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Copyright; Elizabeth Loring, August 18, 2006. All Rights Reserved. (No part of this story may be reproduced for any reason without explicit written permission from the author. Do not remove this copyright statement.)
SCOUTING THE ENEMY
The key to success is to know as much as possible about your opponent. After twenty years of marriage, I knew quite a bit. But what I didn’t know was exactly how my husband was feeling at that particular moment. It was three days since he’d gotten the shock of his life, that his daughter most probably wasn’t a virgin; that she’d most likely been deflowered in the hours immediately preceding his entry into her apartment.
The human mind is a deceitful body organ. It alters what the human senses present and, many times, ignores what those senses tell us. It fashions all it gathers into what it decides we can live with. It justifies our actions and reactions, it tells us we are moral and upstanding while the rest of the world isn’t, it condemns others and people like them while praising and exalting us, it blinds us from all we don’t want to see, and keeps us ignorant to thoughts and ideas in conflict with what it decides is important to us.
Though, to my husband, his daughter’s innocence was just lost, I knew better. In her junior year of high school I started her on the pill; not wanting her to become like her mother, a woman with child in need of both a father and a husband; willing to settle on paternity with any one of the seven men who could claim responsibility; deciding on abortion if neither marriage or child support materialized.
Virginity, though highly admirable, is nearly impossible to maintain in the modern world. Puberty and sex drives begin for a woman at ages 12 to 14. State laws dictate that she not be touched until 16. She’s not an adult until 18. And she won’t be out of college until she’s 22. My daughter was a good-looking girl with a very good figure. She was going to be pushed by men, and pushed hard and frequently. A decade of absolute, 100% unfailing control is what it would take for her to remain chaste. And like the common balloon, all it would take is a single prick. I didn’t view my daughter’s retaining the state of virginity until her wedding day as a likely probability. A drink, a joint, affection given with a momentary lack of discipline; any one of those things could escort kartal cause her re-categorization. Once male hands outlined her breasts and fingers tugged at her nipples, her desire to reproduce would be awakened. Soon would follow the first manual stirring of her juices. From there, it would only be a matter of time. That time came for her in the last year of high school; just my husband didn’t know it because his brain wouldn’t allow him to look at the situation without a jaundiced eye.
Currently ignored by my spouse were the other signs of carnal familiarity. His observations failed to notice the placement of our daughter’s hands. To some degree I attributed that to his believing our child completely chaste. Defense mechanisms called for him to notice what was being done to his daughter, not what she was doing to another.
My daughter’s use of available cylindrical objects as phallic substitutes did somewhat surprise me. Her development had progressed farther than I’d thought; now well beyond the “novice stage” in the art of making love. The two males not seen could be forgiven as not being overlooked since they were never within his view or earshot. However, by ignoring the implications of bottles my husband thoroughly investigated, that fact told me my spouse’s mind was up to “tricks.”
What virgin engages in vaginal and anal sex in the same night? How many virgins are introduced to toys as soon as, or soon after, they surrender? What man allows a beer bottle to deflower a woman and add one to its count, defeating the man? Why were they in such close proximity and within easy reach? Were they used together, in conjunction with male flesh, or as olisbos individually; or all three? There was oil on one bottleneck, yet no oil bottle found. My husband hadn’t checked the wastebaskets. Had the bottle been emptied over a period of time? I strongly suspected our daughter had succumbed to the temptations unyielding hardness can bring. I purred quietly as I recalled some of my memories of long ago, but with a different brand of beer.
I readily saw that I was willing to face what my husband couldn’t. This could be a major pitfall. I’d need to be careful not to have him recollect the men and events of my past…those that he knew about; there were others that I hadn’t discussed. Mentally I made a note to keep all references to our daughter maltepe escort out of our conversations within a few hours of going to bed.
The time approached for his physical examination.
NIGHT ONE – THE PHYSICAL EXAMINATION
Knowing the adversary requires knowing him mentally and physically. I felt I was adequately prepared for my husband’s mental anguish and attitudes. Bedtime is the best time to read a spouse’s physical responses.
“What are you doing?” my husband asked as I slipped off my nightgown, allowing the flimsy full-length silk to pool at my feet, reaching to a lamp on the nightstand, turning out the light.
“Coming to bed.” I whispered, crawling underneath the comforter after stepping out of the small mound of expensive material.
“Naked?” he said, taking a deep breath and exhaling heavily.
“Huh-huh.” I responded sexily as I came close.
“I’m not in the mood!” he told me in an agitated voice.
“Neither am I.” I got a sideways glance when I told him that. “I just want to be close to you.” I spoke calmly; then rested my head on my husband’s chest and shoulder, my open hand on his heart, my leg bending and coming to rest across his thigh.
My husband’s demeanor told me that he was irritated. My arm and leg resting on his body felt tenseness in his muscles. Additionally, the short, terse questions related that he wasn’t in the mood to be soothed. Men can be like that sometimes, happiest when angry. I elected not to bother him until my hand picked up an indication that his heart had slowed. It wasn’t beating fast. Its beat just wasn’t as soft as when one is calm. Against his arm my breast snuggled tighter. More of my weight I leaned onto him. Deeper into his shoulder I rested my head.
Sleep soon came upon both of us; mine light, his heavy. He started to snore. With that noise I moved slowly away and rested my head on a pillow.
“Add one day. Complication.” I mumbled as I drifted away.
“Sleep well?” I asked at him at the breakfast table.
My husband shrugged his shoulders and gave a grumpy frown.
It went as expected. I knew not much would be accomplished that first night. Off the kitchen wall I took the calendar after he left. I looked at it as I sipped coffee. Three times I counted, and three times I came up with pendik escort bayan the same number, 17. That was the number of days until my period was scheduled to begin. I was always willing. It was my husband that wasn’t.
More nights like last night would cause at least one sex act to be eliminated from my repertoire. Could coitus be eliminated and I still achieve my goal? Normally yes. But the anal sex and the following blowjob would definitely remind him of my past. With our daughter on his mind, there was a strong possibility of underlying anger. Additionally, if I did those things, I’d have trouble creating his “need.” I ran the risk of sating him before conditions were right to ask for the reins of my daughter’s discipline. I began considering the advantages and consequences of a three-week delay.
After 21 days, ire would change to disappointment. It was preferable to have my spouse a bit on edge. Anger is easier to convert into blazing passion; the intensity is there. Disappointment is like depression. One becomes lethargic. Even if our sex was fabulous; to my husband it would be nearly great. A delay would mean an additional three-weeks our daughter would be grounded. A smile came to my face; then a bit of a laugh. I’d have to buy her a six-pack of longnecks…or maybe a case. I wasn’t sure which. It wouldn’t be a good idea to have bottles of beer around the house anytime soon.
If I started my attack upon the ending of my bleeding, I could easily shorten the time expected to create need to a single week. Additionally, it wouldn’t be as obvious that I was up to something. It was normal for me to pressure my husband after having my period. I was always horny as hell; needing it more than him…vaginally anyway. That, to me, was a disadvantage. I’d be unable to build our lovemaking to a crescendo. I’d win the battles but lose the war. My husband wouldn’t give in. Memories of me “needing fucked” would be too fresh. Also, I might just push him too hard. It depended on just how horny I’d be when, what a friend of mine calls, “Blood Week” ended. I wouldn’t know the strength of my sex drive until I was riding a cock for the first time afterwards. My neediness varies; historically it can be satisfied in as little as 3-days or take as many as 7, with all kinds of variations; no predictable direction, no predictable number sequence. It would all depend on my hormone levels. Like any other woman, I had no control over their amounts or any idea at where in the hell their level would be at a given time.
I elected to stay the course and hoped things would soon become clearer.
Chapter 3 to follow…
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