Two weeks, 1400 miles and 10 hours

The last four years have been such an adventure. Right now I feel like the husk of a dead courtesan found over dosed on everything out in the Gobi desert. I’ll get back to that.

I am in a monogamy-ish marriage. Through much trial and horrifying life altering error I found a man to be my hunting partner, or playmate if you prefer. The three of us have worked out most of the awkwardness and moved forward. I enjoy what I have and feel absolutely adored and loved. I also feel satiated and quiet. My soul is happy and I’m not prowling for something else, or what if, or maybe I’m missing something if I don’t take this opportunity to know. Nope, I am happy right where I am at. A bit ago I was drinking with a girlfriend. Gossiping and glowing as women do when luck seems to be on their side. As I feel it is on mine. Perhaps I misspoke when I mentioned I was happy and not seeking. That monogamish meant free for all?  I’m pretty sure when I was single and binging, I still was in control of my choices and, “No, I’m not really interested.” Meant … just that. I don’t feel like fucking you. Savvy? That was really awkward because she’s “not into women” normally. I knew this before we even had all the wine. I knew this as she rolled back on to the floor and showed me under her dress with no panties on. Yes, it would have been super easy to please her. Fuck her silly drunk brains out. I didn’t. I sent her to bed and made my way to a friends house. She and I don’t talk much anymore.

I’ve had this friend for about twenty years. We used to be exclusive and occasionally in a bit of a mind fuck D/s relationship. I was his perfect little soldier. His perfect little submissive. His Queen. I listened as he spoke and felt a depth of sympathies for many of what life had given to him. We spoke often of a connection we had. I had a love for him that I knew would withstand time. He speaks of being together in the next life times. Eventually, we had gone our separate ways and still remained in contact. I went through giving birth twice, marriage, divorce, death of my dad, three days in ICU from a motorcycle wreck and he popped into my life again to visit. He was a bit more controlling this time. Or was he always? Barking orders at the kids and making sure I wasn’t doing anything. I was tired of being single parent anyway and let is slide. He left and I was on my own again. Until I meet my husband. He has shown me what it is like to truly have a friend. He is there when I am a mess. He is there when I work on changing and growing and he grows right along with me. Learning, loving we have been on this epic journey. When we first talked about being in an open marriage it was because I wanted a particular experience from another. It didn’t make him unappealing, I didn’t love him any less, he was meeting all of my expectations as he could and still does to this day. He even continues to surprise me.

We meet in the sleepless city. It had been five or six years since we had meet. He chatted about his new wife and I of my husband and lover. He started in on the kids again. Making sure they were just right. I told him to let them be. They were being great. We ordered a few rounds of whiskey and walked back to the hotel. I told him if he were to spend the night only snuggling would be involved. I am happy in what I have now. He told him his wife was, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” I told him that was fine, but we still aren’t having sex. That concluded my conversation. There was no screaming. No, fuck no! No struggle. No need to make an issue of it because from my point of view, we talked like adults of what the expectations were.

My wishes weren’t good enough.

I wasn’t respected enough.

I was his pussy. He made sure that I knew it. Oh and how my head spun with much whiskey and beer as he sucked at my sex and kissed me hard with hand around my throat. Time didn’t mean anything, experiences, life, how I have changed. I was his little sub again, moaning as he forced orgasm after orgasm through me. He pulled my hair and drove his cock into me proclaiming I would always be his.

He had to go back to work and I wanted to die. He thinks I weep because I miss him. I lay in bed and bawl like a child. I don’t want to look at him. I hear the door shut and it is my jail cell. I’m trapped in this room. In this bed. In this body. I can’t escape what transpired.

The kids start to stir and I know I have to feed them soon. I make some coffee and tell them I need to shower, if they could watch some garbage on television that would be great. I turn on the water as hot as I could stand and curl up in the bottom of the tub and sob silently. I’ve already text my husband about the evening. I lay there and wonder how I’m going to tell my new lover of what befell me. I hold my legs to my chest and feel sick and shameful. I’m empty of tears and full of sorrow and confusion. Maybe if I hadn’t had whiskey. Maybe if I would have been more forceful in my decision to not have sex. I don’t really have the answer. Only the feelings of my own inadequacy to stand my ground and the hurt of a long term friendship that must come to an end.

It’s 103 degrees on the drive back south. I’ve told myself time and time again nothing can tear me down, yet here I am destroyed with everything lacking in sensation, hunger, or realization of the beautiful days I’ve just had with my children.

Time. I need some time.

 

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