Life Continues – Part 2

A few days later, we had showered and I was in our room, already dressed.  She came into the room from the bathroom, still naked, and asked for a massage.

For a moment, I felt that familiar spark of hope when I saw her like that — bare, unguarded — but I knew how this usually ended.  A massage meant ten minutes, and then she would be asleep.

I poured oil into my hands, and as she sat facing away from me, I applied it gently to her back, working slowly into her shoulders.

She softened under my hands.

At one point, she turned, and, while sitting there, asked me to do her lower legs as well.

I could barely contain my hunger for her, but I knew — or thought I knew — that this would go nowhere tonight.

Just as she began to turn onto her back, our one-year-old dog, still a puppy, started whining next to the bed.

He needed to go outside.

The doors were already locked.  It was late.

I sighed, got up, and took him out.

At the door, I turned back and said, “Don’t cool down while I’m away.”

The innuendo was clear in my voice.

But I knew her pattern.  By the time I got back, she would be dressed, under the covers, asleep.

---

A few minutes later, I walked back into the room.

The dog went to his spot in the bathroom.

I turned toward the bed.

And stopped.

My eyes struggled to make sense of what I was seeing in the dim light spilling in from the bathroom.  The rest of the room was dark.

There, in front of me, she lay on her back.

Legs spread.

Both hands between her legs.

A faint blue light pulsed, and then the sound registered.

I moved closer.

She opened her eyes, smiled slightly, and said, “Just watch.”

Clear.  Controlled.  Not wanting to be interrupted.

I looked down.

Her hands moved slowly, deliberately, guiding the toy in and out of her, coated and glistening with her arousal, the vibrating ear pressed firmly against her clit.

I could smell her.

That familiar, sweet scent.

My body responded immediately.

I looked up at her face.

Her eyes were closed.  Her mouth open.  Her lips dark, flushed.  Her neck strained as her head tilted back, her body forming a subtle arch from shoulders to heels.

I stood there for a second longer.

Then stripped.

I sat down at her legs.

She opened one eye, shook her head slowly, and whispered, “No…”

I didn’t move.

I just sat there.

Watching her.

Watching her touch herself.

Watching her take control of her own pleasure.

And my hunger grew.

Her breathing changed.

Faster now.

In a near whisper, she said, “I’m going to cum…”

And then it hit her.

Her body tightened, her breath broke into a moan as she plunged the toy deep into herself, pulled it out, and drove it back in, pressing the vibrating head hard against her clit.

She had already built herself there…ten minutes of it while I was outside.

Her eyes opened slowly.

A small, satisfied smile crossed her face.

She pulled the toy out, her body still trembling from the aftershocks, then pushed it back in once more before finally drawing it out completely.

From where I sat, I could see her fully open, her muscles still contracting, pulsing with the last waves.

I didn’t think.

I moved.

I lifted myself onto my arms and knees, positioning the head of my manhood at her entrance, holding myself above her, suspended on my hands and toes, looking directly into her eyes.

She looked back.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t stop me.

Just watched.

And that was enough.

With every ounce of strength I could muster, I slammed into her.

Hard.

Unapologetic.

Her body reacted instantly, her muscles tightening, pushing back against me, trying to force me out.

I pulled out completely.

Looked down.

Saw my head coated in her wetness.

Looked back at her face.

And drove back in.

Harder.

Deeper.

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened.  Every thrust pulled a sound from her…a broken breath on the way in, a gasp as I pulled out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

I was gone.

Completely gone.

I pulled out all the way again — all the way — and slammed back in.

Again.

And again.

Faster now.

Harder.

No rhythm I controlled.

No control left.

She grabbed at me, wrapping her arms around my upper body, trying to hold me down.

It didn’t stop me.

It lifted her with me as I pulled out —

and drove her back into the mattress as I slammed into her again.

She tried to hook her legs around me.

Tried to hold me.

Tried to contain me.

She couldn’t.

I wasn’t stopping.

On the next withdrawal, she hung in the air for a moment — her arms still around me —

and then she broke.

Her head snapped back.

Her arms gave out.

She dropped into the bed in a silent scream, her neck strained, a sound escaping her I had never heard before.

I froze.

Just for a fraction.

Her eyes opened.

Wild.

Not her.

Not the woman I knew.

Something else.

I paused.  Just enough to see it.

She closed her eyes again.

Her back arched.

Her body pushed up toward me.

And that was it.

I drove back into her.

Hard.

This time not pulling out fully —

shorter strokes.

Deeper.

Faster.

Hammering into her.

Into her.

Into her.

Her body clamped around me — wave after wave of contraction — pulling, gripping, crushing.

It didn’t stop.

It didn’t slow.

Her muscles held me.

Pulled me deeper.

Held me there.

Again.

And again.

And again.

I felt it building.

Deep.

Unavoidable.

I pulled out completely.

Her body closed instantly.

I knew I wouldn’t get back in.

Didn’t care.

With everything I had left, I drove forward again — forcing my way back into her — opening her with the force of it until my body slammed into hers.

The impact hit —

sharp —

and that was it.

I came.

Hard.

Deep.

Again.

And again.

And again.

My body kept moving.

Still pushing.

Still chasing something already gone.

Still emptying everything I had.

I collapsed onto her.

Still inside her.

Still pushing.

Still not done.

---

When I opened my eyes, she was staring at me.

Shock.

I had always been controlled.

Always careful.

Always checking.

Tonight…

none of that existed.

I rolled off her and sat up.

I looked down at her.

Open.

My semen slowly spilling from her, her muscles still contracting, pushing it out of her.

I had been loaded.

I looked up at her face.

Her mouth open.  Her breathing heavy.  Her nostrils flared.

Her eyes…

Stormy.  Unreadable.

I reached for her, trying to pull her up.

“Let’s shower.”

She shook her head.

“I need a minute…”

Her voice soft.

She closed her eyes again, her arm falling to her side.

I sat there, looking at her.

For a moment, I thought I had gone too far.

It took nearly ten minutes before she began to stir.

She tried to get up, but her body didn’t respond properly at first, her arms and legs moving slow, uncoordinated.

Eventually, she dragged herself up, still trembling, still wet, still marked by what had just happened.

She looked at me and said, almost in disbelief,

“Wow… I need a toilet.  And a shower.”

---

We did not touch each other for the next two days, nearly avoiding each other.  Even when we showered together, there was an uncomfortable silence between us.

On the second evening, we were on the sleeper couch, watching “Virgin River”.  I paused Netflix, looked at her, and said:

“That was a good and proper fuck.”

She looked at me as if she didn’t understand what I had just said.

She is normally soft-spoken, except when she is angry.  She is never crude.  She has always hated innuendo or dirty jokes.

She just stared at me.

I held her gaze and repeated it, slower this time:

“That was a good and proper fuck.”

I saw her eyes shift slightly.

She responded softly, almost cautiously, “That was a good…hanky-panky.”

As she said it, I spoke over the last part of her sentence.

“…a good fuck.  Say it.”

She dropped her eyes, then looked back at me, a small smile forming.

“…that was a good fuck indeed…”

Hearing her say it — breaking through her usual careful, proper way of speaking — almost made me laugh.

I smiled instead.

Then I told her the truth.

Sex had always been need for me.  Attachment.  A way to deal with rejection.  Even the last four months — sex was what held us together while we were having the most difficult conversations of our lives.  Conversations no man and woman should ever have — not because they were wrong, but because of what they contained.

She looked at me and said, “You were always whiny…like a little boy wanting sweets.  Nagging.  Unhappy when you couldn’t have more — or any at all.”

She continued, calmly, without looking away, that it put her off many times.  That sometimes, just to make me stop asking, she would do it and get it over with.

She turned back to the TV, resumed the show, and without looking at me said again:

“That was a good fuck.”

Then, after a pause:

“The way you phrased it…was the most masculine thing you’ve ever said in your life.”

She leaned into me, and we continued watching.

---

The next morning, as we prepared to shower, I told her that I felt sexually satisfied, and that we should probably slow things down a bit.

I told her I needed to focus on my new role at work.  That I had to go deeper, upskill, catch up with newer technology.

That maybe we should stop the heavy emotional discussions, the constant physical intensity — and just be normal for a while.

She looked at me.

I could see it immediately — fear.

“Are we breaking up…taking time apart?”

The confusion must have been obvious on my face, because she continued:

“Four months ago, you said you are not a once-a-week guy…and you won’t be in a sexless relationship again.  That if it ever goes there, we are done.  Are we done?”

I remembered the words.  Spoken in anger.  In hurt.  In betrayal.

I smiled.

Told her she had me wrong.

After what we had just experienced, I realised something:

Sex, without the weight of the past…
without the hurt of the present…
without the pressure of building the future…

is just…sex.

Good sex.

Like the first cup of coffee in the morning.

Expected.

Enjoyable.

Hot.

Sometimes too strong.

But just that.

A small part of a much bigger day.

Not the main event.

Just something you savour… and then continue with everything else life requires.

She stared at me.

Then nearly doubled over laughing.

In a tone that was almost mocking, she said she never thought she would see the day where I described sex as “just sex” — something to enjoy without attachment, without pressure, something that could even be postponed for more important things.

---

A day or so later, after showering, she pulled me aside.

She fetched the pink rabbit and the deep diver.

Looked at me.

And asked if I wanted a cup of coffee.

Brewed slowly.

Consumed just as slowly.

What followed was not urgency.

Not performance.

Not a race to a finish.

It was something else entirely.

A shared experience.

A slow unfolding.

A journey without a defined end.

---

And just to make sure I had not actually meant we were “taking a break”…

She bedded me again.

And again.

Sometimes, when I reached for her, she would say:

“I’m tired of fucking.”

And we would stop.

No tension.

No rejection.

We would sit together.  Watch TV.  Do things around the house.  Just be.

And then, naturally, we would find our way back to each other again.

---

As I said at the beginning of She Came To Me…

This has been a deeply emotional journey.

The last five months are something I would not wish on any couple.

But even now…I am grateful.

Because we found something new.

Something we never had before.

---

She asked me once why I stayed.

After everything.

After knowing all the details.

I told her:

I made a vow when I married her.

And while the marriage, as it was, may be gone…

that vow — to love, to care, to stand — still exists before God.

I did not stay for her.

I stayed because of the man I choose to be.

Because of who I am.

Others can betray me.

Maybe even again.

But I will never betray myself.

That said…she should make no mistake:

If truth disappears again…
if transparency is lost…

I can love her…from a distance.

---

If she ever reads this…

I will probably disappear.

No agency in the world would solve that.

Because this is not fiction.

These are real people.

Real wounds.

---

If you read this, know one thing:

Do not wait.

Go to your partner.

Tell them who you really are.

Your fantasies.  Your needs.  Your pain.  Your truth.

Do not hide yourself.

Because if you do…

it will always sit between you.

And if you fear that your truth will separate you…

understand this:

Living apart in truth is better than living together in a lie.

Because the truth will surface.

Even after 28 years.

And what is hidden will always find a way to break what was meant to be whole.