Looking for Chapter 1? It’s here.
Chapter 2?  Here.

This chapter contains graphic violence.

“What, you’re threatening me now?” Carrie asked. “You think I can’t take care of myself?”

Elisa didn’t answer. Instead, Jamie turned Carrie around to face her. “You couldn’t take care of your husband.” Her eyes were cruel lumps of coal set deeply in her face and framed by those icy blonde locks Carrie wanted to grab with both hands and yank out of her head in clumps. “You couldn’t satisfy him physically. You couldn’t satisfy him emotionally either.”

“That’s not true. He was stationed – “

“Oh yes it is.”

“Look, I gave him a pass. You know he had permission.”

“He didn’t just fuck me. He loved me.”

“It isn’t true. But if you want him, you can fucking have him.”

“Oh honey,” she began, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I don’t want him anymore. I’ve got a man of my own. And my man would never text another woman behind my back the way Rick did. You should have read the awful, awful things he said. I almost feel sorry for you, being married to such a backstabber.”

She swallowed hard, choking down the memories of the texts she knew he’d sent. “And you loved him, so what does that say about you?”

“I never loved him. He loved me. Do you want to know what he said about you? About being married to you? Raising children with you? Do you want to know all the names he called you?”

Carrie didn’t need to hear Jamie say it. She’d seen the texts on Rick’s phone years before, and she never forgot any of them. Just thinking about the things she read, after taking a twenty-five-hour flight to Singapore in a desperate bid to save what was left of their tattered marriage, was almost enough to bring Carrie to her knees. She blocked out those thoughts, and focused on the here and now.

“Rick was hurting over what I’d done to him,” she said, and nodded her head in Elisa’s direction. “With her husband. I’m the bad guy here. I did awful things to Rick. And if I was that bad to my own husband, who I love, what do you think I’m capable of doing to you two?”

“Oh Carrie,” Elisa smiled, her brow furrowed deviously. “Look at you, pretending you’re confident and brave. I know you’re not. I know that on the inside you’re shaking like a scared little girl. You know that everything we’re telling you is true. But the truth is, Jamie and I don’t want to make you feel bad about yourself. We aren’t here to make you cry over what a miserable failure you are and then laugh about it. We’re here to break you physically.”

Jamie chimed in: “Then leave you lying on the floor while we go back to the ball and party.”

“After all, did you really think I was going to let you lure Alan into your clutches and do nothing?”

“You bitches think I can’t fight both of you?” Carrie’s voice was unsteady. She was confident that she would get a few good punches in, and maybe bloody the other two women up a bit. But she was much more of a lover than anything else, a fighter especially. The thought of defending herself in this manner was frightening. Still, she gathered her courage and looked Elisa right in the eye. “Alan still wanted to be with me. That means you weren’t getting the job done at home. You’re boring and uptight. He told me so the first time we met, and I could always tell it was true. Every time we were in the same room together, doesn’t matter where, I always thought of you with – how did he put it? A huge Christian stick up your ass.”

Without warning, Elisa’s fist crashed into Carrie’s face. She staggered back, unable to breathe. She couldn’t even see. It was like someone was shining a flashlight right into her eyes. Carrie felt burning pain and blood on her face, and she instinctively wiped it away as her vision slowly returned. She could hear one of the women yelling “Hold her! Grab her!” Elisa stood in front of her; Jamie was in the back, trying to restrain her arms. Carrie shook her off, then blindly swung an elbow at her for good measure.

Elisa sent another punch careening at her. Carrie dodged her fist even as Jamie grabbed her from behind once again. Fingernails dug into her skin and Carrie tried desperately to get free. Her adrenaline kept the pain at bay, but Jamie’s persistence was remarkable.

“Hold her…hold her,” Elisa was saying. Jamie did one better and climbed up onto Carrie’s back. Her legs clasped around Carrie’s midsection and if Carrie was able to spare a thought she might have wondered if it was as comical a sight as it seemed. She bounced clumsily from one foot to the other, trying to get Jamie off of her back. It was at this point that Carrie realized that she’d lost one of her shoes when Elisa punched her, so she kicked off the other one as well. She paid no mind to where it landed and turned her attention immediately to throwing off the monkey clinging to her back.

Jamie didn’t make it easy. Her thighs pressed tightly against Carrie’s sides, her feet crisscrossed over her stomach. All the while her hair – the hair she’d just repaired in the bathroom – was being pulled with terrible force. Carrie bucked hard, desperate to toss her opponent to the ground. With renewed urgency she pushed back against Jamie as Elisa reached out for Carrie’s pale and very vulnerable throat.

Quickly Carrie reared back, pulling herself away from Elisa’s grasp. At the same time the back of her head slammed into Jamie’s face and the woman tumbled off Carrie’s back and onto the floor. As she realized she was finally free, Carrie wasn’t sure whether to repay Elisa for that punch in the face, or else turn and pounce on Jamie. She did neither. Instead she grabbed Elisa’s outstretched hands, then swung her head forward. She’d seen people getting headbutted in wrestling matches and it seemed so effortless and consequence-free. She didn’t realize it would hurt her as well.

Still, the sight of Elisa holding her nose bolstered Carrie’s courage. She wasn’t the only one bleeding anymore. She rushed forward, arms extended in an attempt to knock Elisa off-balance. When she reached the older woman, Elisa was ready and swung out, catching Carrie in the face. By now, Jamie was back up on her feet and followed Elisa’s punch with one of her own. Then another and another. Carrie tried to move into a better position but couldn’t; her opponent was standing on her gown. So instead of moving away, Carrie moved closer. She grabbed Jamie’s arm and dug in with her nails, savoring the sound as she screamed out in pain. Blood rose up from the jagged wounds in crimson streaks. At that point, even as Elisa tried to restrain her, it was easy for Carrie to push Jamie off of the dress.

“Hold her!” Jamie yelled.

“No, you hold her!” Carrie used their lack of coordination to her advantage and rushed Jamie, grabbing her by the shoulders and pushing her hard into one of the columns. Jamie’s eyes were wide with surprise and panic, and when she hit the marble with a loud crack Carrie silently hoped it was her spine. Still, she didn’t let up. Carrie maintained her grip on Jamie’s shoulders and slammed the back of her head into the column once, then twice, until her eyes narrowed and then closed completely. Then Carrie let go and she sank to the floor.

She turned to face Elisa, and in doing so noticed that a large group of partygoers had gathered at the end of the corridor. There had to be thirty or forty servicepeople and spouses there, clogging the hallway in their finery and just watching. Carrie was kind of surprised that no one had tried to break it up, actually. She thought someone would have had the guts, the initiative, to step in. She may have even been counting on it, to no avail. She refocused on Elisa, who actually looked scared for the first time all evening.

“It’s your turn now.”

Bolstered by a jolt of white-hot anger, Elisa charged. Her arms swung like flails, desperate to land a blow that would take Carrie completely out of action. But she sidestepped easily, raising her leg to give Elisa a hard kick in the ass as she passed. She pivoted on her feet to face Carrie once again. Her bloody nostrils flared like those of a furious bull, her bruised and swollen lips pulled back to bare her teeth in an animalistic sneer. Carrie would not have been surprised if Elisa snorted and pawed the ground with her foot before charging again.

The two women faced off. Elisa seethed with rage, her eyes narrow and focused. She was trying to psyche Carrie out, to intimidate her into either running away or running headlong into Elisa’s next attack. But the younger woman kept her cool. She wasn’t going to let Elisa provoke her into making any mistakes. They stood there for a long while, mere feet from each other, neither woman speaking or making any sound. Even the crowd had gone quiet lest they miss a muttered epithet.

Carrie spoke first: “Come at me, bitch.”

Elisa lunged, attempting to grab Carrie and pull her close for a beating. Her reach was long, her hands strong and her grasp firm. But none of that mattered when Carrie dodged and swung her own fist. Her arm was far more slender than Elisa’s – indeed, Carrie was certain her opponent could have clasped her hand around Carrie’s bicep and still had room to spare – but unlike Elisa, Carrie was still thinking clearly. Despite the fact that the other two had started it, Carrie was the only one who’d kept her head throughout all of this.

Carrie’s fist connected with the side of Elisa’s head, but the punch barely slowed her. She gave another punch, this time with her other fist against the other temple. Elisa lunged again, and this time Carrie managed to grab her arm before she could ensnare her. Urgently she tried to wrestle Elisa to the ground, unsure what she would have done once she got her there. They grappled together for a moment, Carrie fighting to maintain her grip on Elisa even as her opponent struggled to get free.

Elisa finally broke Carrie’s grip, deflecting another punch before swinging around and catching Carrie in the abdomen with a deft roundhouse kick that sent her stumbling over Jamie, still lying prone beside the column. When she regained her footing Carrie braced herself for another kick. It landed square against her ribs, leaving her breathless. While Carrie was stunned Elisa followed the kick with a strong, sure punch that impacted Carrie’s face, smashing her nose with a loud, sickening crack. She felt her lip split open, blood washing hot and thick over her mouth and down her chin. She spit some out of her mouth and hurried to duck another punch.

Elisa was swinging blind again. Carrie moved out of the way of a one-two combo that might have torn her ears clean off had she been slower. Elisa wheeled quickly on the balls of her feet, trying to stay a step ahead of Carrie as she evaded the continuing assault. One punch missed its target. The next one landed on the side of Carrie’s face. Two more missed. Another hit home, colliding hard against her shoulder. As Elisa prepared her next punch – this one aimed once again for Carrie’s already blood-slick face – Carrie steeled herself, then snatched Elisa’s arm as it shot toward her like a bullet. She swung it toward the nearest column, slamming it furiously against the marble.

Elisa howled in pain as her metacarpal bones crunched under the force of each blow. The column dripped heavy with blood, but still Carrie didn’t let up. When she was finally done battering Elisa’s hand into uselessness, she leaned the older woman up against the marble. Elisa was dazed, clearly deep in shock from the trauma Carrie had dealt her. She cradled her shattered hand, her body trembling, mouth frozen in a silent scream.

Carrie realized that the entire room was suddenly silent. Only the faintest echoes of the ball could be heard in the distance. She readied her fist for one more punch that would surely end the fight in a decisive manner, leaving her standing victorious over both of her assailants and hopefully giving second thoughts to anyone else present who might have considered getting up in her face.

As she drew back her arm, Elisa lurched on her right foot. She was probably instinctively trying to steady herself lest she fall, but there was no sense in taking chances. Carrie kicked high, bending her knee and stomping her foot down on Elisa’s unsteady leg. The assembled onlookers – whom Carrie had more or less forgotten were were standing there – gasped in horror as Elisa’s tibia exploded through her shin, showering the walls and floor with blood and sending bits of bone skidding toward the crowd.

Behind her, someone shouted. Carrie didn’t even turn around. At the same time, the silent scream finally gave way to a blood-curdling cry of agony and terror and Elisa sank slowly to her knees. Which, of course, just made her howl even louder. Carrie moved in close and took her throat in her hands, silencing the scream as she began to strangle her.

“You’re finished,” Carrie said quietly. Her voice was calm, her words almost a whisper. She tightened her grip on Elisa’s neck, watching her eyes bulge and roll back in her head. At the same time Elisa began gasping desperately for breath. Carrie didn’t stop. Instead, she said it again, louder this time: “You’re finished.” She repeated it for good measure, anger in her voice. She was snarling now, her expression quite possibly the main reason no one had yet intervened. “You’re finished. You’re finished. You’re finished.”

Carrie felt herself nearing a state that she could only describe as euphoria. After the cyclone of emotions she’d felt after suddenly seeing Alan for the first time in years, the hurt she felt over coming face-to-face with Jamie, and the anger Elisa had brought out of her, there was something strangely soothing about holding the woman’s throat in her tight grip. Even as she throttled her, Carrie realized how perverse that sounded. She really wasn’t a violent person, and she didn’t know why the thought of killing this woman was bringing her such peace. None of it mattered anymore. Despite the expression on her face, she didn’t even feel angry.

Carrie was shaken out of her ecstasy by the shock of heavy footfalls on the ground nearby. Suddenly hands were all over her. A military police officer was forcing her down to the floor, smashing her face into the carpet in the process. Probably that blonde bitch from earlier, Carrie thought as she felt her arms being pulled roughly behind her back. The familiar click click click click click of handcuffs followed, and then she was restrained. As they pulled her to her feet she could see paramedics lifting Elisa onto a stretcher. One was applying pressure to the gory lower-leg fracture Carrie had given her. Nearby, Jamie lay on the floor beside the pillar where Carrie had left her. Her face was pale, her eyes open a sliver. A paramedic was shining a penlight into the young woman’s eyes. Carrie wondered if she was dead.

A voice sounded clearly over the excited din of the congregation. “That’s my wife! That’s my wife!” Carrie turned to see Rick fighting his way through the crush of onlookers. She was relieved to see someone who presumably didn’t want to kill her, even if she did remember – just barely – that she was supposed to be pissed off at him. She wasn’t sure what to say, or even what kind of look to give him from across the lobby. She managed a weak smile with sad, tired eyes, then looked away as the officers led her out. As she walked through the room, she spied Alan standing among the mob. Poor Alan.

To be continued.

It’s the month of May AND it is time to play TMI Tuesday!

Jack’s Answers

1. May 9 – Today is National Lost Sock Memorial Day. How many single socks do you have because the mate got lost?
At the moment, none. I save single socks for a couple months, and if their counterparts haven’t shown up by then, I toss ’em. I’m not a puppeteer; I don’t see any point holding onto a bunch of uncoupled socks.

2. This month is National Bike Month (in the USA), do you own a bike? When is the last time your rode your bike?
No bike at the moment. The last time I rode my bike was years ago, and unfortunately that’s as precise as I can get. The last time I rode any bike was last week, at the gym. It was a stationary bike, obviously.

3. Of course we all know it is Masturbation Month. How are you celebrating?
Well, not by abstaining, that’s for sure.

4. As a kid, many of us would think or say, “I don’t ever want to be like my mom (or dad)!” Now that you are grown, which parent do you think you are most like.
I’m more like my mother than my father, god help me. My mom was the more empathetic one, whereas my dad was a bit more emotionally distant. I certainly take after my mom when it comes to parenting.

5. If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?
My parents raised me to be realistic. They told me I was important to them, but that the rest of the world wasn’t going to break a sweat to make me think I mattered. It’s a far cry from the attitude I see from many parents today, i.e. the notion that the world owes their children something. However, it seems like there should be a happy medium. Rather than taking their words as inspiration to work harder, it hurt my confidence for a lot of years. I’m one of billions of human beings on the planet. How could I possibly matter? Nice one, mom and dad.

Bonus: A lot of people do sexting. Do you ever have sexy talk with a real phone call? Do you rehearse what you are going to say or do it freestyle?
It’s rare. I talk on the phone on the following occasions: When calling my clients, something that happens on an almost-daily basis; when Jill is more than half an hour late from work and I call to see where the fuck she is; when on a long car ride by myself if I’ve run out of podcasts to listen to; when my mother invariably calls while I’m masturbating. (I can’t not answer. The one time I don’t, some horrible tragedy will have befallen someone in my family.) These are the only situations wherein I regularly talk on the phone. If Jill and I are spending the night apart, we might engage in a little phone sex, but it’s rare that we do, and when it’s happened it’s been completely freestyle. On my end, anyway. She might be reading from a script.

Jill’s Answers

1. May 9 – Today is National Lost Sock Memorial Day. How many single socks do you have because the mate got lost?
About five. I just tossed a bag full of single socks when their mates failed to show up.

2. This month is National Bike Month (in the USA), do you own a bike? When is the last time your rode your bike?
I don’t own a bike. It’s been years since I’ve been for a bike ride. Jack got me one for Christmas about nine or ten years ago, and while I was pretty good about riding it for awhile, I sold it in 2014 or 2015.

3. Of course we all know it is Masturbation Month. How are you celebrating?
With multiple orgasms every day so far! It’s been awhile since I was able to masturbate daily, but I’m really hoping it continues into June and beyond.

4. As a kid, many of us would think or say, “I don’t ever want to be like my mom (or dad)!” Now that you are grown, which parent do you think you are most like.
My Dad. He is caring and thoughtful, and generally a positive person. [Editor’s Note: Trust me, she’s much more like her mother.]

5. If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?
Nothing! I had an amazing childhood. I was blessed with wonderful siblings and amazing parents. We are all still close. My mother was able to stay home with us until I was an adult, at which point she went back to work. I think having her home really influenced my relationship with her, and shaped me into the mother I am today.

Bonus: A lot of people do sexting. Do you ever have sexy talk with a real phone call? Do you rehearse what you are going to say or do it freestyle?
Not as often as I’d like to! About the only time I have phone sex is if Jack and I are spending the night apart. I think the last time was in November, when I was away on business. And it’s never rehearsed. It’s always 100% spontaneous. [Editor’s Note:  I guess that settles that.]

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

It’s a little-known fact that three is the highest number of photos I can take of Jill when she’s in this position; once I’ve taken the third it’s time for me to set the camera down and mount her.

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

 

Looking for Chapter 1?  It’s here.

This chapter contains mild physical violence, as well as a fair amount of psychological and/or emotional violence.  Content warning for STI shaming, as well as slut-shaming and racial insensitivity. 

The woman on the stage in the front of the room was the Secretary of the Air Force, whatever that meant. At the moment she was droning on about honor and service, but Carrie was imagining her sitting at a desk, typing up memoranda and collating documents. Maybe even answering the telephone. “Hello, U.S. Air Force. How may I direct your call?” She understood the position entailed much different responsibilities than a civilian secretary would bear, but Carrie needed the laugh. She sipped impatiently from her cocktail, wondering if it would be considered poor form to take her iPhone out and browse Pinterest. The wristlet that held it was an expensive new one by Vera Bradley; she’d bought it to wear to the ball, and it matched her dress. For an instant, she considered just doing it regardless of whether the other military wives at the table might judge her for it, or would judge her husband.

Sensing her boredom, Rick reached over and covered her hand with his, squeezing gently. “I’m sorry this is so boring.” His voice was a whisper.

Carrie looked up and smiled at him, suddenly self-conscious. She absentmindedly ran her finger around a stray brown tendril that escaped from her updo to frame her face. She twisted it around her finger like a young child might. The speech couldn’t possibly go on much longer, could it? The secretary was talking about something patriotic no doubt, but whatever the content of the speech, Carrie couldn’t relate. She couldn’t help but wish the speech could just be over right now, if only so she could finally eat dinner. And then have another drink or two at the bar, do some dancing, and then take Rick back up to their hotel room and fuck his brains out.

The room erupted in applause as the secretary stepped down from her podium. Carrie wondered if the applause wasn’t merely because she was finally done talking. Fucking windbag. Dinner was served in three separate courses, beginning with an organic mixed-green salad with English cucumbers, carrots, roasted roma tomatoes, feta cheese, and toasted walnuts dressed with a white zinfandel vinaigrette; and continuing with a main entree of boneless chicken breast topped with prosciutto, fresh basil, and asiago cheese with a roasted garlic marsala sauce, plus mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables on the side. Dessert was brandied cherry chocolate cake, but Carrie politely declined hers.

Dinner passed in relative calm, but the ambient elevator music playing through the speakers and the sea of men in military dress uniforms and their perfectly-clad and -coiffed stepford wives created a surreal atmosphere that made Carrie uncomfortable. It was like something Norman Rockwell would have painted, if Norman Rockwell had been in charge of designing propaganda for the Military-Industrial Complex. Carrie found herself relieved that all of the evening’s ceremony had concluded when she and Rick walked into the adjacent ballroom for the afterparty. She smoothed out the classy red gown she’d chosen for the evening and took in the veritable sea of opulent evening wear swaying in a very inelegant manner on the frames of the wives getting down on the dance floor. Carrie and Rick made their way to the bar, her heels clicking across the ballroom floor. A small group of airmen stood before them, placing their drink orders.

“What do you want?” Rick asked her as they waited. “Wine? Margarita? Corona?”

“I don’t care. Something strong.”

Rick pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his dress pants as the airmen vacated and he and Carrie reached the bar. He ordered his wife a margarita with an extra shot of tequila, and a draft beer for himself. While they waited for their drinks, Carrie turned to the entrance of the ballroom and watched in shock as a familiar couple walked in. Her eyes went wide and her breath left her lungs. Alan was tall, with short, dark hair and dark eyes, plus chiseled, masculine features that Carrie still found as attractive as she ever had. He wore the same formal dress as Rick, and linked to his arm was his wife Elisa. She wore a modest black dress with a simple braided style of bun atop her head and a haughty expression on her tired, weathered face. Carrie was frozen in place, unsure what to do. Standing on the opposite side of the ballroom, neither Alan nor Elisa had noticed her yet. She took an instinctive step back, quickly turning to face Rick once again. She forced a half-hearted smile as he handed her the shot and the margarita, noticing as she downed the former that her hand was trembling. Carrie’s entire body was rigid with tension, her heart thundering in her chest so forcefully she couldn’t ignore it. She set the shot glass down on the bar and began to drink the margarita.

Rick spoke: “Take it easy. The night hasn’t been that bad.”

She continued to smile, hoping Rick couldn’t tell she didn’t mean it. The pervading sense of doom she felt threatened to ruin her night almost before it had begun. The four hadn’t crossed paths yet, but there was no way the two couples were going to be able to avoid each other all night. Carrie hoped they had wandered off and gotten lost in the crowd. She wouldn’t have minded if they’d disappeared into the throng of people on the dance floor, even if it meant she would have to stay away from that location all night.

After a moment Carrie was unable to resist a quick glance around the room, hoping she’d find Alan and Elisa deep in conversation with another couple or otherwise occupied elsewhere. As she looked, Alan locked eyes with her and she watched his lips part in the same state of disbelief she’d just experienced.

Time stood still. All the sound in the room fell away. The band was silent. Hundreds of separate conversations suddenly went mute. A tornado of memories hung in the air over Carrie’s head along with the sudden, panicked realization of what was about to happen. At the absolute most, a scant one hundred feet of crowded ballroom separated the two couples. As Carrie and Alan stared at each other, Elisa and Rick needed to take only the briefest pause in order to register the situation, quickly following their spouses’ gazes until they realized the four of them were all in the same room once again. This is what they’d all been dreading for so long, and while Carrie had no idea what would happen next, she knew damn well it wasn’t going to be good.

Rick looked away from the other couple and down to Carrie, who managed to tear her eyes away from Alan a split second too late. Her expression was serene, her mouth turned upward into a sappy smile. A look of restrained affection – a less secure husband might have classified it as longing – remained on her face. Rick had seen it.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.” He took a step away from her.

“What?” Carrie threw up her hands in a shrug of feigned innocence.

“Your face. The look on your face.”

“I’m just surprised. You would be too, if you-know-who was here.”

He looked down at Carrie’s hand, clutching melodramatically at her chest. She took a deep breath. The grin had all but faded from her lips, but she was still gazing off in Alan and Elisa’s direction. As Rick thrust his beer into Carrie’s hand she snapped out of it just in time to see him close the gap between them and the other couple in only half the strides it should have taken him.

She called out to him. “Rick! No!” Carrie gave no thought to Rick’s beer or her margarita as she dropped both to the floor and ran after him in a broad whirl of red dress and brown hair. As she grabbed him by the dress blues he swung his arm back, throwing her off of him. He lashed out, propelling his fist at Alan’s face. The other man reached up with blinding speed, grabbing Rick’ fist with both hands. Anticipating the sheer force of the looming blow, Alan parried his opponent, using every bit of energy he could muster to send Rick’s arm off-course. In the end it didn’t matter as Rick sent his free hand sailing into the other man’s stomach. Alan was solid muscle without a bit of fat on him; that much Carrie knew from experience. Still, the punch left him doubled over and gasping for breath.

As Rick grabbed Alan’s lapels and pulled him back up, Elisa scrambled against the wall and out of their way. Carrie, meanwhile, leaped to her feet and tried to break up the fight. Alan returned Rick’s punch and Rick delivered another, fists burying themselves in abdomens and impacting against ribs. Carrie made use of her elbows and shoulders, forcing her way between them. When her black stiletto heel inadvertently came down on Rick’s patent leather dress shoe, he cried out and turned on his feet to face the interloper. Alan took advantage of this pause and shoved Rick backward. Then he fell to his knees, still desperate to catch his breath even as Rick tumbled into a woman in a slinky ankle-length cocktail dress and hit the floor hard.

“Is there a problem here?” asked a scowling military police officer. He was round-faced with a prominent brow.

“Too much to drink,” Elisa said without the slightest smile.

Carrie looked down at Rick, already rising to his feet. His lip was bleeding, but the look of hatred burned into his face was far more frightening. She bent down to Alan, letting her eyes meet his once again. She allowed herself only an instant to feel the familiar stirrings as she drank deeply of his gaze. “Are you okay?” she asked. For a moment, she almost forgot the room was packed with military personnel and their spouses. Worst of all, she almost forgot about Alan’s wife, and her own husband.

Alan blinked and nodded his head. After a second he answered in the affirmative. All the while, he held her gaze just as he’d done all those times in Korea. Carrie extended a hand and helped him up. The feel of his skin on hers sent a current of electricity through both of them and made the air around them come alive. She was flooded with memories: His smile. The way he smelled. The way his body felt against her. The way his cock felt inside her. The way he sounded when he came. She thought about the first time they’d been together. She thought about the last time. It occurred to her that even though Alan had made it to his feet, they were still touching. She looked down and realized he was the one holding her hand, and not the other way around.

That’s when Elisa launched herself off of the wall and grabbed Carrie by the hair. The younger woman writhed in her grip, turning her head to face her attacker even as she twisted Carrie’s brown locks in a tight, unyielding fist. “Get your hands off of him, you whore!” Elisa pulled her head even further back. Carrie fought against her, finally sending a knee up and into Elisa’s rib cage. She groaned, but managed to hold tight to Carrie’s hair. Then Carrie grabbed Elisa’s and yanked even harder.

“Let. Go. Of. Me.” Carrie’s voice was colder than ice, infused with a steely determination that would have given any other woman pause. Elisa didn’t relent. Carrie released her grip on Elisa’s hair and quickly clasped them over her wrists, pulling with all she had. That’s when the round-faced military police returned, this time with three other officers who separated the two women by force.

“Take it outside, ladies,” said a blonde officer in full uniform. She was perhaps a few years older than Carrie, who disliked her immediately. She and her cohorts pushed Carrie one way and Elisa the other as Alan and Rick glared at each other without saying a word. They simply stood beside their wives, each silently acknowledging they’d been very lucky not to be the two discovered fighting. If there was an easier way to end a pair of military careers, neither one could think of it.

After a moment, Elisa broke the silence. “Let’s go, Alan.” It wasn’t a request. She turned to walk away from Rick and Carrie, her hand clasped tightly on her husband’s forearm.

Alan didn’t move. Instead, his expression softened, and he regarded not only Carrie but Rick as well. “Look, I know it isn’t worth much to you, but I’m really sorry about everything. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody, and I sure as hell didn’t mean to ruin your evening just by being here.”

“Man, fuck you.” Carrie looked up at her husband. She wasn’t expecting such a sharp rebuke. Instinct dictated she play the peacemaker and apologize to Alan on Rick’ behalf. But Rick wouldn’t have liked it if she did so she bit her tongue. Rick continued: “You better get out of here before I get really pissed.”

Carrie winced as she saw Elisa pull Alan by the arm. What a cold, unfeeling woman, even to her husband. Carrie took solace in the fact that, even when she was rendezvousing with Alan in an alleyway in Osan, she would never have humiliated him in public the way Elisa just humiliated Alan.

Once the other couple was gone, Rick spoke: “I can’t believe you’d just humiliate me in public like that.”

“Humiliate you in public like – “ Carrie let the words sink in, feeling anger boiling just under her skin. She tried to keep it there. “Humiliate you like what, exactly?”

“Oh, knock it off, Carrie! You really think I wanted to be reminded of what you did to me?”

“What I did to you? What about what you did to me?”

“You think I wanted to be confronted by those two, at the Air Force Ball of all places?”

“How is this my fault?” On some level she knew he was right, but she was unrepentant: “What, we’re just supposed to stay home for the rest of our lives in case God forbid we happen to run into the guy I fucked behind your back? I mean, Jesus!” Carrie’s hands were clenched into fists. “That was a long time ago! What do you want from me?”

“I want you not to act like you’re still hung up on him.”

Carrie turned on her heel and stormed away, stomping through the ballroom intent on the exit. Her emotions were frazzled, and she realized she was fighting off a panic attack. The edges of her vision started to blur, and she turned her head to see a young woman with strawberry blonde hair staring at her.

“What are you looking at, bitch?” Carrie snapped. As she spoke she realized that the blonde was the only person in the world who could push her from her panic right back into boiling-hot rage. Her name was Jamie, though Carrie always thought of her as the Singawhore. Rick met her while he was stationed at COMLOG Westpac and she was teaching abroad. Their romance had nearly destroyed everything. Carrie had never met the young woman – she’d only seen a picture or two – but she would have recognized her anywhere. Over the last few years she’d allowed Jamie more space in her mind than she should have. She knew the face, and she knew the shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair. More than anything it was the hair that made the connection in Carrie’s mind.

She stood on the arm of an enlisted man. Carrie wondered if he was married too. Probably. She wondered if his wife was in pain the way Carrie had been in pain. She remembered the humiliation, the abandonment, the isolation. It was all she could do to keep from calling her a homewrecking slut, though what she really wanted to do was give her a swift kick in the ribs the way she’d just done to Elisa. There’s still time, she thought with a tentative smile. The night is young.

Carrie turned and headed for the exit in a huff. As she did, she bumped into a woman in an elegant ballgown, making her spill her drink. Carrie didn’t apologize. She didn’t even slow down. She barely even acknowledged she had done it. Not so elegant anymore, she thought as she left the ballroom. There were a couple people in uniform milling about a large lobby that, beyond a few floor-to-ceiling marble columns, was essentially featureless. Three corridors forked off of the lobby, one leading to the elevators, another to the main lobby and the hotel’s entrance, and a third to some conference rooms and, to Carrie’s relief, the restrooms. She followed that corridor to another large lobby and her destination, the ladies’ room.

Inside, Carrie checked her hair in the mirror. As expected, Elisa’s assault had completely ruined it. She ran some water from the sink and tried her best to fix it. All she could do was comb it back with her hands, then smooth out the sides and rehabilitate her bangs a bit. She stood there for a moment, feeling her heartbeat speed up. Suddenly there were tears, but Carrie refused to acknowledge them. Instead, she focused on her hair. If she’d had some hairspray, or even a bobby pin or two, she might feel a little more confident.

She looked at herself in the mirror, trying not to focus on her ruined coif. What the hell? she thought as she noticed a dark blotch on the front of her gown. Some careless idiot spilled a drink all over me. Her evening was just getting better and better by the second. Carrie took a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped away the sloppy tears that ran down the sides of her face. Her makeup smeared and she decided to just wash it all off. When she was done she looked at her hair, her face, and her rumpled clothing and she felt like giving up. She wanted to say fuck it and just go upstairs. She wanted to take a long, warm bath and go to sleep before Rick even came up. If she did that, by morning she might have been able to force herself to forget everything that happened.

That’s when she remembered that their hotel room had no bathtub, just a large, glass-walled shower. And while it was admittedly a beautiful piece of architecture, it wasn’t what she wanted tonight. She stared into the mirror, made the most spectacularly fierce face she could manage, and decided that she wasn’t going to give up. The only thing she was going to do was return to the ballroom, have a few drinks, and have a good time. She might even manage to turn a few heads.

Wait. Might? Of course she was going to. She always did. And if it pissed off Elisa, or even Rick, that was too bad for them.

She smoothed out her gown and went to the door. As she pushed it open, Carrie found Elisa standing just outside the ladies’ room. Jamie was beside her. Carrie realized they weren’t standing there because they were waiting to use the restroom; there were several stalls and all were unoccupied. Anyway, the restroom door didn’t lock. They could have come in at any time if that was their aim. Besides, as far as Carrie could tell the two women didn’t know each other. No, it wasn’t some remote coincidence that had put the two women Carrie hated most in the entire world right in front of where she was standing. This was something else.

In spite of every instinct, Carrie buried the anger she felt toward both women, pressed forward, and attempted to walk around them.

She was foiled. “Listen,” Elisa began in the best attempt at a civil tone Carrie had heard her make all night. “I’m only going to tell you this once. If you ever see my husband again, you are to turn around and walk in the other direction. I don’t care where you are. I don’t care what you’re doing. If you see him, you will walk away. In fact, you will run away. He is poison to you.”

Carrie stood dumbfounded by what she was hearing. “You don’t control what I do anymore than you control what Alan does.”

“Don’t mouth off at me, young lady.” The civility was fading.

“Oh please! You know it’s true. How many times has he cheated on you since he left Korea? I’m guessing even if you knew, you couldn’t possibly count.”

“My marriage isn’t your concern.” By now all traces of politeness were long gone. Elisa stood over Carrie like a strict schoolmistress attempting to intimidate one of her charges into toeing the line. At the same time, Jamie moved from Elisa’s side to Carrie’s. Her disregard for the concept of personal space was jarring, and Carrie did her best to keep an eye on the little blonde homewrecker.

Elisa continued: “You may have had something with my husband once upon a time, but that’s ancient history now. And whatever promises he made you, whatever sweet nothings he may have whispered in your ear, I’m telling you now that they were all lies. Alan may have wanted you, but he didn’t care about you. He never did, and he never will.”

“Bullshit.”

“He’s never even mentioned you once since Korea.”

“Why would he mention me to you?” Carrie asked incredulously. “All that matters are the texts he sends me. If you want to see them, I’ll show you my phone.” This part was a bluff intended to gain Carrie some footing. Alan hadn’t contacted her at all. But if Elisa wanted a dirty fight, she was going to get one.

“You’re lying, sweetie. I know you are. Alan learned his lesson. He isn’t going to risk everything he’s got by texting you when I have expressly forbidden him from doing so. We’re both fortunate he didn’t bring home a nasty case of gonorrhea or chlamydia. He isn’t going to push his luck.”

Her words stung, but Carrie didn’t let it show. “Funny you should mention that. We used condoms every time. He said he didn’t want to give me whatever he caught from you.”

Elisa’s hand stung even worse. Carrie rubbed her cheek until the shock of the sudden slap faded. “I suggest you think very carefully about the situation you’re in,” Elisa advised. “There are two of us and one of you. There’s nobody coming to your rescue.”

To be continued.

 

Another week, another TMI Tuesday.

Weekdays

Jack’s Answers

1. Do you wish every day was like Sunday?
Not really. I don’t like the pervading sense of doom that I associate with Sundays, undoubtedly due to the fact that it’s the last day of the weekend. Ever since I was a kid I’ve dreaded Sunday afternoon because the start of the school week loomed heavy over me.

2. Why don’t you like Mondays?
Who says I don’t like Mondays? You must be thinking of the person in that Boomtown Rats song. No, I have made peace with Monday, and while it’s far from my favorite day of the week I am able to look on the bright side. Namely, the fact that after two days of having my wife and child home and in close proximity, on Monday I am once again granted a few hours of peace and quiet.

3. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday love–which is best day for sex?
All of the above.

4. Do you look forward to hump day aka Wednesday?
Honestly, not really. My daughter has a half-day at school, and an after-school class that makes for a very long and tiring day. I understand that Wednesday is the midpoint between Monday and Friday and once you’ve crested the peak that is Wednesday you can go limp and tumble down the rest of the week, but honestly I don’t start celebrating until Thursday.

5. Friday night just got paid…do you get paid on Fridays?
I’m self-employed and get paid by the job. So if I have a job on a Friday (and I usually do), I get paid on Friday.

6. What were you doing 10:15 Saturday night?
Fucking.

Bonus: Today in Washington, DC metro area it’s another Rainy day and it is Monday. What’s your weather?
The day started out kind of chilly and overcast, but quickly warmed up. In fact, when the sun finally went down, I was pretty grateful.

Jill’s Answers

1. Do you wish every day was like Sunday?
No. I really prefer Saturdays to Sundays. We have too many obligations on Sundays, and there’s a general unpleasant sense of needing to get everything done before the start of the school and work week.

2. Why don’t you like Mondays?
It always seems to be the craziest day at work. My students are coming off the high of their weekend and don’t listen, behave, or even cooperate. Also, it can sometimes be a hassle to resume my weekly schedule after two days off.

3. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday love–which is best day for sex?
All of the above, really. But the weekend seems to be the best simply because we can stay up later.

4. Do you look forward to hump day aka Wednesday?
It’s okay. It does mean half of the school and work week is over, and after Wednesday it’s all downhill. However, our daughter has an extracurricular activity on Wednesday evenings, so it’s always a very long day.

5. Friday night just got paid…do you get paid on Fridays?
Only if the last day of the month happens to fall on a Friday.

6. What were you doing 10:15 Saturday night?
I think we were home having sex.

Bonus: Today in Washington, DC metro area it’s another Rainy day and it is Monday. What’s your weather?
Today was beautiful and warm. We even managed to go swimming after I got home from work.

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

Pucker up and come get it.

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

 

This story is inspired by real people, but not by real events. All proper names have been changed. The backstory and the relationships described are real, though the story itself is entirely fictitious. None of the occurrences described over the course of this and the next several installments actually took place.

Additionally, this story (though not necessarily this installment) contains graphic, disturbing physical violence. While some of it may be emotional in nature, I would not categorize any of it as sexual violence. There is no sexual assault or rape. However, there is a lot of enmity and, more importantly blood, being thrown about. Those seated in the first several rows will get wet.

This isn’t typical of the fiction I’ve written of late, and definitely different from what I’ve written here at this blog. If you’re familiar with my writing you’ll undoubtedly come to the conclusion that it doesn’t seem like something I’d write – I would tend to agree with this – although it does manage to pass the Bechdel Test in the first scene. Still, it’s probably far from the feminist ideal to which I often strive. It’s a very dark piece of writing. It’s transgressive, and maybe even regressive with regard to ideology. It’s likely to be an unpleasant read for most readers.

So why did I write it? I wrote it as a gift for a friend who needed some catharsis following a challenging and arguably disastrous foray into non-monogamy. Closure can be difficult to achieve, especially when so much emotional investment has been made, essentially for naught. Sometimes the only thing that will help is a nihilistic tale of bloody revenge.  I have divided the story into eight chapters, with Chapters 4 and 5 containing some sex you’ll hopefully find exciting even if the rest of the story is a turn-off. I will not be offended if you choose not to read Chapters 1-3 and 6-8. I’m planning to post one chapter every Friday until the story is complete.

Carrie rang the doorbell, her foot impatiently tapping on the heavy stones of the walkway as she waited. She glanced at the wall of the garage, jutting all the way to the sidewalk, and remembered a time when she would just use the garage code and enter through there. Maybe she still could; she had no idea whether they’d changed the code since everything fell apart. But those days were over, and Carrie liked to think that version of herself was long since in her grave.

If she and Rick ever attempted polyamory again, she was certain they’d be better at it than they were the first time. They wouldn’t make those early mistakes, wouldn’t let the kids mix with theirs right away, wouldn’t leave toothbrushes at their partners’ houses without vetting them to make sure they were everything they claimed to be. It hurt her to have to think that way. After all, what’s the point of being poly if you can’t love freely, without reservation? She didn’t like it, but that’s just how it was.

Her finger hovered over the doorbell, ready to jab the button a second time. Her wristlet dangled, her keys jingling quietly against each other when she heard footsteps approaching from inside. Carrie braced herself, putting on her best forced smile, and when Vicky opened the door she somehow managed to smile even bigger.

“Good morning!” Vicky’s smile was, if anything, bigger and faker than Carrie’s. She ushered her guest inside, and Carrie followed her past the pool room and kitchen and into the family room. “Coffee? I’ve got a pot brewing.”

“That sounds great,” Carrie said as she took a seat on the larger of the two sofas. Both were light blue and very comfortable. A matching armchair stood nearby and the three surrounded a maple-wood coffee table with a pane of glass as its top. As Carrie took off the wristlet and dropped it onto the table, Vicky detoured into the kitchen to pour two cups. It wasn’t until her back was turned that Carrie finally allowed her smile to recede. She didn’t like being inauthentic like this; one of the qualities on which she most prided herself was her ability to be completely honest. In fact, it was more than just an ability. It was a requirement. Carrie didn’t like pretending. But she wouldn’t have to do it much longer.

She scanned the family room, trying to convince herself it didn’t hurt to be back in this house. On the coffee table sat a couple empty glasses and a brightly-colored plastic drinking cup. A few magazines and some mail added to the mess. Children’s toys were strewn about the floor, under the coffee table and across the carpet almost to the pedestal on which the flatscreen stood.

A couple photos hung on the walls: Scenic vistas centered within colored mattes and framed. There was the Las Vegas Strip, the New York City Skyline, the Grand Canyon. Vicky’s husband had taken these on his travels. Carrie always admired his work, but seeing them now, under these circumstances, she could admit to liking them a little less. An ornate mirror hung on another wall, adjacent to the television. That was new. Carrie wondered why it was hanging there as opposed to in one of the bedrooms.

The piano stood against the back wall beside the sliding glass door. Both of Vicky’s kids could play, and had for Carrie’s entertainment on more than one occasion. Both were very talented, and Carrie often wondered if they would grow up to be famous pianists. The instrument itself was dusty, Carrie could tell that much from her vantage point across the room. The top was lined with little tchotchkes and family photos in small frames, just as it had always been. They too collected dust.

She looked past the piano to the dining table, piled high with clean laundry waiting to be folded. She and Rick had spent many an evening sitting at that table. They ate dinner there. They played board games. They talked to Vicky and her husband – she couldn’t bear to say his name! – while the kids watched television nearby or played upstairs. It didn’t feel right, even though she appreciated Vicky’s attempt to prevent things from becoming weird – or weirder than they already were – by inviting her over for coffee in the mornings or accompanying her to the gym in the afternoons.

Things were weird, though. And they weren’t liable to get un-weird, certainly not before the move. So Carrie bit her lip and dealt with it. She tried to focus on the positive: That Vicky genuinely wanted her friendship, even after everything that happened. That Vicky understood what Carrie was feeling and wasn’t trying to force an awkward confrontation between her and her ex-boyfriend for the sake of ending things on a happy note. (Fat chance of that, Carrie thought.) That in a couple months all of this would be behind her, and she and Rick would be settling into a new home and looking forward, not backward.

She spied Vicky standing on the other side of the kitchen island, stirring cream and sugar into two cups. Carrie remembered cooking with him. She remembered him making her coffee in the morning after long, passionate nights they spent together, and bringing it up to her in bed. Suddenly Carrie wished she could get up and leave. She didn’t belong there anymore.

“Paul just left for work,” Vicky said as she handed Carrie a cup. “So no worries about running into him.”

Carrie smiled in spite of herself and thanked her host. She took a sip of the light brown brew. It was sweet, and not so hot that it burned her lips. Carrie set the cup down on a coaster on the coffee table and leaned back in her seat. Vicky, meanwhile, reclined on the other sofa. She draped her arm over the side of the couch with her coffee cup still in hand.  “How’s the packing coming?”

“It’s going well,” Carrie replied. “But there’s so much stuff we still need to get rid of. There’s no reason to take half the stuff we’ve got, not to mention the fact we can’t afford to move it all.”

“Are you doing Craigslist?”

“That, and there’s this OfferUp thing too. We’ve sold a lot, but we’ve still got a long way to go.”

“Sounds stressful.” Vicky took a sip of her coffee. Carrie couldn’t tell if she was being genuine or merely shining her on. She continued: “But you’ll manage. You’ve still got a couple months, right?” Carrie nodded. “So? Are you excited?”

“Well, I am looking forward to a fresh start, in a brand-new place. Once we’re settled in, it’s going to be wonderful to be in that place where you’re, you know…” She couldn’t quite find the right words to describe the feelings to which she looked so forward.

“Starting from scratch,” she suggested, and Carrie agreed. Vicky continued: “Listen, I’m really sorry about everything.” Carrie looked up from her coffee, suddenly very interested in what Vicky had to say. She had never apologized to her for anything. Carrie wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Vicky had never apologized in her life. She wasn’t as warm as her husband. Or as warm as he had pretended to be, anyway. What a fucking snake he was. Carrie couldn’t believe he’d duped her like some high-schooler. And she couldn’t believe how much it still hurt.

She put those thoughts out of her head as Vicky spoke. “I know you got hurt, and I know Rick did too. And believe me, that was never our intention. Certainly not mine, and you know Paul. I know you do. He would rather have died than hurt you.” Carrie started to interrupt, unsure how she would rebuke Vicky’s claim without spitting venom. Her words were lost under the weight of Vicky’s own. “I know this was your and Rick’ first experience with poly, but it was ours too. We all made mistakes, and for my part I’m very sorry you got hurt.”

Carrie nodded as she considered what Vicky was saying. She wanted to tell the other woman she accepted her apology, that everything was okay between them and always would be, but she wasn’t ready to say that yet. On some level, Carrie felt like her anger at Paul, and to a lesser extent her anger at Vicky, had helped her reclaim her confidence and strength after everything went to hell. She didn’t want to let go of that. Not yet. So she just nodded.

Vicky went on: “I consider you a friend. And just because we’re not going to be living in the same city anymore doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what’s going on with you. Paul does too.” She paused, searching for the right words. “Maybe he doesn’t have that right anymore.”

“You’re right,” Carrie said. “He doesn’t.” There was no anger or bitterness in her voice, but only because she was deliberately trying to speak without it.

“That’s fair. But he does care for you. He made mistakes. Maybe he doesn’t get a second chance. I’m not even talking about loving you, necessarily.”

Carrie interrupted: “Hurting me, you mean.” She liked the way it felt to speak openly about what he had done. She liked looking Vicky in the eye as she spoke.

“Okay, fine. If that’s how you feel about it.”

“He doesn’t even want to love me! You know he’s moved on.”

Vicky nodded at Carrie’s words, a tacit admission that the other woman was right. “The thing about poly is, you can love people in different ways. He just doesn’t want you to think of him as a monster. And if he can’t change the way you feel about him, that’s okay. He can live with that. But he never meant to hurt you like this. I’m his wife. I know him. I know what’s in his heart.”

“That’s fine,” Carrie said, suddenly very uncomfortable. She realized she had adopted a position that could be described as defensive, and she tried to shift back into a more casual one. “I’m not mad at him anymore. It doesn’t even hurt.” A few seconds passed in silence. Then, “Can we change the subject please?”

Vicky agreed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“You didn’t.” Rather than absolving Vicky further lest they never move on to a different topic, Carrie shifted focus herself: “We’ve got the Air Force Ball this weekend.”

“Oh, how fun!” Vicky seemed just as relieved as Carrie felt. “When is it? Saturday night?”

“Yeah, but we fly out on Friday.”

“Fly out? Where’s it at? It’s not local?”

Carrie shook her head. “Florida.”

“Who’s watching the kids?”

“Rick’s mother is coming here for the weekend.”

“Well, that’ll be nice! You both deserve a nice, calm weekend to yourselves. What are you wearing?”

“I found a ball gown that will work. Rick is going in his mess uniform.”

“Now what’s that? That’s just the formal jacket and pants, right?”

“Basically. There’s also full dress, but that’s way more formal than mess.”

“I’d love to see how he looks in it. Text me a picture if you remember.”

“I will.” In reality, Carrie decided she wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t going to be sending Vicky any pictures of Rick, or encouraging any interaction between the two of them. No way.

“I bet you’re looking forward to getting all dressed up to the nines. Probably hasn’t happened in awhile.”

“We went to a wedding last month,” Carrie said. “It was nice. But this will be so much bigger. Anyway, we need some time to reconnect, just the two of us.”

“No distractions.”

“No. The last couple years have been so tough on me. On both of us, even.”

“Oh honey, I know all about it. I’m sorry, really.”

She didn’t acknowledge Vicky’s apology. “I’m looking forward to putting it all behind me. I just want to be finished with everything before the move.”

Vicky took another sip of her coffee.

To be continued.

 

After two weeks’ hiatus – one for traveling, and one for catastrophic computer-related issues – we are back for more TMI Tuesday!  And when I say “we”, I mean it!  Please welcome back Jill, participating for the first time since January 12!

Significant others, lovers, and such

Jack’s Answers

1. Make three true “we” statements about you and your significant other.
We complement each other well. We have a fulfilling sex life. We are great parents.

2. What is important for your lover to know?
I note that while question #1 referred to my significant other, this one refers to my lover. So I’m guessing my answer can and should apply to any lover, not necessarily my wife. Some things that are important for any woman I consider a lover to know are the nature of my feelings for her (if any), expectations I have for our relationship, and the fact that I’m a decent guy who doesn’t play games or act in a deceptive or malicious fashion. Oh, and that the orgasms she has while she’s with me will rival any she’s ever had before or will in the future.

3. What is important for you to know about your lover?
Whether she plans to suffocate me with a pillow once I’ve fallen asleep. Hey, it happens.

4. Tell us two things that can make your sex life hotter?
I’m not sure it’s possible for my sex life to be hotter than it is right now. I’m not trying to brag, nor am I trying to insincerely promote the connection between Jill and I; I legitimately can’t think of anything that would make things hotter or more satisfying than they’ve been. However, in order to maintain this level of awesomeness, I hope we can keep up with our current sexual frequency because if there’s one thing I need to stay satisfied, it’s regular sex. And we’ve been having it regularly.

5. Which have you said to your significant other in the last 48 hours (you can pick more that one):
a. I appreciate you
b. I love you
c. I am mad at you (or something similar)
d. You hurt my feelings.
e. Let’s fuck!
In the past 48 hours, I have told Jill that (b) I love you and (e) Let’s fuck. I may have told her (a) I appreciate you, but I’m not 100% sure of that. I should have, though; I do appreciate her, and I know I like hearing someone tell me they appreciate me, so I should probably tell her as soon as I see her. As for the other two, I have not told Jill that I am mad at her, or that she hurt my feelings, because I haven’t found myself feeling mad at her nor hurt by her in the past 48 hours. Hopefully I won’t have cause to say these things to her anytime soon.

6. Thinking of your current significant other or lover, are they?
a. Good enough until something better comes along.
b. Just what you need but some tweaking, and refining would make him/her a great fit.
c. The person of your dreams, a keeper.
I’ve got to say (c). Jill is the person of my dreams. She is a keeper. She may not be the only person I want to have sex with, or even love, for the rest of my life, but she is the most wonderful primary partner I could have imagined sharing that life with. I would have gone with (b) just so as not to sound lovestruck or overly-sweet (even though I am), because she is definitely just what I need. However, I found the part about tweaking and refining her in order to make her a great fit off-putting. I don’t want to change anything about my wife. We are already a great fit.

Bonus: Of all the people in your family, whose death would affect you most? Why?
Impossible question. I can’t narrow it down to just one person.

Jill’s Answers

1. Make three true “we” statements about you and your significant other.
We love each other. We love to excite each other. We are becoming even more compatible every day.

2. What is important for your lover to know?
That I am a loud and sometimes emotional lover.

3. What is important for you to know about your lover?
What turns him or her on sexually.

4. Tell us two things that can make your sex life hotter?
More sex in public. More sex with other people, especially other couples with whom we have a genuine rapport. [Editor’s Note: I never thought I’d see a TMI Tuesday post wherein Jill cited sex with other people as a positive if I did not in my own answer. The student has become the teacher! Or something.]

5. Which have you said to your significant other in the last 48 hours (you can pick more that one):
a. I appreciate you
b. I love you
c. I am mad at you (or something similar)
d. You hurt my feelings.
e. Let’s fuck!
Just the good ones, (a), (b), and (e). Not a lot of feelings get hurt in our house, except for our daughter’s. She even takes her bedtime personally.

6. Thinking of your current significant other or lover, are they?
a. Good enough until something better comes along.
b. Just what you need but some tweaking, and refining would make him/her a great fit.
c. The person of your dreams, a keeper.
Definitely (c). Every single day I acknowledge that I am the luckiest woman I know for having met and made a life with Jack. I also acknowledge that he is the luckiest man he knows for having met and made a life with me.

Bonus: Of all the people in your family, whose death would affect you most? Why?
I can’t choose one person. Losing either my husband or my daughter would be equally devastating.

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

 

Hike up your negligee for me, would you please?

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

 

If only she’d spread those thighs a bit…

See who else is being sinful at Molly’s Daily Kiss!