I'm a 22-year-old woman, college educated and intelligent. I'm reasonably attractive, outgoing, and well regarded. I've known my husband since I was in high school and he is ten years older than I am, but that hasn't mattered to me in the least. Nor to him, I would hope. He's an academic and well respected in his field. We both come from good middle-upper class families and we were never abused as children, or suffered physical or emotional trauma. We're very normal people. We've been married since June and had decided to wait until I've settled into my career before starting a family, but plans change.
We've always enjoyed a healthy sexual relationship, but it is what you would term 'vanilla' I believe. A few times when we dated my husband and I would try very mild bondage games, being tied to the bed with silk scarves or being spanked rather gently, but for the most part we enjoyed oral foreplay and straight intercourse. It wasn't great every time, but I thought it wasn't bad. Once we were married though, something changed.
These changes began with my husband telling me not to move so much while we were making love. This was soon after our wedding; in fact it was just about the last night or maybe second to last night of our honeymoon. I'm very active in bed. I like to move and talk and let him know when I like something or, much more rarely, when I don't. He never complained about it before and it surprised me a little. You have to picture it I suppose, me on top of my husband, bouncing around rather enjoyably, and then his strong fingers digging into my hips.
"Shhh ... Don't move so much, okay?" he whispered, annoyed like I was ruining a good movie or something. I didn't say anything, but it did bother me if only because I didn't understand it.
Perhaps a week later we were making love again and he'd positioned himself so that I was on my back and he was next to me on his left side. His right leg was between mine while his left leg was underneath us, so that we were scissored with his penis inside me. It was very comfortable and I felt very good, but when I began moving, just rocking my hips a little and moaning, he again asked me to stop.
"What?" I asked a little breathlessly.
He put his hand on my stomach, pushing down slightly, not very hard at all. "Please, just ... Just don't move, okay?"
"Ummm ... okay," I said, but I was confused again. What was I supposed to do if I wasn't moving? My body goes all by itself and even though I tried, my hips were still rocking and my thighs wanted to press together.
My husband was very still, just sliding his penis in and out of me and all I could hear was his breathing. He had his eyes closed and for some reason this angered me a little. But I didn't say anything and whatever I felt that was good physically was lost. I just wasn't into it anymore. So that made it much easier to lie there and be quiet like he'd asked.
He ejaculated a few minutes later, pulling me hard onto him as he emptied himself into me. When he came it was one of the best orgasms he'd had in a long time, he was actually groaning and really driving into my sex that time. Usually he stops moving and pulls out rather quickly, but not this time. He kept thrusting as though he hadn't cum at all and despite my resentment it did start arousing me again. As soon as I started moving though, that was it, he stopped and finally pulled out, leaving me feeling very neglected.
I rolled over and pretended I was asleep when he tried to talk to me.
A few days later I'd cooled down enough so that I could actually bear to bring the subject up. We were in bed and I knew he was horny because he was rubbing my thigh as I lay with my back to him. He'd slide his hand down to where my panties covered my sex and ass and almost but not quite touch me there.
"Are you going to tell me to shut up again?" I asked him without turning over.
"I never told you to shut up," he replied defensively, taking his hand off my leg with a sigh.
"What did you say then?"
"I just asked if you could not move so much, if you could be a little more quiet, that's all."
"And why is that?" I turned around finally, looking at him in the dim light that came from our bathroom. "You just want me to lie there, like ... I'm asleep or something?"
I sounded angry because I was; unfortunately this usually gets him a little mad also. "Or something, yeah," he sat up and stared down at me. "I just ... I wish you'd try it once. It's not like I'm asking to fuck you in the ass or something."
"Oh yeah, right. So it's either I 'shut up and lie still' or I get buttfucked?" I sat up too. "Fuck you!"
"I didn't say that!"
"But that's what you meant," I shook my head. "Okay fine, I'll be quiet. In fact, I'll be so quiet that you won't even know I'm here." I grabbed my pillow and left, going to the spare bedroom to sleep on the daybed. "Happy?" I slammed the door behind me.
He brought me flowers the next afternoon, but it was another three days before we traded apologies. I'd thought about it and maybe I was just misunderstanding what he wanted. We went out to a nice dinner and everything seemed to be getting back to normal. We had sex the usual way, real dirty hard make-up sex, and it was great. I made a lot of noise and everything.
For three weeks everything was peaches and cream. I'd pretty much forgotten our argument and when I remembered it, I felt a little embarrassed because it really had been nothing worth fighting over. We had to go to a funeral though, for one of my husband's students. She was from the area and had died in a boating accident on the sound. We probably didn't have to go, in fact I would have preferred not to, but my husband felt that he should. I'd only been to one funeral previously, for my grandmother when I was very young.
The student in question was a girl of 20 years and I didn't know her at all except for what my husband had told me. She was pretty and healthy and just entering the prime of life, and now it had been stolen. That hardly seemed fair, but my reflections aren't really important here. It's enough to say that I was saddened and sympathetic with the family. I thought about my own family and tried to imagine what it will be like when someone like my father dies, because it will happen someday. That thought filled me more than any other; the sheer certainty of it was like a great weight around my neck.
After the funeral, I was ready to leave as I'd been somewhat uncomfortable with both my thoughts and my surroundings. The cemetery was nice enough, like a park with well manicured grounds and a great many large and ancient trees, and you could almost imagine having a picnic there until the countless headstones and monuments forced themselves into focus. Then you realized that hundreds, even thousands of people were interred just a few feet down. It was not a very comfortable sensation. I didn't like it and I wanted to go. But my husband would not leave, he started walking away from the car and I had to hurry to catch up.
"What's wrong? I want to go ... Let's go," I said, but he shook his head.
"Let's walk a little, okay?" He seemed alright, not depressed or anything and I was trying to understand.
"Okay, a little," I reluctantly agreed.
So he took my hand and we walked down a road that soon changed from asphalt to cobblestone towards the oldest part of the big cemetery. It was a very nice day in late August. Still warm, but not oppressive the way it had been recently, and birds sang and squirrels ran from tree to tree. There was nobody else in sight and it actually became quite enjoyable, just holding my husband's hand and walking like that.
We started looking at the gravestones as we walked, noting the dates as they regressed through time, past the turn of the last century. We smiled at some of the names and shook our heads at the children. My earlier discomfort had faded, perhaps because we were so far removed now from the immediacy of that girl my husband had known. Far from her gleaming dark coffin and the smell of uprooted earth, the sounds of her family quietly weeping. These were people long since gone, forgotten by their children's grandchildren, and tended by anonymous men who were paid to care.
We stopped by a beautiful moss covered angel, peering towards heaven with palms pressed to her breast. The marker beneath it was old and chipped.
Claire Marie Hessel
October 7 1872 – December 19 1891
Beloved Wife and Daughter
"Claire Marie," I said. "That's a pretty name."
"Yeah," my husband's hand squeezed mine. "Let's sit down."
We sat next to the angel, in the shade on that cool lawn. "She was just nineteen," I sighed and traced the lettering, getting the tip of my finger smudged dark with dust.
"Barely even that old."
"What do you think she looked like?"
"She was pretty, with auburn hair like yours," he smiled at me and touched my hair. "But Claire's hair was longer, and curled just a little as it lay across her shoulders. She had green eyes that were bright and quick and never still, as though she were afraid that she might miss something."
"She knew her time was short," I whispered.
My husband looked into my soft brown eyes. "Her skin was pale, like milk, and her breasts small with rosy nipples that made her flush with embarrassment the first time her husband-to-be had seen them." Then he was kissing me. "But on her wedding night she felt no shame, for she loved him passionately and offered herself without regret to his sweet gaze."
.... There is more of this story ...