Sensitive Compartmented Hallmar

Author's Note and Warning:

This story crosses categories. There is a

Mature

relationship here. There is (hopefully) some

Erotic Coupling.

There is a strong thread of

Taboo.

Ultimately, I chose to publish this one under

Loving Wives

because ... well, you'll see. But please be aware that this story could have fit under other categories. There is also a very slow burn in this story; the explicit sex happens well towards the end. Also—and because I'm striving to be a

nice

author—I should warn you there are references in the story to a past non-consensual and traumatic sexual assault. If any of the foregoing is not for you, or causes emotional distress, best to move on now before reading further.

Chapter 1: Meet-Cute

Do you know what a "meet-cute" is?

It's a thing in movies, where two strangers—typically the leads—meet in humorous or quirky circumstances. They hit it off, of course. Maybe there's a moment where time freezes and they stare into each other's eyes. Then—like a bolt of lightning in a clear blue sky—they realize they are

meant for each other.

You know what I mean. You've seen it a million times, especially if you watch Hallmark movies. (And who doesn't watch Hallmark movies?)

The woman who would become my wife met me in a meet-cute thing. Only she arranged it. It was totally premediated. I was being manipulated before we even introduced ourselves to each other.

I was in my early twenties, a recent college graduate, and I was already a workaholic. Working was my focus, first and foremost. What I did was hard, demanding work. After work was done, I hit the gym. Then I went home to a microwave dinner and a Hallmark movie. That was my life.

I told myself I didn't have time for dating, even if I could have found a young woman who would put up with me and my weird job. I was a loner, which was a good thing as far as my employer was concerned; me not dating meant fewer background checks to run.

Working and working out was pretty much all I ever did. After a couple of years of doing nothing but that, I got a little bored with my life, so I decided to join a wine-tasting club. I joined just to add some variety into my life. I didn't join the club to meet girls, or because I was lonely. I just needed something to do—other than watch Hallmark movies—after I finished my daily workout at the gym. That was my only reason to join the club, I swear.

I worked about 60 hours a week, on the average. Where? None of your business. If I told you, I'd have to kill you. That is not really a joke.

What I am allowed to share here is that I am an analyst. I analyze things. What kind of things do I analyze? See previous paragraph. The place where I analyzed things at the time I met the woman who would become my wife was near Washington, D.C. It's called the "national capital region" and it encompasses a great deal of land and a great many Federal agencies. So, when I tell you I am was analyst for an agency that was located in the national capital region, I'm not really telling you anything. Which is exactly why I can share that piece of personal information in this epistle.

I can also share that, at the time, I had been employed for just over one year. I had graduated college with a liberal arts degree from a fairly prestigious private institution. I thought I was going into law but the agency had other plans for me. It turns out that I ticked a lot of their boxes, including attention to detail and an ear for languages. I guess I should mention that, by the time I was 24, I spoke four languages fluently and could muddle through another three or four if I had to. Being polylingual is a good thing, even if most of the languages I speak aren't especially popular, except in national security circles. A lot of my working days in those early years was taken up with language study.

I rowed crew in college, so I was in decent shape. Not that my shape mattered much. I spent 95% of my day sitting at desk in a SCIF. (That's "sensitive compartmented information facility" in case you don't know your acronyms. I should warn you that I tend to use a lot of acronyms; it comes with the job. You might want to have Google open while you read this, because I'm not going to explain them all to you.)

At this time, I was 24 and in decent shape. I am a hair under six feet tall and weigh about 180 pounds. I have dark brown hair and eyes to match. I had a college degree and a job that paid pretty well—at least for a government job. I was never going to be rich like a Beltway-bandit lawyer but I liked my job. I liked making a difference, even if almost nobody outside the Beltway understood exactly what difference I was making.

That was my situation when I showed up for the next wine club event.

The wine club met about once every six or eight weeks. I was there because it was something different to do, and also because I was interested in learning more about wine. At that point, I knew what wine I liked to drink but I didn't know why I liked it or why I didn't like another kind of wine. So, it was fun and educational at the same time. It beat working late in my office or staying home and streaming the Hallmark channel.

That night the wine club met at the French embassy, which is located in Northwest Georgetown. I didn't know much about French wine then, so I was really into the tasting and the commentary from the sommelier. I mean, French wine in the French embassy? Served with French cheeses and baguettes?

Yes, please.

The fact that the club's membership was nearly 70 percent female didn't hurt one bit. I wasn't there to meet women but there was a pleasant ambiance, if you know what I mean.

The downside of tasting French wine in the French embassy was that the event was popular. The tickets had been sold out months in advance. I showered after the gym; the taxi dropped me off 30 minutes before the event started, but there was already a line of really thirsty people ahead of me.

Inside it was a madhouse. A completely full house. People were everywhere, trying to taste as many wines as they could. Lines were really long at the serving stations. The scene reminded me of the event a couple of months before, where we tasted tequila at the Mexican embassy. (Tequila is like wine, right? Just go with me on this.)

I was in line when somebody bumped into me. I could feel the wine hit my suit jacket and trousers.

Damn it! I hope that's not red wine!

Then I saw who had bumped into me.

She was saying something about being

so sorry

and

I'm so clumsy

but I didn't hear anything because I was looking into her eyes. They were gorgeous. Dark chocolate with warm brown highlights. Then I noticed the rest of her, which was every bit as beautiful as her eyes. She was about a half-foot shorter than I was but she filled her dress well. Her breasts threatened to overflow from the top.

You might think that I would have focused on those beautiful breasts but that was not the case. Sorry to disabuse you of your male stereotypes.

After her eyes, the next thing I noticed was her hair. She wore it long. Her hair fell below her shoulders and was the color of an old copper penny: somewhere between brown and red, with beautiful highlights that reflected the ceiling lights.

First, I noticed her eyes; then her hair. Then I noticed the rest of her: she was fit with firm breasts that rose up proudly on her chest. Under her mid-length skirt her legs were long and shapely.

Yep. I was smitten at first sight. Just like in those Hallmark movies.

I got my wine and I got her another wine—both white, thank God—and we sat down to chat. I found out her name was Kate—short for Katherine—and she found out my name was Neil. She worked as an Executive Assistant for an SES civilian in the Pentagon and I told her I worked at an OGA, which was technically true if hella vague. She nodded knowingly and I didn't have to say anything more about

that.

She changed the subject from work and we talked about what we liked to do when we weren't working or drinking wine. As it turned out, we both shared the same extra-curricular interests: nothing much. She rode bikes with a group on the weekend and that was about it. She liked to read. She kept to herself when she wasn't working—a quiet life.

A woman after my own heart!

We got up several times for refills. I moved on to the Bordeaux (both banks), but she stayed with the whites. She seemed to like the Sancerre. Then we got to the Burgundies and we both found our passions—she loved the Chardonnays and I fell in love with the Pinots. We kept going back to the Burgundy line over and over.

By the time the event ended, we were both halfway hammered—but we'd exchanged contact info. She gave me a peck on the cheek and that was the end of that.

It was a meet-cute, and she'd arranged it to happen. She didn't just bump into me on accident; the wine didn't just spill itself. The entire episode had been planned.

I learned about her manipulations after we were married.

*****

I reported the contact. Of course I did! I wasn't allowed to go waltzing into a foreign embassy just because I had a ticket to a public event. If I had a significant interaction with a stranger while in a foreign embassy, that needed to be reported as well.

Hello!

—honeytrap? I needed to be sure Kate was who she said she was before we took another step.

Fortunately, Kate's background check came back clean. She was who she said she was; she did what she said she did. And the best part was that she already had a TS clearance, because of what she did and who she worked for. As far as the agency was concerned, I had a green light to proceed.

So I did.

*****

Kate's parents didn't like me. Not at all.

For one thing, I wasn't Catholic. (I am officially "agnostic" because I'm waiting for a sign from above. It's been a long wait.) For another thing, they never understood what I did for a living. My vague statement about "analysis" didn't resonate with them whatsoever. Kate's family was blue-collar, all the way. Traditionalists. Kate was the first in the family to get a college education, and she had to fight her parents to get it.

For another thing, I didn't speak Spanish. As least as far as they knew. The reality was that I spoke damn-near fluent Spanish (with an unfortunate Cuban accent) but I chose not to share that bit of information with them. When they talked shit about me in Spanish, I pretended I didn't

se habla.

So, as far as they knew I didn't speak Spanish and their English wasn't great, despite living in the USA for most of their lives. We didn't have much to say to each other and I liked it that way.

Yes, Kate is Hispanic. So fucking what? Do you think I care about that? I didn't care, but

they

cared. They hated the fact that their precious daughter was marrying a pale-skinned gringo. They hated that we had fucked each other and moved in together well before I proposed to her. As far as they were concerned, I had corrupted their innocent little daughter.

Maybe I did corrupt Kate. But if I did, she was a 100% willing participant all the way.

We had sex on our fourth date. I took her back to my place—which was a small apartment in Arlington—after a nice dinner. We split a bottle of Meursault, which I brought to the restaurant. (That wine education was starting to pay off.) We went back to my place and I took her virginity.

Who am I kidding? She was no virgin. She told me later that she lost her virginity before she graduated college, to some frat guy who never called her again afterwards. Then she told me I was so much better in bed than her other lovers. Was she telling me the truth? I don't know, but I also know that I

wanted

to believe I was the best lover she ever had. When she told me that I was "almost too big" for her tight pussy, I wanted to believe that, as well.

I'm pretty sure Kate came at least twice that first night together. Once when I went down on her dark-furred pussy and the other when she was on top. (She

really

liked being on top.) But maybe she was faking. How can you be sure? Did you ever see

When Harry Met Sally?

I know I came three times that first night, once in her mouth and twice buried to the hilt in her pussy. (She was on the pill. Don't tell her parents. As I said: traditional Catholics.) We fucked like crazy people that night. It was the best sex I ever had, bar none. (Which was an easy bar to overcome because Kate was only my third lover.) She said it was the best for her, as well. I'm pretty sure she wasn't lying to me, because she came back for more the next week.

Anyway, we fucked and we liked it. We liked each other. Was it love? I don't know. I don't know what love even is. Life isn't a Hallmark movie.

I just know that, after four months of dating and more animal-like sex, I wanted to be with her all the time. We were compatible in a thousand different ways, from liking to work out at the gym after work, to liking wine, and to knowing not to ask any questions about the other's workday. We had our jobs—and we both tended to work late—but when we were home it just felt like

home

to me.

Kate felt like home.

Before Kate, my life had been working and working out, with occasional wine-tasting club events. After Kate, my life was working, working out, and fucking Kate as often as I could. We both stopped going to the wine club events, because we decided we would rather buy wine ourselves and taste it back at the apartment. Wine tasting became like a date night for us.

Her parents didn't like me and they didn't like the fact that we were fucking. They didn't like the fact we were living together within four months of our first date. They didn't like much of anything about me.

Her dad, Julio, was okay. He was a nice guy, actually. Short and round and very pleasant. He ran a small optical shop in Crystal City where he sold and repaired eyeglasses. He was good at that and he was great at customer service. Julio was nice and I think we could have gotten along but he did what Maria told him to do. Maria—Kate's mom—ran the family like a dictator. She was the boss. Everybody did what Maria said.

Maria had red hair. Her hair was so flaming red, I wondered if she dyed it. She had Kate before she was twenty so she was about forty-one or forty-two when Kate and I first got together. She was red-haired and her demeanor gave truth to those stereotypes about fiery redheads. She had huge breasts that needed a bra the size of Cleveland to hold them up, along with massive hips and a huge ass that was larger than the local park. Combine that ass with those tits and put the result on a five-foot-nothing frame, top it with red hair that was the color of volcanic lava, and you have a pretty good picture of Maria.

Maria had given birth to a son about 5 years after Kate was born. Juanito had graduated high school and joined the Army when he was eighteen—the infantry. He was always away, either on deployment or stationed at some OCONUS MOB or FOB. Nobody saw him much, which is why Mario and Julio doted on Kate and why they were so pissed at me when we moved in together without an engagement ring.

But what Maria hated the most about me was not that I was fucking her precious daughter—it was that I was fucking Kate while ignoring her imperial commands. Julio obeyed her without question, as if he had been thoroughly trained. I ignored her—and it drove her mad. As far as Maria was concerned, I was basically thumbing my nose at Kate's entire family.

I didn't care and Kate didn't care either.

Fuck 'em

was our approach to family dynamics. They wanted us to come over for a Sunday family dinner?

Sorry, we have plans.

Come to church with us?

Sorry, Neil's not a Catholic

—and

Neil's never fucking ever going to be a Catholic, so stop hassling us.

Okay; that last part wasn't said out loud to Maria and Julio; but we did say it out loud to each other when we ended the call with them.

Kate was mine and I was Kate's; we didn't need any family. My parents lived in New Hampshire and we exchanged Christmas cards. We spoke on the phone on birthdays. Kate and I agreed that was the appropriate level of interaction between children and parents.

Eventually Kate and I got married, if only to shut Maria up about her precious daughter living in sin. We had a civil ceremony instead of a massive Catholic Mass thing. We held the reception at a local restaurant. Maria hated the casual wedding and low-key reception in addition to everything else she hated about me. But you know how much money we saved from those decisions? A hell of a lot. Enough to pay for a really nice honeymoon in the Caribbean. That's how much we saved.

*****

On the honeymoon I learned the truth about my wife: she wasn't the most trustworthy person on the planet. After we were done talking, I had trouble determining what was true. I mean, she had an ulterior agenda most of time time—or so it seemed to me. I had trouble decoding her motivations. That being said, I'm not sure my understanding was all that important.

In bed, she would do pretty much anything I wanted, with only a couple of exceptions. She wouldn't let me tie her up; there was no BDSM stuff. And her butt was firmly off limits. Pretty much anything else was available for our mutual pleasure.

When we were done fucking, she revealed a different persona. In that Caribbean Island hotel room, after she was done blowing me and swallowing my cum, she told me things about her—about

us

—that blew my mind.

We were talking late at night (or maybe early in the morning) after an arduous bout of honeymoon lovemaking when Kate finally explained to me that she had targeted me at one of the early wine tasting events. She saw me and decided she wanted to get to know me better. So, at the next event—the one at the French embassy—she arranged to "meet" me by spilling wine on me. According to Kate, she never planned to fall in love with me or to marry me.

"I just wanted some dick," she told me in that Caribbean hotel room. "You looked hot and I wanted me some of that. I wanted to get fucked. I hadn't been fucked in more than two years—and there you were, you sexy thing. The rest of it? I never counted on

that.

I never counted on you being such a hot fuck, or how your huge dick makes me cum over and over. I never counted on the way you lick my pussy and suck my clit until I literally see stars when I cum." She shook her head. "I never counted on falling in love with you the way I have."

She kissed me gently. "We're going to spend the rest of our lives together, Neil. I never counted on that. I never thought...." She sighed. "I never thought I could be a one guy kind of girl."

"What if you grow tired of me?" I joked.

Kate didn't smile. She thought about my question for a few seconds, then she said, "If I get bored or tired of you—of us—then I'll probably find another guy to fuck on the side."

"

What!"

I mean,

come on.

She was telling me this on my goddamn honeymoon for Christ's sake!

"You can do the same thing," she said. "Just because we're married doesn't mean we need to be monogamous."

I literally had no words.

She continued. "I love having sex with you! But if I want to have sex with somebody else—or you want to have sex with somebody else—then that should be okay. Just ... let's make sure we both use protection. No unplanned pregnancies; no STDs. A little discreet affair once in a while should be acceptable—for either of us—don't you think?"