Years ago, as a young wife… i realized i had made a horrible mistake. The marriage, that is. We were not compatible, He was an addict, He was violent, and i was young and naive. It couldn’t have been anything but disastrous, really. It is impossible to rewrite our histories, but we all find ways to try to make sense of them, don’t we? i was a good wife – for the most part – i took it seriously. i had no desire to be divorced, to replicate a shattered home, but early on… i knew that it was (To quote Mr. X) “all over , but the cryin”
What follows is part one of something i wrote all those years ago. I desperately wanted to make sense of my marriage – to think of Mr. X as something other than the monster he seemed to be. This is two or three encounters, cobbled into one… real in its contents, fictional in its telling. When i resurrected it, i removed all identifying details. Tomorrow, i’ll post part two. It’s the same story, but from his (imagined) perspective.
Fingers of steam curled around the edges of the shower curtain as she hummed “Amazing Grace”. She was trying to relax, but
…she knew he was there. She had felt the cool air a few moments ago when he pushed the bathroom door gently open. Wasn’t that just like him? Never caring or content enough to wait for her to come to him. She could picture him, silently standing there, listening to the water pulse against the wet, white walls. He would be rock hard and full of himself. She didn’t really care.
Working more soap into the sponge, she decided she wasn’t in the mood to put on a show for him tonight. All she wanted to do was feel clean again. She was thorough and methodical. Just finish the shower. Get it over with. Every breath was saturated with the scent of vanilla soap. She wondered if she should shave her legs tonight, and decided against it. She remembered toying with a razor once, thinking it was a good way to go. She entertained the notion of giving him a really close fucking shave.
Rinsing off her sponge, she stopped humming and sucked in a lungful of thick, heavy steam. She’d let him fuck her. There’d be no living with him otherwise. She exhaled…
Reaching up, she pulled the showerhead out of its clip. A woman definitely invented this piece of equipment. Smiling to herself as she rinsed down the walls, she thought of how often she jacked off with its pulsing stream. She wasted some time neatly lining up the shampoo and conditioner along the edge, turning off the water, wiping off the fixtures, trying to make out her distorted image in the knobs. Pulling back the shower curtain, she feigned surprise at seeing him standing there fully clothed. “You scared the shit outta me!” she lied. It sounded hollow, even to her.
If he noticed, he didn’t seem to care.
He commented that she looked good wet. She reached for a towel. Winking, he told her not to bother, saying she would only be getting wetter. He loosened his tie while he fed her some line about thinking about this all day long. His bar-room banter was making her tired. As the cool air nipped at her body, he took her by the waist and tugged her towards him.
It was like returning to school after summer break. Everything was too damned familiar. She had touched this long, lean body for years. He smelled like pot, beer, and cigarettes. He always did. Her tits stuck to his cotton shirt, his belt buckle dug into her belly, and his tongue found her neck. She tried to think of something else. She tried…
…if I close my eyes, I can pretend this is not real. I am not being fed upon. His teeth aren’t scraping across my throat. I am not feeling this because I am not here. She offered up moans of wanting mixed with distaste, grinding her hips against his thighs in apology. I am sorry I don’t love you. I am sorry I don’t want you. I am sorry I met you. Sliding her hands across his chest, she decided to push him away but found herself fondling his nipples instead. He grabbed her wrists. He seemed so solid, so strong. He pulled her hands off of his chest, ordering her to look in the mirror. She turned her back to him, looking at their reflections. They were nothing but images lurking in the steam that had draped across the mirror’s surface. She could see his ghost behind her. He would take her, and the bastard would make her watch it happening so that she couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t…
Her body wanted to be fucked even if her mind screamed its objections to who was going to do the fucking. She hated that he would touch her, hated that he would enjoy himself, knew that he would make her cum. She felt ice cold and liquidy hot at the same time. He nibbled at the base of her neck, making her back arch and nipples go rock hard. Years of research had gone into finding her “spots” and he never wasted his time touching her anywhere else. What he was looking for was maximum wetness with minimum effort.
She felt him fumbling, heard his zipper, and closed her eyes. She knew him. His hard cock resting on the small of her back was his way of asking for permission. She quickly weighed her options; He was high so he would be rough. If she let him have her ass, it would be over quickly. If she didn’t, she’d have to suck and fuck him. “Use the oil,” she whispered, “it’s been awhile.” She listened to the cap snap open, felt the baby oil trickle down the small of her back, the crack of her ass, felt his fingers follow it.
He decided to grace her with a friendly reach-around. His left hand grabbing her pussy, his right hand rubbing the oil into her ass. She hated that she was so open and wet. She fought the urge to grind back against him, and lost. She gasped as he slid just the tip of his cock into her. He told her to open her eyes. She tried to slow her breathing, “Watch!” he growled. So she did. She watched through the mist as his fingers probed her, watched her smoky reflection betray her, watched as a self-satisfying smirk spread across his face. Sliding slowly deeper into her he hissed in her ear, “Don’t you dare close your eyes…”
With each second he probed deeper. She knew what to expect, the agonizing feeling of being impaled, split in two. The flush of heat spreading through her ass, her pussy, her womb, her chest, spilling out of her mouth in whimpers and groans until he had taken all he could. She felt helpless, like a butterfly on a pin. She tried desperately not to tremble, not to move, not to feel. He kept her pinned there, stroking her clit. It was only a matter of time. Her mind raced to find a fantasy, conjure up an image to lay over reality. No luck. She was stuck here with him. He was silent, speaking only to remind her to watch. So she watched as she began to tremble, watched as the steam dissipated, watched as they both came into focus.
He loomed behind her, looking angry, clothes wrinkled. Her head was thrown back against his chest, not giving a damn anymore. He didn’t care that she felt like a whore, he didn’t mind that he hadn’t even taken of his clothes. He knew that she would wash them later. As soon as her tits flushed red, and her eyes clouded over… as soon as the first waves of orgasm hit her body, he plunged in and out of her like a man possessed. Her knees nearly buckled. He took a breast in each hand, holding her up, steadying himself, and then it was over. He never made a sound when he came. Her only clue was the quivering of his dick and its sudden removal.
She simply stepped aside and watched him wash up in the sink, zip his pants back up, and go downstairs. While he watched television and waited for her to fix his dinner, she turned the shower back on, stepped inside and began to sing softly under her breath “I once was lost, but now am found, ‘twas blind but now, I see.”
Wash Away Those Years (Creed)