Trinity

Trinity - Part II: The Wife.

"'Do what thou wilt' shall be the whole of the Law; for every man and woman is a star... and the word of sin is restriction."

The Book of the Law: Aleister Crowley (1875-1947).

I grew up in a small town in Central Europe, the youngest of three kids. They seemed to get all the attention and I was pretty much left to myself. They both eventually married, while I managed to escape from home, becoming a med student in a city as far away as possible, far to the north, on the coast. My parents were multilingual so I'd no problem learning languages (I speak four, apart from my own) and really loved English. Formal lessons in school had been really boring, but I'd gotten to know the slang the same way my friends did - from our favorite rock albums. We used to practice with each other when nobody else was listening. It was our secret language. I'm no kind of fucking genius. I'm only saying this so you'll know why I've no problems writing this story.

Beyond a couple of crushes on guys who were thought of as real 'jocks', I didn't have a boyfriend or any kind of sexual experience till I was much older than is usual these days. The jocks at school turned me on all right but I was just too shy. I had no self-esteem at all. I'd often been told I was sexy, but somehow I just couldn't bring myself to believe it. I preferred to be on my own. I'd many male friends of course, but I'd only play the 'romantic' game at a safe distance - exchanging passionate, romantic letters with 'boyfriends' who lived as far away as possible - preferably abroad (another reason my English isn't so bad). In a way, my first real boyfriend in every sense was my husband Paul - the first man I ever got close to emotionally. I'd had sex before I met him of course, shortly after I moved away from home, but as you'll see, it wasn't exactly what I'd anticipated. I only 'did it' in the end because everyone else I knew was doing it. As often happens for someone like me, the first time was quite unexpected. I've often been asked, like we all have - what was it like for you? And I've always given the same answer - fucking hopeless.

It was near Christmas, during my first year at med school. I was working late in the computer lab when one of our circle of friends turned up. He was a pretty good-looking guy and had a reputation among us as a regular stud. We were alone and he proposed we go to a friend's place for a drink. I was tired and didn't see why not. As I've said, I'd always kind of fancied guys like him, but I'd no idea at the time that anything was going to happen. When we got to his friend's place, I was surprised to find we were alone. He poured me a drink, then another and another and another as we talked of this and that. Then he told me what a terrifically sexy chick I was and how he'd always wanted me. I felt flattered. He put his arm round me and kissed me powerfully. I was pretty tipsy by now and gave in to the kiss. My tongue touched another tongue for the first time. It felt soft, squishy, and wildly intoxicating. Then he suggested we had sex. I didn't want to - that is, I did and I didn't. I knew about him - what his reputation was - and knew damn well he was just out to seduce me, probably on a bet. This excited me on the one hand - about time it happened to me anyway, I thought. But on the other, I was really afraid. I'd been told how much it would hurt. He kept at me, kissing me, reaching under my sweater and bra, squeezing my tits and delicately fingering my nipples, then thrusting his hand down under my panties, feeling my crotch, gently rubbing my clit. My crotch was damp. I'd never been touched there before. By now we were breathing heavily. I backed off, telling him I was scared - that I was still a virgin. He suggested we just get naked and 'play around' a bit - we wouldn't do anything I didn't want to. Just explore one another, just games. I was tired of fighting him off. I was so fucking pissed. I gave in.

We stripped and stood face to face just looking at each another. My body felt open, exposed, and vulnerable. His raw, male nakedness hit me - a slim, well-muscled, hairy body stood before me with legs apart, bare feet planted in the thick carpet. His stiff cock jutted out, long, thick and red. I'd never seen anything like it in real life and got a sudden fit of the giggles - a real problem I've got when it comes to sex. He advanced, grinning, and drew me to him. We began feeling each other up, caressing and kissing. The touch of our bodies was electric - the light brush of his body hair against my tits, the warm, hard, first-time feel of bare male muscle. My skin felt on fire as he ran his firm hands over my bare tits, down my hips, then back around my buttocks. He guided my hand to his cock. It felt hot and very hard. The tip was moist. Fascinated, I closed my fingers around it and began slowly moving my hand up and down. I could feel it pulsing. He groaned, and I suddenly began to feel faint. He pulled me over to the bed and we lay down. The bed squeaked loudly.

I felt the warm heaviness of his body as he lay pressed against me, one leg between my thighs. He kissed me again and I felt his delicate fingers on my clit again. But now I was rigid, tense and very frightened. I told him I didn't want to go through with it, that I was terrified, that I wasn't ready for it yet. He replied that surely it was about time I had sex, I was so beautiful, the sexiest ever, he said. He assured me he'd be very gentle. Whispering 'my gorgeous, my lovely' he gently but firmly prized open my legs and eased himself between them. Something huge, hot and hard began pressing against the lips of my cunt. I panicked, and begged him not to, but he paid no attention. I felt him thrust into me. The pain was agonizing. I clutched his back in desperation, but it got worse and worse. I'd once had a bicycle accident when I was about ten. I'd hit a post and rammed my crotch against the hard seat. At the time it had seemed like the worst pain imaginable, but what was happening now was far, far worse. Then he gave a quick, sharp thrust and I almost screamed as I felt something burst inside. That huge, red, pulsing cock of his had finally penetrated my body, filling it up. I felt the thing twitch for a moment, then he began thrusting rhythmically back and forth. The stupid fucking bed squeaked away in time with his thrusts and some distant part of me wanted to burst out laughing. What a comedy. But the pain was getting more intense and I was feeling sick and dizzy. Then he suddenly went berserk, bucking up and down furiously and grunting loudly. I clutched him tightly and burst into tears as he gave a loud groan, stiffened and thrust in deep. Through the pain I felt a powerful throbbing deep inside me and a warm gush of something or other - my first ever full injection of cum, I guessed. He relaxed and began rocking steadily back and forth on top of me breathing 'gorgeous, delicious, sweetheart' and all that crap. The dizziness increased and I finally blacked out.

When I came to, he had withdrawn and eased himself off me. He was gently stroking my forehead. I raised myself on my elbows and looked down. The coverlet seemed soaked with blood, and his cock was bloodstained. God! What a mess, I thought. I'd been had all right - my cherry's been well and truly popped. The room seemed to stink of sex. Suddenly I felt really sick. I leaned over the side of the bed, retched and threw up copiously all over the floor. I felt like the lowest form of animal life. When I'd recovered, I got up, washed quickly, dressed and left. We didn't talk. He seemed embarrassed or indifferent, I dunno which. I didn't care - he'd won his bet all right. I left him to clean up the whole mess, went home and cried all night.

Looking back on it, I felt I'd been raped. The whole episode had been sordid, brutal and clumsy, fueled by alcohol. Nevertheless I had sex with him several times after that over the next few months - just to 'make sure' as it were. Needless to say, I quickly got used to it and we would get it on several times a session. I didn't have an orgasm, but I did begin to enjoy it more. We'd fuck while listening to music we both liked. But I soon got tired of him. He'd an ego the size of a planet. We'd little in common really except fucking and I knew he was banging other girls. I suppose I should've been flattered that I was one of his 'repeaters', but I'd had enough of this shit. Submission to him had been my type of masochism - but now I wanted something more. Then I found out I was pregnant. I had my first abortion - no way was I ever having his kid - and made him pay for it. That was it for me. At the end of the second semester I got a transfer to another school back down south.

I hadn't told him about my transfer, but when I got down there for the first semester, damn! there he was too! He started hitting on me again as soon as he saw me but I made it clear I wanted nothing more to do with him sexually. We could and did remain friends of a sort - after all, what else could we do in that claustrophobic school - we were even in the same specialty. Then I struck up with a young freshman. He was very young, a real sweetheart, very innocent, almost feminine-looking. He'd never had a girl, so one night I gently relieved him of his virginity. He fell desperately in love with me, although for me he was really a sort of toy, someone to have fun with, useful for keeping the other one at bay. We were like two puppies playing, all tongues and tumbling about, fascinated with each other's bodies, with the mechanics of cocks, clits and cunts, just how they worked. It was a kind of sex therapy really - an innocent, childlike exploration of sex that helped me forget the clumsy brutality and depressive fucking of that first experience. I really liked being on top of him and riding him, while he enjoyed it when I wrapped my long legs around his neck. I got more and more fond of him, but as I did, he seemed to back off. It didn't so much end as peter out, although again, we remained friends. After that I stayed on my own and concentrated on my work.

It was the following year - my final year - when I met Paul at a New Year's party. He'd been invited by a girl friend of mine who I knew had the hots for him. He turned up on the stroke of midnight wearing a long black coat, carrying a block of coal and a bottle of vodka (my favorite brand too) - some weird Scottish custom, he later told me. He sported a rather wild beard at that time - something I'm not too keen on - but for all that I could see that under it he was really good-looking - very tall, slim, black-haired tinged with gray and intense sea-gray eyes - very much a Nordic type, I thought. And it turned out I was right - he wore this old Viking ring that had belonged to some bloodthirsty fucker somewhere in Iceland in the tenth century or something - an ancestor of his on his mother's side. His sister wore the 'twin ring'. His was the ring of peace he told me, hers was of war. For all this he seemed really shy when we first talked, but I found him great fun. He was hilarious and I decided I liked him - a lot. I went home early that morning, but we met up again next day and from then on we were inseparable. My friend was furious and said that I'd betrayed her, although I knew that beyond a bit of light necking - more out of courtesy on Paul's part - she and Paul didn't actually get it on that night. Tough luck babe, I thought. You had your chance. Shit happens.

Paul and I certainly did get it on shortly afterwards, but I insisted we got out of the city if we were ever going to do it. It was bad enough having three lovers, two ex's and one current, buzzing around me constantly during the day - hell, we'd even sit at the same table in the cafeteria chatting happily away, although believe it or not, none of the guys actually knew about the others, or what they really had in common - my body. No, Paul and I just had to get out of there.

We finally made it to a really distant village buried deep in the mountains, beside a river, right on the state border. Strangely enough, I felt more frightened of having it off with Paul than I did with that first guy. I was for a different reason of course. Paul was clean-shaven now, revealing a strikingly handsome face, but a grim-looking one, heavily lined for his age (he was only four years older than me). Those sea-gray eyes always seemed to be staring off into the distance, and when they looked at you they seemed to bore right through you as if fixed on something far behind you, although he was always very warm and tender with me and always hilariously funny. As I said, I felt closer to him than I'd ever felt towards any other man. He was older than the others of course, and very smart - maybe too smart for my taste, I thought. A bit 'out of it' - if you know what I mean. And then there was that dark side to him - something lying curled up inside, but what the hell it was, I couldn't guess.

So I was very stiff and nervous that first night with him - although I needn't have been. I knew he loved me desperately - and that was what mattered, that was what I needed now most of all. When we finally got naked, he revealed a pale, slender body, only slightly hairy. He had very long legs, like me, and we were about the same height, so I knew we were going to have fun tying ourselves together in knots. As we lay naked together for the first time, getting in some gentle foreplay, I felt he was as tense as I was. But when he finally entered me I somehow began to feel more excited than I'd ever been before. For all his supposed previous experience (which I'd wormed out of him by now) he was very gentle, almost virginal. He'd always told me (as many others had done) that I had beautiful eyes, so I looked directly into him as he came. I could feel him melt into me, all his tension just dissolving, as mine did. Oh and in case you're wondering - his cock was terrific. He always had doubts about it, but he needn't have. The fact is, we were really making love, not just fucking. I was interested in much more than just his cock.

Our sex life took off after that night, and I got really turned on for the first time in my life. It was shortly afterwards, in a hotel room back in the city, that I know I came for the first time. He really knew how to work my clit, and as he was doing so, I just felt this enormous thrill build up and explode. Yes, of course I'd masturbated before, but fantasizing isn't the same as really having it during sex. We almost fell off the bed. I think I scared Paul pretty good - it must have seemed like I was going completely nuts.

We tried to get away from the city as often as possible, keeping out of sight of the 'eagle's eye' as the song goes. We traveled and explored a great deal. Paul was fascinated by old castles and village churches and would take loads of pictures. We often made love out of doors. It was great being naked in the wild, feeling the wind on our skin, the feel of earth and stone beneath our bare feet, watching the play of moonlight or sunlight on each other's bodies. Some really weird things happened from time to time as you'd expect. Once we were happily banging away in a field under the shadow of this ancient ruined church Paul had just photographed when this great fucking bull appeared out of nowhere and made straight for us, snorting and pounding away. It had a pizzle like a tree trunk and must've weighed at least two tons. We got the hell out of there, sprinting buck naked across the field and clearing the gate at the far end at a single jump, bare asses flying, breaking all Olympic records. There was this old woman looking after the bull. She didn't bat an eyelid at the sight of us. He just wants to play with you both, she told us quietly and politely, looking both of us straight in the eye as she sternly handed our clothes back to us. No thanks, I thought. Yes, by now I'd fantasized from time to time about having two males at once, but both the same species as me, please.

As you'd guess, it wasn't just churches Paul photographed. We soon got quite a repertoire of each other in the nude. Later, after we were married and had got our own apartment, we did quite a bit of indoor stuff too. No, we didn't have a video camera at the time, but using a timer, we got some great snaps of us banging away at each other.

But for all that we were very much in love, there was always something about Paul that made me a little nervous. It wasn't just what I felt to be his 'dark side', I mean, we had this really great empathy thing - we both really felt it when one of us was in pain for some reason. But his manner of talking was so precise, so pedantic, and I was so much in awe of him at the time, I couldn't ever really loosen up on my lingo when I was with him. I couldn't talk the way I used to with my friends. I never swore when I was with him, not even in my own language (which he understood perfectly) and avoided sexy slang, preferring to stick to medical words: 'penis', not 'cock' or 'dick' - 'vagina', not 'cunt' or 'pussy' - 'clitoris', never just 'clit' - 'making love' or 'having intercourse', never, God help us, 'fucking', 'banging', 'screwing', 'balling', 'shagging', 'porking' or even just 'making out', 'getting it on', 'getting laid' or 'having it off'. I don't think Paul ever even suspected I knew half these words, let alone used them freely with other people. I made exceptions from time to time in the context of our fantasy life - of which more later - but when I did, he would always press me to tell him how I'd learned these words. He didn't buy into the rock album thing. He always suspected I was really hiding something, that I'd been balling expats for the last ten years or had been some kind of Holiday Inn hooker. If only, I sometimes thought. That had always been one of my hottest fantasies.

Then I got pregnant again and had to have another abortion. Paul was hurt, but was very supportive in the long run - I told him just wasn't ready to have kids yet. Trouble was, we didn't use much protection beyond suppositories from time to time and these were still difficult to get. Anyway, I had a passion for skinny-dipping just as much as the guys did. Caution isn't one of my virtues - or at least wasn't then. I'd always been reckless. I never told Paul about that first one.

I got to meet his family. His dad was cool - he was from my country (hence Paul's fluency), but the mother was a total bitch. She hated me at first sight, and the feeling was mutual. There seemed to be a real problem with females in that family - those bloody Vikings, I thought. One meeting was enough.

All in all our sex life was fine, but after a time, I was beginning to feel that there was something missing, that there must be more to it. Paul was very empathic in an emotional way, but I somehow felt he couldn't really 'feel' me or feed my growing hunger. His technique remained rather mechanical and repetitive, but I was reluctant to broach the subject with him. I still lacked self-esteem, no matter what Paul tried to do to boost it. Other guys paid me compliments too from time to time, but I always felt they were just out to fuck me like that first guy had been. Perhaps because of all this, Paul and I had begun revealing our fantasies to each other, bit by bit, even before we were married.

I soon discovered his fetish about feet. This I was quite happy to satisfy, although I really wanted his cock rammed up to the hilt in my pussy, not dripping down there between my bare feet. Then we got on to the jealousy thing. This was far more weird. I mean, the feet thing was just funny (ha-ha! not peculiar) but he seemed to get really turned on by fantasizing about me getting laid by some other guy. I wasn't sure how to deal with this one. For a time, he had this big one about me getting laid in some other guy's car in the middle of a rainstorm. God knows why the rainstorm. Then he began worming details out of me about my other experiences. He got really obsessed by what happened with that first guy. This may have been partly my fault. Once I got a bit clumsy and casually mentioned, high on dope and giggling away, that the guy in question had 'well and truly popped my cherry'. This seemed to really hurt him, but at the same time he seemed to be enjoying it. I'm no shrink - I'd never really known what 'psychosexual masochism' is - but I know now. He'd become so insistent while we were still in Europe that when we'd been passing through that city where I'd spent my first year, I actually showed him the window of the room where everything happened. This had seemed to shut him up for a time. I just couldn't work all this out. I hadn't the slightest interest in watching him with another woman, nor the slightest concern about what he'd done with other women before meeting me, beyond what you'd call a purely 'technical' interest. Believe me, I don't find any aspect of sex 'disgusting' - except pedophilia. Sex is terrific fun, but it's also funny - you know what I mean - just so fucking hilarious. Some guys seem to hate me for this. They think I'm making fun of them, but I'm not. It's just me - I can't help it.