Dar Jeans Dar Eyes

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.