proverbial penguin as he gazed upon her, his eyes filled with love and adoration. This was a good match, maybe not made in heaven, but still a good match. With him she was ensuring her future, her heart ached for the other and she thought of him as she uttered the promises of love and faithfulness. The ring was slid on her finger, she slid the ring on his, with the lifting of the veil and the seal of a kiss, and it was done. Her fate sealed.

She suffered through what seemed an endless reception. The cutting of the cake, opening of presents, endless hugs and pecks from relatives she had never met before, the tossing of the bouquet and the shower of birdseed, now that was done too. He whisked her off to the car, decorated in crepe paper, condoms and balloons; they pulled into the hotel parking lot, just a brief overnight stay before their exodus in the morning, and up to their hotel room. Once inside the room, he helped her to remove her gown and confining undergarments, physically she was freed, yet she still felt as if she couldn’t breathe. He laid her on the bed, the cheap hotel bedspread rough against her skin, there was no foreplay, no preamble, just a stroke of his cock, and he plunged into her.

He made love like a boulder, hard, unyielding, and stifling. Within minutes, their marriage had been consummated and he rolled off of her huffing and panting, falling into a fitful sleep. She slid out from under the covers, opened the complementary bottle of cheap Champaign, downing it in big gulps until the bottle was drained. She went to the bathroom and showered, trying desperately to wash away the awfulness she felt. After the shower, she wrapped herself in a coarse hotel towel and sat on the toilet, the water dripping off her long brunette locks and running down her back, chilling her. She stared at the tiny band of gold, contemplated the gleam of the diamonds and her future.

Her thoughts turned to the other man, the nights of passion they had shared. She knew she was fortunate, some people never experience the type of intense, hot passion that she had. How many times do you find passion like that she mussed, once, maybe twice in a lifetime? She thought of him, his body; lean, hard, muscled. She thought of his cock; long, stiff, hard, relentless. She thought of their nights together, nothing was off limits, nothing was taboo, he never weakened, never gave out, he was always ready. She sighed and became wet as she thought of him. Her pulse began to quicken, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire, she spread her legs and began to massage her clit; thinking of him. Faster and faster she rubbed, rolling her nipples in one hand, massaging her clit with the other. Her breath came out in short gasps; she moaned and trembled as she finished herself. She donned her trousseau and slid back into bed, falling fast asleep. Her dreams were troubled ones, her sleep not restful; her night was filled with dreams of him.

Her husband woke her up, by raising her gown and sliding his fingers into her wetness. “Ummm, you’re wet. Dreaming about me?” he asked. She faked a smile, and bid him entrance. Moments later, they were dressed and in the hotel lobby, sipping coffee and munching on stale doughnuts.

The honeymoon was little more than a blur to her, off to Vegas, gambling, a tour of the Hoover Dam; all you can eat buffets, an endless supply of drinks and showgirls. Now the plane was landing, time to settle in to married life.

The days turned into weeks, there was work, cleaning, laundry, cooking; all of the entrapments of womanhood and married life. She had tried to give him little hints of how he could be a better bedmate, but always it was the same. Fast, hard, and over way too soon. She was becoming frustrated and lonely. She kept trying to convince herself, repeating the same theme in her head. Passion is a lie, it isn’t real, and it doesn’t last. Love is real, this is real; her Passion had left, he had left her alone, the bliss she felt in his arms was temporary. This is real, this is my life; these were the things she kept trying to convince herself of.

As the weeks turned into months, her frustration turned into despair. She wanted to be a good wife, she wanted to love him; and she did. They were the best of companions, but the worst of bedmates. Everyone commented on how perfect they looked together and how happy they must be. She repeated these comments over and over to herself, if everyone else saw it, it had to be true.

She pulled the car into the parking lot and discreetly slipped inside of the dimly lit adult book and toy store. If she was going to remain faithful, she was going to have to create her own passion; she was going to have to take matters into her own hands. She walked down the aisle searching for the perfect one, the ultimate lover. The vibrator she selected was flesh tone, long, and hard, it reminded her of her lost passion. This passion would never let her down, it would never leave, it would remain silently, tucked away in a secret location, it would wait patiently for her, it would do her bidding, whenever she requested. Embarrassed, she purchased the item, tucking the brown plastic bag under her arm and rushed home to introduce herself to her new love.

Her husband wouldn’t be home for hours, she had plenty of time. She lay on the bed, taking her time to slowly arouse herself; how badly she needed this. Stroking herself almost to climax, she slid the piece of latex and battery into her. At first the vibrating rhythm felt foreign; strange. It pulsated making a noise not unlike that of a small desktop fan. The pulsations began to feel better and better; she began to slide her hips in an up and down motion, gliding it deeper and deeper into herself. Her pulse quickened, her nipples hardened, her pelvic muscles tightened, and with a gush she had fulfilled herself. She turned off the device and lay on the bed still quivering in orgasm. She thought of that song by the Rolling Stones; “Mother’s Little Helper”; this was her helper, her savior, her life raft in a sea devoid of passion.

Today was the day, their first year anniversary. She utilized her “little helper” as often as she could, she cooked and cleaned; she had remained a faithful, dutiful, wife. He was treating her to a dinner out tonight, she got ready. She took her time, carefully fixing her hair, applying make up and dressing. She heard him as he came home from work and advanced up the stairs, she saw him in the mirror behind her. He slid a small velvet box out from underneath his jacket, opened it and slid the necklace around her neck. It was a small heart inlayed with diamonds. How sweet, she thought to her self. She turned and kissed him, a mere peck on the lips. He grinned and began to grab at her breasts, handling them with all the tenderness of a chef kneading bread dough. Sloppily he kissed her, sliding his hands up her skirt, pulling down her panty hose. He led her out of the bathroom and lowered her onto the bed. Clumsily he unzipped his pants, flipping out his penis. He entered her, pushing himself into her depths. It was a brief interlude, over in a matter of minutes, she stood in front of the mirror, straightened her hair as she uttered a disappointed sigh.

Dinner seemed to last for hours, endless dribble of meaningless conversation. “How was your day?” “It doesn’t seem like it has been a whole year.” Endless admonitions of love and adoration. She had a gift for him; tucked away under her bed she had bought a lacey negligee, fish net hose and heels. She intended to give herself as a gift. She faked a smile and fought her way through dinner. When they arrived home, she lit the candles that she had strategically positioned through out the bedroom, donned her seductive garb and bid him to come in.

“Wow, all for me?” he said grinning as he admired her form. He pulled her close, inhaling deeply of her erotic scent. He fumbled with the garters, almost ripping the tiny g-string away, he greedily plunged into her. He huffed and groaned as he rocked, he finished quickly with a moan and a shudder. He slid his fingers into the slickness of his cum, gliding them up into her. Slowly he began to stoke her; eagerly she arched her back encouraging him with her response. “You like that?” he whispered into her ear.

“Yes” she responded. He stroked her faster and faster, deeper and deeper. Her heart raced in anticipation “Yes” she thought to herself “Yes, make me come” she exclaimed under her breath. Her pelvic muscles tightened in response, her wetness was now genuinely hers, her nipples hardened, and her breath came out in short gasps as she came.

“More, more” she uttered as she grabbed his hand guiding it in to her. He lowered his mouth to her breast licking and suckling her. At this moment, for the time being she had forgotten her lost Passion, having found these new sensations from familiar hands. He stoked her clit, tickled the entrance to her vagina, tugged at her pubic hair, plunged himself into her softness and wetness. He sucked her nipples, nipping gently at them, he ran his tongue down her belly, and lowered him head between her legs. This was something he’d never done to her before, and she gasped in delight as his tongue lapped at her clit. Who was this man? What had he done with her husband? She gasped in utter bliss as she came yet again, weak and trembling she urged him to take a break and to lay with her. She fell into a fitful slumber, happy and content, finally.

She got up extra early and prepared a breakfast for her husband the breakfast was worthy for a man such as him. He sauntered down the stairs, fresh from the shower, adjusting his tie. “No time for breakfast today, love. I have a big meeting.” With a peck on the cheek, he was out the door. Alone, she munched on the bacon and sipped her coffee, contemplating the band of gold around her finger. She decided to go shopping to cheer herself up. She found herself prowling the aisles of the adult bookstore; selecting a new toy for herself.

The weeks passed since their last encounter, there had been sex, but nothing like what had transpired on the night of their anniversary. She found her mind beginning to wander back to her lost Passion. She missed him so. She found herself so down, so lost, she went to her doctor, sought consolation from her friends, shopped and shopped, she even started to go to a counselor to find ways to relieve herself from the memory of her lost passion. Her husband instinctively knew something was wrong, he sensed her melancholy, but couldn’t understand why. He tried to be supportive, he tried to be a good man, he tried to go on, tried to keep her going, tried not to question the sleeping pills, the antidepressants, she looked to him for help and found none. She was in a state where she could only help herself; there was no solace, no shelter from the storm that roared within her.

They lay on the couch, watching a movie; he was wearing only a pair of sleep shorts. She ran her fingers through his mat of thick, coarse chest hair, tugging on it playfully during the slow parts of the movie. “Ummm,” he muttered, “I like that.” He reached up behind her head and guided her lips to his mouth, kissing her deeply, sliding his tongue into her mouth. He slid his hand up her sleep shirt and fondled her breasts; her nipples became erect under his hands. Automatically, she lowered herself onto her back, sliding her shorts down, assuming the customary position of their lovemaking.

“No, no, not like that. I want to pleasure you tonight.” He raised her up into a sitting position, spreading her legs and guiding her to the edge of the couch. He felt for the remote, turning off the TV. He gently spread her lips apart with his fingers and slid his tongue in between them, tickling her clit.

“Finally,” she thought to herself as she raised her pussy up into his face. Her mind was racing as he brought her past the point of mere arousal; instinctively she lowered her hand to her clit and began to massage herself. He sat back on his haunches watching her. She realized that she was being watched; she wasn’t alone this time like she was all of the other times she made herself cum. Self-consciously, she stopped.

“Don’t stop,” he guided her hand back down to her clit, still slick with his saliva. Obligingly, gratefully she continued. He slid his hand down the front of his shorts and began to stroke his cock, bringing it to full stiffness. He spun her around on the couch and positioned her on all fours; he guided himself into her. He rocked wildly at first, then slowly barely entering her. She raised her hips up and began to rock, forcing his cock deeper inside of her. He forced her down, forbidding her better access to his cock. He slid a hand down her ass, pinching it. He slipped his finger into her wetness, lubricating it. She tensed against him, unsure of herself.

“Relax, Love,” he whispered to her. With a deft movement he slid his finger into her ass, she gasped in shock. Although not all together unpleasant, definitely unexpected. He rocked his pelvis against her deeper and faster, he was also sliding his finger in and out of her ass, making circular movements with it. She gasped in delight, she felt her muscles tighten, and she felt the warm gush of her come as it ran down her labia. “That’s my baby. Come all over my hard prick” he moaned. “Come, come more for me.” He rammed himself into her, causing her to come again in an explosion of pleasure and release. She had needed this, she had needed this night.

She was awakened by a kiss on the cheek. She snuggled down into the afghan he had wrapped around her. She had fallen fast asleep on the couch, he left her drifting in slumber and bliss. He was dressed and ready for work, he gave her breast a little pinch, grinned and left for work. She was sore from last night’s activities, sore and very happy. She uttered a contented sigh, and slipped back into slumber.

She wrapped the Christmas presents she had purchased, it had been months since that night on the living room couch, whenever she was feeling down or disappointed by the long dry spell she was currently enduring, and she remembered that night. She wrapped his presents with loving care, creasing the paper sharply as she taped it into place. She was feeling particularly down today, while at the mall selecting presents, she saw her Passion. He walked through the mall as if he owned the place; his tight jeans hugging the bulk of his cock, making it appear all the larger. His brown leather coat was slung carelessly over his shoulder, his head held high.

She remembered the time they had gone shopping together, his arm draped around her shoulders in a possessive gesture. That seemed like a lifetime ago, she had been happy then, he had seemed happy too, Passion had been sweet, the memory was still sweet; bittersweet. She repeated over and over to herself, passion is a lie, passion is a lie. She ducked into a little shop and pretended to examine the depths of a blue cashmere sweater; he hadn’t seen her, as she fondled the sweater, the diamonds of her wedding ring snagged it, tearing a hole in the fragile, soft fabric. Hastily she purchased the sweater; she hung it in her closet, a silent sentinel to the losses caused by passion.

Christmas Day came and went, New Year’s passed, the unrelenting cold of winter held her in its grasp. She stroked the fur of the puppy her husband had bought her for Christmas; they had been together for almost two years, childless. He sensed her loneliness and purchased the puppy as a faithful companion for her. The puppy was growing into a dog by their second anniversary. The dry spell continued on. She pondered how it could have been so good that night and so bad all the times there after. She consoled herself with her toys, pretended they were Passion, wished they were her husband.

Summer in the park, the dog strained on its leash; expressing the enthusiasm she wished she felt. Her husband trotted after them, scouting out an empty spot under a shady tree for their picnic. He called to them having found the perfect spot. Eagerly she gulped from the cold bottled water he handed her. They ate deli subs and chips, feeding bits and pieces from their lunch to their hungry pooch. In the distance she spotted him, his shorts sliding up and down his lean thighs; her heart raced as she watched him. Her grip on the dog’s leash loosened and the dog pulled away from her, bounding toward him. “Oh no!” exclaimed her husband as he chased the dog.

She leapt to her feet and began to call to the dog. He whistled motioning for the dog to come to him, the dog obeyed, jumping up at him, licking his face. “I am so sorry,” she apologized to him as she grabbed the dog’s leash pulling him away. She pretended that he was a stranger. “I want to see you,” he whispered to her in his soft seductive voice.

Her cheeks reddened as her husband approached. She glanced up at him, her eyes wide, she mouthed back the word “Ok”. She intercepted her husband guiding him and the dog back to the shade of the tree.

Sweaty and exhausted from their outing, she leaned against the wall of the shower letting the cool water run down her body. “Is there room for two?” Her husband slid back the shower curtain and climbed in. He took the soap from her hands and began to lather it up. He ran his soapy hands down her back, the clean scent of the soap assaulting her senses. She could feel his cock straining against her ass, he bent her over, careful not to get water in her face. He guided his cock into her, he pushed harder and harder; relentless. When he was finished, he gave her a kiss and exited the shower, leaving her to finish bathing.

Trembling she applied her makeup, she knew where to find her Passion, for over two years she had avoided this place like the plague. She was careful not to drive down his street, careful to avoid all of his routine haunts, now she was seeking him out. She entered the darkness of the bar and saw him sitting at a table in the back. Her knees weak, she walked over to the table and took a seat. He sat silently, appraising her. An eternity passed before either one of them could speak. He looked intently into her eyes, inhaled deeply of her scent, he slid his hand up her calf, and seeming not to notice the considerable discomfort he was causing her.

She gathered her composure and confronted her Passion. “Why did you want to see me?” she asked. He looked so good, he looked as good as she had remembered. He leaned back in his chair allowing her to fully assess him. Begrudgingly, almost against her will, she did.

“How’s married life?” he asked shooting her a disarmingly devilish smile. Her heart felt as if it were going to pound out of her chest. What in the hell was she doing her she thought to herself. Why had she tempted fate? She still wanted him, from the bulging of his Levis, he still wanted her. She clacked her wedding ring against her glass, to remind herself of her vow. Should she lie? Should she tell him that she was blissfully and happily married? Should she lie as Passion had lied? There was no point, he would see right through it, and no one knows a lie better than a liar.