From Torment To Tranquility

I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong, too imperative in his need. Never expecting that he would do such a thing, he caught me unawares. He flung me on my back and was between my legs, penetrating before it had fully dawned on me what he was doing. We had wrestled around many times in play, but it had never come to this.

I struggled with him, begging, pleading, "No don't, don't Michael, please. You'll make me…"

Then I felt his movements in me become more urgent. "He's coming," I thought, "he'll make me pregnant." I screamed, but it was useless. I felt the first pumping of his hot juice burst into me, and it was all too late. He filled me with that male fluid every passionate woman longs to feel.

He began to subside, relaxing with his sexual stress relieved. He did not pull out of me immediately as Joe used to when we still had sex. He lay there as if reluctant to separate from me.

I lay silent, my mind wandering back over what had led to this sexual assault. I did not want to admit it, but most of the fault was mine. I had teased him for years, tantalizingly displaying myself to him. Wanting his young male admiration and the reassurance that I was still desirable.

I wanted him to suffer as well. His youth, his good looks and strong body seemed to reproach me. His sexual activities with girls, and especially the woman in her forties, who had enjoyed him for almost a year, aroused my jealous anger, so I rejoiced when my displays gave him huge erections. I understood the pain of unrequited sexual desire, and mentally celebrated the power I felt I had over him through his libidinous needs.

My husband Joe had long ceased to have sex with me, and certainly expressed no admiration for my looks or body. I felt he had degraded me as a woman. I was made to feel undesirable.

Objectively it was clearly not true that I was unattractive to men. The turning of their heads as I walked down the street; the suggestive remarks; men seeking me out at social gatherings, could have told me that I was sexually appetizing. But one to whom I had bound myself in love had rejected me, and this had blinded me to the obvious fact of my power to attract men.

Thus I had sought my male adoration elsewhere, and Michael was my victim, the nearby sacrificial offering I could stretch on the rack of his erotic fantasies. After all, it had been after his birth that Joe lost sexual interest in me. In the weird pattern of my thinking, I somehow saw Michael as the cause of my unmet needs.

I recalled the female games I played with him after he reached puberty. I would wait until Joe was on night shift, or when Michael was home and Joe out, then I would begin. I made him writhe with the pain and ecstacy as I stretched him with my instruments of sexual torture.

Pulling up my skirt to display my legs almost to the genitals, "Darling, don't you think I've got nice legs?"

Putting my hands under my beasts to lift them, "I think these are still pretty good, what do you think? You can't see them, but the nipples are still nice, very pink. What some men would like to do to those, eh?"

I used to lure him into my bedroom to ostensibly admire some new garment I had bought.

"Do you like the new panties and bra I bought today? Do you think black suits me? They're little more than lace, aren't they, darling?"

"I got this bikini today, isn't it daring? Just look how it only just covers my nipples, and the little string of cloth that goes under me. Doesn't hide much, does it?"

"I had my pubic hair permanently removed last week, sweetheart. Many men don't like women's pubic hair do they? Gets in the way of certain things they want to do. What do you think?"

So, it went on quite literally for years, in fact, ever since I realised that he had sexually ripened. O, how I made him suffer! All the time thinking I was playing it safe, fool that I was.

Had I tried these games with other men God knows what violence might have erupted!

So with my twisted sensual games, I watched him fight his most primal, and in a young man, most urgent needs.

At times he would give some excuse and almost flee from my presence. At other times he would stand staring at me, his hot throbbing erection pressed against the cloth of his trousers, often with the stain of his precum beginning to show.

Then one night it went too far. The balance was finally tipped. I had driven him to breaking point, and if what he did to me was evil, what about my behaviour towards him all those years?

Perhaps you think I hated him for some reason? Wanted to avenge some wrong he had done me? You might not believe this, but I loved him and I wanted to punish him because he inspired this love. I needed to punish him for the nights I lay, weeping with sexual frustration, as heedless Joe lay snoring beside me.

In the end I managed to dismiss Joe to the spare bedroom so I could masturbate freely, and in this act, whose face, whose body and penis occupied my fantasies? Michael's, of course. For this too, he had to be punished.

"A mixed up woman," you say? You're right. Fundamentally knowing what I needed, but refusing to face it squarely. Leading on my own son to intolerable heights of sexual arousal, but never voluntarily taking the next step. Leaving him and myself a tormented erotic mess.

In making him suffer, I was punishing myself for the boiling passion I had for him. In stretching him on the rack of his libido, I racked myself. A cruelty with a double edge.

Tonight it was his turn to avenge himself on me. I had enticed him once more into my bedroom with the usual fake excuse. "Darling, come and see what mother has bought today."

It was a transparent petty coat. Through it breasts, nipples and genitals could be clearly seen. I knew it, and rejoiced in the sexual anguish that I would cause him, the desire for my body he would suffer.

I twirled before him saying, "Do you like it, darling? I think it's very sweet. Don't you think it shows my figure off nicely? Look, you can see all of me through the cloth."

He groaned and then was upon me, ripping off the flimsy garment as he hurled me to the bed, and tearing at his shorts to release his manhood. I felt him enter, like a great spear, thrusting into me. There was no pain because, in truth, I was already aroused. My own actions, my display, and the sight of his sex organ hard and pressing against the cloth of his shorts, had been enough.

So, why did I resist? In part, an empty protest against incest? Yes, I suppose so, but the real reason was fear. Fear of pregnancy. Dread, not of being pregnant to him as a man – I longed for his impregnation – but carrying the child of my own son.

When it became clear that Joe was no longer interested in me sexually, I stopped using the contraceptive pill. Had I known well in advance that Michael would invade me, I would have put myself back on the pill. Then our first coming together need not have been this violent attack and show of resistance. I would have let him have me, responding to him with tender love.

Now I was paying the price for my overconfidence in my ability to control the situation. I had thought that I could torture Michael endlessly, and myself for that matter, and there would be no consequences.

My lunatic arrogance had undone me. I believed myself to be a very fertile woman, and that there was a strong possibility that I would get pregnant. Perhaps already his seed had done its work, and I was on the way to producing new life.

I felt Michael stir and begin to withdraw from me. He lay beside me, his arm enfolding me, his other hand fondling my breast. He looked at me and spoke softly.

"I had to, mother, we couldn't go on as we were, wanting each other so desperately. I tried to fight it, I really did." He went, quietly murmuring, "I love you…I love you…"

I said, "I know darling," then burrowed into him, sheltering myself from my own sense of shame, weeping for the pain I had inflicted on both of us. He had known better than I the truth of our situation.

I recognised that now there was no road back. We could not undo what had happened. I felt that neither of us would stop it happening again. His hand softly caressing my breast, the fact that I could feel his manhood hardening against my side, my own wet and yearning vagina, was sufficient to convince me we could not retreat from our love and new found sexual union.

I did not wait for him to take the initiative this time. I sat across him, guiding his shaft into me, moving up and down on him, this time to be overcome by a shrieking, shuddering orgasm such as I had never had before, ever. The anguish and the ecstacy of that climatic moment left me weeping and pliant in Michael's arms, his semen slowly trickling out of me.

I was beyond caring about pregnancy – no, I lie - I wanted it, desired it, yes, lusted for it. I wanted his seed, a child of our love. I wanted to feel it grow inside me. Such was the passion I was experiencing.

Deeper down there was the devil of jealous desire. Through all my sexual games with Michael, I had wanted to keep him, to bind him to me. Now, in our act of love, I felt I had him. He was mine and no other's. No more games; I would give him all he hungered for. I would recompense him and more, for the suffering I had inflicted on him all those years.

My prediction of pregnancy came true. Our loving could be hidden from Joe for a while, but a pregnancy could not be hidden. He would not know who the father was, at least, not from me, but he was not such a fool as to not work it out eventually.

It was at this point that the true nature of Joe's feelings for me became clear. I was nothing more than a convenient person to have around to cook and clean for him.

It amazed me that he seemed to have no concern about who had fathered a child in me. I had expected fights and arguments but when I finally announced to him, "I'm going to have a baby," he just looked at me and grunted, then said, "Gonna have a great fat belly again, are you?"

I have tried to think through where we went astray in our love, Joe and I. He could have had with me all I was now prepared to give Michael, but he didn't want it. As I have hinted, my pregnancy with Michael seemed to be the great divide between us. It had been what he called "an accident."

Joe had loathed my pregnancy, referring to my swollen belly as, "That great ugly lump." The process of birth seemed to revolt him, and he made me feel almost unclean when I should have felt beautiful.

To me it is strange that sexual coupling, pregnancy and birth, are made the content of coarse jokes by men, and now, increasingly by women. The loveliest of all communions between man and woman, and its outcome as new life, should surely inspire heavenly poetry and wonder, not ugliness?

Based on my sexual experiences before Michael I might never have reached such an understanding. It was his words and actions, not only during sexual congress but also during my pregnancy that brought me to a new perspective.

In physical love, he is ever considerate of my needs, always making sure that I am fulfilled. He never separates from me until he is sure the last of my post-orgasm shock waves have ended, and even then seems reluctant to part from me.

It is true that we often grow fierce in our sexual play, but it is an intensity born of love, and if there is pain, it is a pain commanded by the recipient.

During my pregnancy, Michael demonstrated all the consideration I could desire. He would gaze at my swollen belly, for example, and say, "How exquisite," then kiss me there repeatedly. As I drew closer to the birth time, he became ever more careful with his penetrations of me, until in the end he was content with my relieving him by my hand or oral sex.

My wicked racking him through his desperate erotic needs, the rape, my own turbulent emotions that had given rise to these things, seem to be forgiven. It is as if we have passed down a raging river, to find ourselves now floating on a peaceful lake.

Annisa is two now, and Joe is fully aware of what Michael and I do. How could he not when we now go to bed together every night, whether he is there or not.

Michael and I took nothing from him that he wanted, and as he seems well content with his home comforts and television sports, I don't think he cares who I have sex with, so long as it does not cost him anything. In fact, Michael contributes to the household funds in such large measure that it more than covers the costs of the child.

Never the less, I still feel something for Joe. I think it is compassion because he could have enjoyed with me all that Michael now revels in. He almost lives a separate life now, and I sometimes think what might have been.

One sad aspect of my relationship with Michael is that through him having been brought to see the comeliness of pregnancy, I may be past the time when I can again bear a child. Michael makes no complaint about this – he is much too loving to make such a reproach – and if the amount of semen he injects into me was relevant, I would be pregnant many times over. So who knows, his sweet seed may yet bear more fruit?