Just about to pack up for the day. Christian called wanting to meet, but I put him off. I’m not in the mood to listen to yet another blow-by-blow account of his raging love-life. He seems to have settled down with this one though. He’s nice, very macho, which might sound to some, to be the opposite of a homosexual characteristic – but being macho is not entirely the province of the heterosexual male.
….after Lunch with Ingrid 3….
After the waiter had gone Ingrid carried on as if there had been no interruption.
“He came to me every evening after that – eight wonderful nights. We made love a half-dozen times every night. In between I wound myself around him, holding him, and holding on to the feeling of being totally sated. I’d often whisper that I loved him. He never said it back, but I didn’t care, I felt he was mine and that soon he’d feel the same way.
I was floating along on a cloud. I was in love.
I did everything he asked. I sucked his cock, letting him drive it into my throat, swallowing his semen, because that was what he said a woman does for her man.
He was a magnificent lover. I didn’t know that I was just another fresh cunt for him to practice on; one in a long line of stupid, naive, love-sick bitches that men like him prey upon.
And I was too blind with love, to see the pitying glances the other girls were giving me. He was the one, I told myself; the only man who would ever enter me; I was already on honeymoon.
I looked for him when we went to checking out of the hotel on the eighth morning. It was one of the other girls who came over and whispered in my ear. “He left on an earlier flight,” she said. “Gone home to see his wife and kids for a few days.”
I still recall the half triumphant smile at the stupefied look on my face. “You didn’t know he was married, did you?” she said.
I shook my head. There were already tears in my eyes.
Turning I headed for the nearest toilet, locked myself in and gave in to wet self pity. I didn’t hear when they came looking for me. I didn’t want to hear. So they left me, letting me wallow in the puddle of my own tears.
For a time I told myself I hated him for making me a whore. I started to hate myself too. I started to drink. Then there was the weed; always a plentiful supply, if you knew who to ask. It helped me sleep; suppressed my appetite; carried me along on a happy euphoria.
At first I got plenty of sympathy from the other girls. They’d known what would happen; they’d seen it all before – some of them had had the same kind of experience.
A couple of weeks later, in a different city, he was back, but by then I knew the score. It was a game and I’d lost the first one; but I was starting to learn the twisted rules.
He came at me with sweet words and regrets. The usual bull-shit; “My wife doesn’t make me feel the way you do – I am only with her because of the children – We haven’t really made love for over a year – If only I’d met you first – I’ve never met anybody like you – Please forgive me, darling.” and all the other tried and tested litany of lies and sugar.
Did I let him fuck me again? Yes I did. I opened my legs and my mouth and took his cock inside me again. I was damaged and still bleeding, but he was my first and a woman always remembers her first, even if he was a fucking-lying-scheming-two-timing-married-bastard-with-children.
We were lovers for four and half months before I missed my period. I’d only let him raw-dog me that one time; he’d pulled out before he ejaculated…… or so we thought.
I went to a clinic in London and had the fucking thing sucked out of me.
Afterward I cried for a week; then dried my eyes and went home for another week. After that I caught a flight to Milan.
A month later I heard he’d taken up with a new girl.