Passion.
Envying those that have it, jealous of the ones that inspire it, we are driven by life's passions. This is especially true in matters of the heart. While we verbally swear that we want love, perhaps even believe it to be true, our heart yearns to be utterly consumed by the ferocity of a fiery, unbridled passion that incinerates our soul, the ashes of rapture our release. Only with our heart thundering, our quivering thighs slick with our volcanic arousal, and our soul singed by passion, do we take flight, become truly free, and completely at peace.
The fact that passion wanes is a truism of lamentable despair. As the mantle of maturity slowly bends our spines, our dreams are supplanted in lieu of stability or comfort, and each decision trades something passionate for a paycheck, mortgage, and predictability. Still, we tightly grasp that one thing, the one person, that ignites our impassioned fury, that inspires us, above all others.
Tragically, the romance fades and the bonfires of passion wither down to barely-glowing, suffocating embers, routine in its stead. The nights of bliss and erotic adventure slowly trickle away. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, our sexy clothing gives way to comfortable attire, granny panties where no underwear or a sexy thong once were. High slits and low cuts devolve into sweats and fuzzy, full-length robes.
All the while, at first just a drop, then a trickle, the passion and adventure drain from our existence as the drudgery of mundane life fills the void where lust, thrills, and being completely consumed by our passions used to be. We neither note the phenomenon nor take responsibility for it, instead thinking and feeling that we haven’t changed; our partner is the one.
Like everyone else, I found myself, quite accidentally, in that trap. Over seven years, the passion of our romance dwindled into a comfortable existence. We had love, disposable income, and a nice home in the suburbs; we were happily wed, and my husband, Greg, and I were the picture-perfect example of the American dream. Dates nights became movie nights; wild nights on the town, the two of us pawing at each other, eagerly seeking any somewhat-private place to fuck, became, “do you feel like sex, my love.”
“Elle,” he’d tell me, “you were always a sexy girl, but you’ve grown into a beautiful woman.” He’d pull me into him, his hand around my waist, maybe caress my long, brown hair, and then gently peck my lips before grabbing his briefcase and disappearing for work until the evening.
Vainly attempting to convince myself that this was “normal,” I pretended to not long for his hands desperately kneading my ass in passionate lust, his lips smashing against mine in urgency as his tongue invaded my wanton mouth, and making him late for work because he couldn’t resist the burning fires of passion, so desperately needing to shove his hard, throbbing cock inside my treasure-hole. I missed the feeling of his cum oozing out of my snatch the entire day. Instead, “I love you, honey,” was always my reply, and I’d tidy up our house, get everything ready for dinner that evening, then retreat into my home office and get to work.
My life’s passion had been writing poetry and painting. The lofty goal of becoming an artist gave way to designing greeting cards. At best, it was a shadowy phantom of my true passions, a specter of what could have been had I pursued my true lust with zeal.
Passion, I thought to myself. I need to rekindle our passion. If only he’d pay attention to me and my desires, instead of work politics and whether our lawn is the correct shade of green. If only Greg would treat me how he used to. Despite my best efforts, his lusty passion for me had waned, and I was too self-absorbed to realize that mine had as well.
Braless breasts beneath my comfy, raglan-sleeved top no longer enticed him. A thong over my supple, round ass, finely conditioned through exercise and Yoga, merited an appreciative comment but no hard cock slamming into my cunt as he forcefully bent me over the couch. Foreplay became undressing in the dark, beneath the covers, and the act of sex, while satisfying, followed exactly the same script. Fervently fucking had devolved into routine sex.
Still, I tried to visually entice, never once comprehending that my lack of passion had either triggered or enhanced Greg’s. It was by accident, the serendipity of folly, that our passion for each other, that one thing we both thought we’d latched onto but let slip away, was reignited. While unplanned, all the trappings of normalcy evaporated, and that all-consuming passion, all the bliss, and rapture of being desired welled up in Greg’s core and filled him with a primal urge so intense that he attacked me, ravaging my body.
Over the years, as our love life faded into predictable mediocrity, I resigned myself to having a sex life that was satisfactory, but not fulfilling. With ten to twelve hours to myself every day, including most Saturdays, my fantasies, fingers, and phallic-shaped objects served as my surrogate lovers. Many were the times that my paintings of card covers took on a “romantic” cast. Those became my private paintings, never used or shown. Sometimes, I’d paint lewd representations, fingering myself while I fantasized about wild, unruly sex. Thick, large paintbrush handles, various artistic implements, and even my handy stapler were all used at various times, the sensations of them sliding between my dripping cunt lips making me moan as I fingered my swollen clit.
It was one such day, frustration over the wording of a card and extreme horniness had made me more than a bit stressed. Deciding to paint, I sought refuge in my art. Instead of another saccharine card cover, my whimsical lust painted demonic figures coupling in hellish fornication. Their horns were thrusting into crude places, talons raking the other’s flesh, just as I wished my husband would do to me. A curling tail spiraled into the buxom demoness’ ass. In my excitement, I had forgotten to change into my painting shirt, only remembering that I should have when I spilled paint all over my clothes.
Consumed by the primal, sexual urge to create, I stripped off my jeans, top, and bra, leaving my thong, and shrugged into the button-down, threadbare, ripped shirt I used as a smock to protect my clothing from paint stains. The top three buttons had forsaken the garment long ago, and it was ripped in places, worn down to a crosshatching of naked thread in others. It left half of my body exposed, but the old, white, oxford-style shirt was my artistic uniform.
Nipples hard, my paint-stained, 36C breasts half-exposed in the raggedy shirt, my mind reeled at the demonic figures coming to life on my canvas, fucking each other as the fires of passion, that long-forgotten sweetness of life, roared around them. My glasses steamed as the heat of my carnal thoughts escaped my flesh, but, still, I kept painting.
With my palette clenched in my grinding teeth, my painting rag wedged between my scorching, nude thighs, and a brush in each hand, the fury of my art, driven by a lust that I had all but forgotten, moved my soul. It was then that I heard the front door, slamming at the other end of the house.
The realization that I hadn’t prepared dinner, as was our ritualistic habit, startled me. Without thinking, I dropped my brushes, the palette tumbling to the floor, and ran out to apologize to my handsome, raven-haired husband about the lack of food. The fact that I was barefoot, covered in paint, my boobs bouncing freely and threatening to expose themselves was not a concern. Greg might notice my aroused nipples and make a joke, perhaps take the telltale wetness on my uncovered, white thong as the promise of some more mundane sex this evening.
