Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (7 page)

John’s hand. My body’s response. The camera’s click. Do you like it? Oh, yes!

I think I had two subsequent chances to escape. The first was when it occurred to me, for some reason, that the apartment I shared with Paul was so poorly soundproofed that we had to hold back during sex, but here, in the woods, you could scream out your pleasure as loud as you liked. The second was when John touched me in such a way, just below my breast, that a shudder ran over my entire body, like an electric shock. If I had had even a shred of common sense left at that point, I would have known that I had already gone too far. But I didn’t have any sense left. I had simply thrown every useless thought out of my head, and only sensation remained. When John had to move my leg a little to the side, he went down on one knee next to me, and I thought that he must be able to see, from back there, how wet I was. 

For the next picture I was supposed to stand facing the wall, resting my hands on it, bent over. John came up behind me and used his right hand to move my stomach back towards him while his left hand pressed my spine forwards. This touch was not at all like the previous ones. With my entire body, I suddenly sensed that John, too, had been holding back with all his strength. And I moaned. Loud.

John picked me up in his arms and tossed me down on the leather couch like a doll. He was not holding back now.

We needed no foreplay. The whole photo shoot had been our playtime, more than an hour of it, and that game had begun much earlier than I had realized. He simply parted my legs and kissed me, in the precise spot guaranteed to have the maximum possible effect. I came almost immediately. John raised his head, and I was frightened. Now he looked like some enormous wild beast, trembling in arousal and anticipation. Oh my god! What is happening?

John jumped to his feet, pulled me up in one swift motion, and stood me on the floor. His left arm wrapped around my waist, pinning my arms to my body. I had been put in a vise. His right arm grabbed my left leg, lifted it, and placed my foot on the edge of the couch. John knelt down, and now his face was level with my stomach, and I was wide open before him. John slowly slid two fingers into me, using his free right hand. If he hadn’t been holding me, I would have collapsed. My right leg was shaking and jerking. John’s fingers were caressing me with unbelievable strength. With each stroke upward, I thought I would be lifted up into the air. And those strokes were now coming quicker and even stronger. 

I came like I’ve never come before. This was wild, unrestrained, animal sex. The orgasm seized me fully. I had no idea in which part of my body it occurred. I was shaking hard and the sensation became so sharp that I screamed at John to stop, please stop! But John, it seemed, was no longer in control of himself, and he kept right on torturing me. It started to just hurt. I tried to squeeze my legs shut, but with one leg propped up and John’s iron grip, I couldn’t. I just roared as loud as I could. John didn’t let me go, but right then he changed the direction in which his fingers were moving, so that there was less pressure on my clit, and the pain stopped. The pleasure, however, remained. While still caressing me – no, not caressing, but actually fucking me – with his fingers, John stood up a little, and started to kiss my neck while he drew me forward with his left hand, the one around my waist. My back arched, but I didn’t just come again. Instead, I exploded. A fountain gushed forth from me, and John, still in motion, was sprayed all over. Diana had told me about female ejaculation, but I hadn’t really understood what that might mean. I had definitely never experienced it before. Now I had.

I don’t know how I managed not to lose consciousness. I understand even less why I suddenly felt – I don’t know what to call it – rage, maybe. For some reason I was now incredibly annoyed that John had played with my body like that, like a virtuoso musician on an instrument, and hadn’t even taken off his pants. Some sort of demon possessed me, and gave me incredible strength. I grabbed this man twice my size and ten times my strength, and I tossed him onto the couch, in just the same place where he had made me come, and where there was now an enormous puddle. I’ll show you what kind of helpless doll I am!

I pulled his shorts off and spread his legs. Yes, just as I had imagined, John’s cock was bigger than average. I wanted nothing more than to do to him exactly what he had just done to me. I grabbed his balls with my right hand – now he wouldn’t be able to get away. And I took him in my mouth as deep as I could. I knew exactly what I wanted. I was going to make him come, and I would not let him go. I would keep sucking until he begged for mercy.

I was drunk on my own insanity, and missed his orgasm. The stream hit me in the mouth and, when I drew away, in the face. Who was moaning now, huh? Sadly, I didn’t manage to wring a second orgasm out of John, like I had wanted to. I kept firm hold of his balls and sucked up everything, to the last drop, until the last of his tremors died down and his erection started to fade. Now we were even!

I looked at John. He was smiling, relaxed, and it was impossible to comprehend how this man with the impeccable manners could possibly be the type of person he had just been. He jumped lightly off the couch and grabbed me by the hand, laughing.

“What a surprise you are! I never expected that. So quiet and shy. But no more adventures for you, now. You’re tired and you need to rest.”

And he carries me into my room, puts me to bed, and tucks me in carefully. I feel dead tired.

“Sleep a little, and I’ll clean up here and get going. It’s late.”

And I pass out cold, even though it is still not quite noon.

When I wake up, there’s nobody else in my room or in my bed. I can hear the noise of dishes coming from the kitchen downstairs, and the smell of meat cooking. I realize, surprised, that I’ve been asleep for hours. What happened? I had sex with John, and John is somebody else’s husband. Rachel’s husband. And I adore Rachel. It was the sort of sex that was completely out of the ordinary for me. I’ve never had such strong orgasms before. I received colossal pleasure from a man I hardly know, a man for whom I have no romantic feelings. Why? I remember how I felt during our photo shoot, as if some sort of hidden doors had opened up inside me. My body became an object of art. And that body was capable of receiving and giving pleasure. Enormous, incredible pleasure. I had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I had found it unbelievably delicious.

Which reminds me... I’m hungry. Starving! I take a quick shower, get dressed, and run downstairs. The man standing at the sink with his back to me turns around. It’s Paul. I scan the room warily. Everything is clean and put away neatly. John has done a perfect job of tidying up. No visible traces remain of our photo shoot or of what we did afterwards. Even my underwear has disappeared.

Inside, I wince. What am I going to tell Paul? How can I tell him? How can I talk to him about anything now? I look at Paul as if I’m seeing him for the first time. I meet a serious gaze from his big blue eyes.

“Hi. You were totally out of it. Look, the steaks are almost ready. Hungry?”

“Very! Have you been here long?”

“I got here maybe an hour ago. Managed to get out of the city early. I really wanted to see you. I missed you.” Paul looks at me, and his cheeks flush scarlet.

I realize that I missed him terribly, too, and I’m very happy to see him. Although... along with that happiness, I feel incredibly awkward. How are things going to be between us now? I’m afraid to walk up close to him, for some reason, or to give him a hug and a kiss. Have I really spoiled everything? Everything had been so easy and natural between us, ever since we first met... was that no longer possible? I look at Paul. There is such sadness in his eyes that it frightens me. Maybe he saw John leaving, or spoke with him. Should I tell Paul about what happened here today? Do I want to tell him? I don’t want to hurt him, but that would hurt. Or would it? Who
am
I now? A fallen woman? A woman who has taken a lover? Have I taken a lover? I understand nothing.

“Let’s eat, or the steaks are going to burn,” says Paul, his voice hoarse.

We sit down at the table. Paul starts talking about how he got lost while driving here. He had thought of a way to redo his screenplay. Actually, he says, John had given him a great idea. He had been thinking about it the whole trip and had missed the exit. He got off at the next one and spent a long time feeling his way back.

“And what is this great idea?” I really want to know. How is Paul going to add passion to his story?

“It’s really simple. There needs to be a woman. One for both of them.”

“How so?”

“Well, our athlete meets a girl. In a bar, maybe. Or at work. Or at work in a bar. I’m not sure yet. Sparks fly, they’re in love, and then he introduces her to his coach. Then everything gets complicated. Because the coach falls in love with her, too.”

“But you said the coach isn’t a young guy.”

“He’s not an old man, either. Forty is a little too old to compete, but falling in love... no problem with that.”

“What about her?” I ask.

“What about her?” he counters.

“Who does she love? The athlete or the trainer? What does she do, sleep with both of them?”

“Yes, she sleeps with both of them. John said that the more sex there is the better. Sex sells. Right now I don’t know myself which one of them she loves. What do you think?” Paul raises his eyes from his plate and looks at me closely.

I can’t believe it. John is such a bastard. She sleeps with both of them! And now what is she supposed to do? How does she get out of this? And what am I supposed to tell Paul? And why does he look so distraught, like somebody has died or something?

“How should I know who she loves,” I try joking. “I hardly know them.”

“I’ll have you read what I’ve come up with so far. But promise me that you’ll tell me what you honestly think.”

I open my mouth to say that I always tell him the truth, and then I close it again. Today, that would be a lie. Something really has changed between us. Some kind of invisible wall has been erected, and we’re talking to each other through that wall.

“You look terrible! Are you sick?” I try to change the subject.

“I didn’t sleep much. Working a lot, same as usual.” Paul obviously doesn’t feel like opening up.

It’s still pretty light outside, and I tell him I want to work for a while. Paul is also anxious to get back to the computer. I set up my paints and stare stupidly at the canvass. My head is a total muddle. My memory keeps serving up completely unnecessary pictures: Me on the couch. John between my legs. John on the couch. His cock in my mouth. I need to calm down, get myself together.

It’s gradually getting darker. Paul suggests a walk to the lake. I put on a jacket and we go out. We stroll together slowly along the road. At some point, Paul takes my hand. He has big hands, and long fingers. I know them as well as I know my own. I love to look at them and stroke them. He runs a finger over my hand. Inside me, that taut string comes back to life, the one I sensed that morning during my photo shoot with John. Paul runs his finger alongside one of my fingers. His skin is rougher than mine, and all of its uneven contours and small imperfections resonate deep inside of me. I look up at him.

“Shall we go back to the house?” Paul pronounces those words so quietly that I intuit what he’s saying rather than really hear it.

“Okay.” Everything inside me feels squeezed into a painful knot. I’m panicking. I’m going to have to go to bed with him and act as if nothing happened. I won’t be able to. Or will I?

We go upstairs to the bedroom.

“I need to take a shower first,” I tell him, and I shut myself in the bathroom. The expression on my face in the mirror is terrified, as if a stampede of wild animals is after me. “What’s going on? Why this panic?” I ask myself sternly. “You had sex with John, and it was great.” “Yes, but I wasn’t supposed to have sex with him,” I answer myself. “I have a husband. Paul. And I love him. It’s rotten to cheat on your husband. How can I look him in the eye after this?” “Yes, but you’ve never had the kind of pleasure you did with John. Are you afraid that won’t happen with Paul? So what? That was fine for you before.” “That was before,” I am still talking to myself. “But now I know how it can be. I want that again.”

It turned out there was no need to have panicked. When Paul and I were finally both in bed, he rolled over on one side, turned off the light, and said, “Let’s sleep.” And he fell asleep. Just like that. No sex, either good or bad. What was wrong with him? He had said himself that he missed me. I’m afraid. A chill creeps over my soul. I wrap my arms around Paul from behind, press myself close to him, warm up a little, and fall asleep.

Paul is still acting strangely in the morning. I’m probably acting strangely, too, because I can’t relax. I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Neither of us speaks much. Every so often, I catch Paul looking at me. His gaze holds the sorrow of a doomed man.

“Emmy, we need to talk.” Paul’s voice is so serious that it scares me. Had he decided to leave me? Or is he sick?

“Are you sick?” The words burst out of me.

“No. I’m completely healthy. That’s not it,” says Paul. I exhale in relief. Apparently I hadn’t been breathing. If he’s healthy, then we can fix whatever it is.