Love, Death & Passion

By Veronique


Joshua was absolutely everything to me, like words are to writers or dark is to night. Even now, he is the gentle fog that blankets my sleep, wrapping me in warm dreams to guard me from the cruelty of his nightmarish death. For years we had the kind of love that poets have pined for, filmmakers have enviously tried to portray, and lovers of less hearty constitution have died for. At least that's what I had believed. Had I known that we were to join the ranks of so many other ill-fated lovers, I might not have thought so boldly. Joshua was taken from me brutally and publicly, and while you may have many questions about him and his demise, this account is not about him, but rather the man who took his place.

I swore my love to Joshua alone, my husband and lover, my deepest and truest friend. After his death I confined myself to bitter nights alone, racked with grief and loneliness, my crushing bereavement punctuated by the intense passion that filled me and longed hopelessly for his touch. Each night for months after Joshua's death I awoke bathed in sweat, the sheets of our half-empty bed clinging to my skin while waves of need and desire pulsed through my tortured body, torn between the necessity of fulfillment and the bonds of a loving widow. So many times, as I selected avocados at the market or bought stamps at the post office, I would feel the admiring eyes of a man sweep over my body and allow myself, only for a moment, to imagine letting his fingers follow his eyes, to bring him home and let him satisfy me, while in my mind I fool myself into believing it was Joshua's hand pumping into me, Joshua's lips teasing mine and Joshua's tongue swirling like a velvet ribbon over my body.

Those thoughts never go beyond that, and most often I walk away from the avocados without so much as a backward glance to then man I mentally accosted. The daytime hours are like that. The desire builds like the tide, but ebbs away. It's the nights that plague me. The nights were filled with ecstasy with Joshua. In five years it seemed as if the honeymoon never ended. The darkness brought with it an animal lustiness, a carnal hunger that overtook us both and devoured us before the sun began to rise. Now, with Joshua gone, I'm alone with the beast every night, and when it comes for me I cannot be sated. Sometimes I try, thrusting my fingers into myself and rubbing furiously, begging for release from whatever keeps me from it, but I can never bring myself over the edge. The raging orgasms that washed through me repeatedly every night now eluded me completely, but cruelly left me with the insatiable need.

Some nights it felt best to suffer, to lie in my sweat and flowing juices until I fell into a fitful and feverish sleep, arms and legs spread wide inviting any kind of penetration, real or imaginary. In my dreams Joshua would take me, his massive member impaling me as he thrust in and out ferociously, the muscles in his back tense and hard, like a washboard grating back and forth under my fingers. He would pummel me, the way I so desperately needed him to, whispering into my ear how much he loved me and would never leave me again, that he was sorry he'd been away for so long. He would cum into me so deeply and with such force I felt I hand to fight to keep him inside. His hands would work across my body, kneading my flesh and eliciting new sensations, bringing me to the brink again and again before letting the gales of pleasure drown me once more.

Then I would awake, with the bitter realization that the heat of his touch was only conjured by my desperate dreams, and nothing, even the glorious release he'd granted me, was real. And so I remained, until Oliver came.

Oliver and I had been peripheral friends, meeting on the outskirts of groups of mutual acquaintances over the course of a decade. Oliver was the exact opposite of Joshua, who was tall, robust, dark and rugged. Every footstep demonstrated power, every gesture punctuated with confidence and poise. Oliver was barely taller than I, quiet, introspective, with a physical demeanor that allowed him to seem to disappear into corners if he wished. Hardly an imposing figure, he was generally inconspicuous and often overlooked. A boyish shyness and a penchant for finding solitude at large gatherings happened to be the reasons we stumbled upon each other.

Last New Year's Eve, just over two years after Joshua's murder, I was feeling particularly low at my best friend's annual fiesta. Despite the champagne and the levity, the pain was still sharp, as it always was on holidays that were supposed to bring loved ones together. I was feeling stifled by the crowd and boisterous celebration, and sought a place to collect myself and have a little breathing room. I slipped delicately out the back door, pleased with myself for having made such a smooth getaway, until my hip made contact with another person who, for lack of a better alternative, had to wrap his arms around me to keep his balance, one hand unwittingly clutching my breast. It had been so long since I had been touched intimately, so for just an instant I indulged myself and enjoyed the feeling, and I could tell by the swelling in the pants behind me that the sensation wasn't lost on him either. Maybe it was the champagne bringing out the boldness in me, but for some reason, there in the shadows on the back porch, standing between the garden tools and the recycling bin, I let his hand remain, and he did not move it. I stared at it for what seemed an interminable time before I turned my head slowly, finding myself eye-to-eye with the diminutive Oliver.

Something in his eyes paralyzed me, but in a delicious way, like a chocolate shell over ice cream. They sparkled, almost tearfully, startlingly green in the glow of the Christmas lights above the door. Suddenly he seemed taller, deeper, more substantial to me then he ever had before. I turned around to face him, twisting in his arms so that I could see him better. I took a step back but made no effort to remove myself from his grasp, and he just gazed at me wordlessly. I reached up and touched his cheek and there was a tear there, I hadn't only imagined it. Suddenly my lips were pressed against his, my arms around his neck and his hands in my hair. We were a frenzied mess of lips and tongues and hands for a minute, before he stopped. "Let's go," he said with unexpected authority, and I nodded and followed as he led me by the hand to his car, making sure I was seated and closing the door for me before moving to the driver's side.

We drove in silence for what seemed like hours, but was really only a few minutes. My heart was ricocheting around my chest, my blood pumping through my head like thunder as I tried to clear my head and make some sense of the situation, then tried to decide if I wanted to make sense of it. I stole a glance to my left and suddenly found myself overwhelmingly attracted to Oliver, with his quiet and mysterious quality, the tousled mop of black hair and dreamer's expression that all musicians seem to have. I wondered to myself why we had only known each other as "a friend of a friend of a friend" after all of these years, but then decided it didn't matter, all that mattered was now.

Oliver pulled up in front of an upscale apartment building, where a valet took his car and he took me to the elevator. I allowed myself to be led, wanting more than anything to be possessed, even dominated by him. My attraction and my desire seemed to grow exponentially as we approached his loft, which on any other day would have appealed immensely to my designer's senses, but tonight I saw nothing but Oliver and the glow in his eyes. He was still holding my hand as he closed and locked the door, and when he turned back to me he smiled, looking slightly sheepish.

"Christi," he said, barely above a whisper, his thumb rolling gently over my fingers while he studied the toes of his Doc Martens. "I know what you want to do, and believe me, I want to do it too, but not if it means that you're going to crawl away in the morning mumbling something about having to water your plants, and then we avoid each other at all the parties from now on."

Oliver bit his lip pensively, and I just stared at him, wondering where his newfound confidence had gone. It didn't deter me though. Tears threatened to spill as my heart swelled, and at that moment I could swear that I loved him. He was exactly what I needed right then. I pulled him close and spoke softly in his ear. "I promise, Oliver, that I will not be crawling away."

His tentative smile was like a green light, and all bets were off at that point, along with our clothes. My slip-dress was off much faster than it was put on, and after some brief fumbling with Oliver's clunky belt-buckle, his jeans hit the floor as well. A few buttons and hooks later, there was nothing between us but a thin little pair of tiny cotton panties, and that was when Oliver made his first move. We were still standing in his entryway, with his coat rack and telephone as witness to our clumsy strip act. He took my hands and led me to the bedroom, giving me the chance to admire his naked form. He was a very well put-together man, which he unfortunately liked to hide beneath baggy tees and jeans. He was lean but toned, and surprisingly well-endowed - extremely, in fact, even more than Joshua, who's size had always been more than satisfactory. Standing erect, his penis could have easily been eleven inches.

Oliver turned me so that I had my back to the bed, and keeping his eyes locked on mine, he knelt down in front of me and slid a nervous finger under the waistband of my panties, sliding them over my hips and down to the floor. He cocked his head to the side and said "It's so cliché to say that you're so beautiful, but you really are." Still kneeling before me, his kissed my abdomen, then scattered tender little kisses around my upper thighs before resting his hands on my hips and directing me to sit on the bed and lie back. With gentle prodding he spread my legs before him and kissed his way in from my knees before softly tonguing my long-neglected clit. At the first moist touch of his tongue on my begging flesh, a tremor electrified my body and I spread my legs wider, begging for his ministrations. His technique was hesitant enough to allude that he hadn't done it before, but intuitive enough that he gave me just what I needed. He would swirl and stroke and suck, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but always right. I could feel it coming mere moments after he started, my first orgasm in more than two years, gathering steam as it sent shuddering waves of pleasure over me, and I cried in ecstasy, tears rolling down onto the bedspread as my hands found their way to the unruly yet soft hair on Oliver's head, gently but insistently pleading with him not to stop. He took his cue and continued, doubling his efforts, his long, hot tongue flicking in and out and over and under and around and around until I came again, twice as hard as before, convulsing and sweating before him, heated cries of passion locked in my throat. Finally I managed a few gasping breaths and a guttural moan, and though I longed to have him take me then and there and possess me fully, I had been temporarily quenched long enough to repay my debt of gratitude.

I forced myself to sit up, the spasms in my thighs having not yet subsided, and I looked lustfully into Oliver's eyes as he raised his head with a quizzical expression, evidently wondering if he had done something wrong. Oh, if he knew how right he had been! Suddenly I was wild, and I almost literally through myself on him with abandon, kissing him ravenously and wrapping my legs around his waist. He kissed me back forcefully, his blessed tongue doing wonders inside my mouth, and I really had to force myself to pry away from him before he got to the final destination. It wasn't time for that yet. It was time for him to get a little TLC.

"Lay down," I instructed with a smile, and he raised an eyebrow, but obliged. Once he was on his back, stretched out long and lean on the oriental rug, I knelt at his feet and gazed appreciatively at the length of his body, not to mention his thoroughly engorged member, which stood thick and tall, like a small tree trunk between his legs. I pushed his legs apart to give myself some room to work, and he drew in his breath sharply as if he suddenly realized what was coming, and again I had the feeling that this was new to him. I started slowly, not taking the head straight away, but licking in tiny circles around his balls and the base of his shaft. His hips began bucking involuntarily beneath me, and I smiled to myself as I drew my tongue up the length of his penis.

I had really wanted to make this slow torture, but it was torturing me too much, so I sped things up a little and took the head into my mouth, running my tongue over it and giving it the tootsie-pop treatment (minus the biting), which nearly drove him out of his skin. I could feel his veins bulging in my mouth, the heat emanating from his concrete penis as his pre-cum mixed with my saliva and was swirled around the head again with my tongue, which lingered here and there, making little circular patterns before dragging around again. I released him suddenly, licking all along the shaft, then all at once I took as much of him into my mouth as I could, which still left enough for me to get both hands around, and I sucked and licked his head and rubbed his shaft until his hips began to buck uncontrollably and he came violently into my throat. I fought to hold on, trying to remember the techniques I hadn't used in over two years while managing this length I wasn't accustomed to, but somehow I accomplished it as he pumped into my mouth, thrusting and thrashing as he gasped for air.

At last he appeared to be finished, and I drew him of my mouth, eliciting another deep moan, but he was hardly flaccid. By the time I sat up he seemed to be almost ready for another go, which thrilled me because I didn't think I could go much longer without him buried deep inside me. He still lay back on the rug, sucking in air and trying to regain some control, when he grabbed me and pulled my face down to his, kissing me hard. "You're amazing, Chris," he breathed, and then kissed me again, softer this time as slipped his arms around my neck, hands entangled in my hair. Then he looked at me and pushed my hair out of my face. "You really are amazing," he whispered, barely audibly.

Somehow we made it to the bed. After lying together for a moment to recover, with limbs entangled, it became quite evident that Oliver was ready for more. It also became quite clear that he was uncertain of how to proceed. He ran a hand over my cheek and looked into my eyes for a long time, as if he was searching for something, and after a long while he seemed to have found it, because he smiled and kissed me. This kiss was different from any kiss up to that point. It was deeper, heavier, thick with intent. Oliver was clearly saying something with that kiss. Something he would put into words only moments later.

The kiss grew, as did his erection, as Oliver shifted himself on top of me, one hand still on my face and the other behind my back. I was becoming rather lightheaded, lost in the daze of what was happening, actually struggling to believe that it wasn't really all another dream. Oliver was in position now; I had spread my legs to accommodate him, and I could feel his member against my thigh. My body was begging for it, I was wet and ready and starving. Oliver gradually let the kiss fade, and then keeping his eyes fixed on mine, he drew back, positioning his penis against me. I felt the head press into the fleshy wetness there, and Oliver closed his eyes and held his breath in anticipation. He pushed slowly, and with a quiet grunt, the head of his penis was inside me. I gasped, elated, while Oliver began breathing shallowly and slowly pushing in further. He pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled, slowly, very slowly, until at last he was in to the hilt, and I was stretched to the limit. I will remember that moment forever - the moment when he filled me for the first time, when we were first truly joined - as the moment that changed everything.

I spread my legs wider for him, and looked into his eyes. He never looked away as he began to thrust, slowly at first, establishing a steady rhythm as I rocked beneath him. I concentrated on the intense sensation of his huge penis coursing in and out, pressing against me on all sides, his body slamming into me, gathering force as the energy built between us. My hands were clutching his back, as if I might fly away if I let go, and tears built in the corners of my eyes. Oliver's eyes were wet too, I almost thought he was crying, but he never closed his eyes and never looked away.

I could feel it long before it arrived, gathering like a thunderstorm, rolling and boiling inside me, the heat of my orgasm churning up from my loins where Oliver was pumping so feverishly. It spread through my thighs, down my legs, up through my chest and down my arms, and in my head. Before long it felt like it was pressing against the skin of my toes and fingertips, threatening to split the skin and shoot out in all directions. I felt like a time bomb. One look into Oliver's eyes told me he was very near the same point, and his wild cry as his orgasm overtook him sent the tears flowing silently from my eyes, and I felt him pouring hotly and powerfully into me, the spray hitting me in just the right spot and sending the heat in me into an explosive frenzy as I bucked and gyrated along with Oliver.

This part of the story is as Oliver tells it, because I was barely conscious for this part. He had finished his powerful orgasm long before mine had mellowed, and in his afterglow he just held me and watched me. I kept cumming in waves, my back arched up against him, my breasts thrust up under him, and he said I had the "most magnificent satisfied blush," and he had never thought I was more beautiful. It must have been at least somewhat true, because as I came down and slipped into a delicious afterglow of my own, Oliver was kissing my neck softly, and then I felt his lips on my ear, where he planted a tiny, gentle kiss before he whispered "I love you, Chris. You don't have to love me, but I love you."

I let out my breath slowly, and kissed him much harder than I thought I had strength left to do, and holding him as tightly as I could manage, as said "I love you too." There was more that could have been said, but it could wait. That was all he needed right then. Enough that he knew how I felt. Enough that he knew I wouldn't be sneaking out at first light, stuffing my bra in my purse as I zip my dress to run home and water the plants I don't have. Enough that he knew that saving his virginity for the right woman had paid off (he had, and I was), and enough that he knew what he had come to mean to me in the course of that night.

Today, incidentally, in case you're curious, we are coming up on our first wedding anniversary, expecting our first child, and having our own private New Year's Eve parties


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