An Introduction & Brief History

An Introduction & Brief History

Introduction.

Here we are, the quintessential wanton couple, just so you can see who you’re reading about. He, with glass in hand, as usual.

My name is Monique. This year I turned fifty-six. For the last three years I have been involved in an on-off relationship with a man who has either completely perverted or liberated me, sexually, depending on how you want to see it. I, myself, am not sure which it is.

This is not meant to be a tale of pornography, but by the very nature of my story, at times, it is unavoidable. I refuse to substitute the f-word by calling it making love, when love has nothing to do with the interaction between two human beings. It would detract from the nuance of the situation and what I am attempting to convey. If vulgarity does not appeal to you, read no further. At times my life has been and, still is, particularly vulgar.

I’d grown up in a mining community and steeped in Calvinistic-Afrikanerdom. Sex was something that was never discussed and if you indulged in it, you never acknowledged it. Later in life, I carried the same hypocritical values along with me. As you will see later on, I was by no means sexually inhibited, physically that is, but mentally I always hid behind the Calvinistic-Afrikaner façade of hypocrisy, playing the prim and proper little lady, in public while being as promiscuous as the next, in private. How farcical!

This is the story of my psychological transformation under his skilful, permissive tutelage. I need to recount parts of both our histories to explain certain things and will touch on that from time to time during the various episodes, but to start with I’ll give a brief précis of our lives, before we met.

Stories of Two Lives.

Here we are, during one of the better times in our relationship. In those times, everything we do is designed to infuse us with lust.

There’s not much to say regarding his life because he has “dropped out” and doesn’t acknowledge his previous life much. He has written it, and any aspirations to grandeur, off after having been taken to the cleaners by his last wife. He is not bitter, just resigned and lackadaisical.

He says he’s been there, done that and got the T-shirt. I know he was Captain of prestigious golf club and that he has been married three times. All were very desirable women, from the few photos he has, that he’s shown me. He laughs off the golf club-thing, saying he did that just to prove that any arsehole can become Captain of a golf club.

He has no desire to have friends or to commit to anything. Of course, he has acquaintances that he’ll entertain, should they visit him, or socialise with in a pub, but he has no desire to commit to relationships or visit others. He is quintessentially a loner. He refers to himself as The Kalahari Kid; a long stretch of emptiness.

His only interests are drinking beer in peace and enjoying sex with desirable women and, in that order. The only prerequisites are; the beer has to be cold and plentiful; the women, exquisitely groomed, with long nails, always in high heels and very available. He has no interest in wooing and charming them He makes no secret of this and it was, in fact, the very first thing he informed me of. I think that is why we got on so well, from the very beginning. I had never been seduced so quickly or offered so little resistance. Figuratively speaking, I lay down on my back and opened my legs, inviting him to ravage me.

His rationale is; beer, he can buy and it doesn’t want anything from him; if a woman is not prepared to pander to his preferences and please him, she should preferably depart and, as soon as possible. He can do without the sex, if it comes with strings attached and in a form which doesn’t appeal to him, but he has no desire, or reason, to be without beer.

He made this abundantly clear to me, right from the very first. If I wanted to share in his life, I was there solely to cater for our mutual sexual pleasure. Notice, I said, “share in his life” not, “a part of his life”. I am very much an add-on. I understand that, although I do sometimes still have difficulty coming to terms with it. He wants nothing from me, other than sex, in whatever form he may desire, with him or others. He never demanded sexual fidelity from me, only integrity and discretion. I didn’t quite realise that at the time because I couldn’t perceive of a man who wouldn’t demand fidelity from his woman.

While I lived with him he made me pay half the rent. He paid for everything else; our entertainment included and would give me money, if I needed it, to go out on my own, which he insisted I do. That was his payment for my “services”. I met him when I was invited there by a mutual acquaintance who’d been trying the get into my pants for some time.

For my part; I whored myself to put my two kids through varsity, after my husband, their father, committed suicide when they were two and three years old. I prostituted myself, not literally, but figuratively. I married a rich farmer to ensure their well-being.

When my second husband appeared on the scene, I realised the time of my "Fatted Calf" had arrived. Being aware of his financial and marital status, I fucked him the very first day we met. That was it and, for the next twenty years, I paid the price, every day. The moment my kids were out the house, I left him, taking nothing from him. I’d paid my dues and he’d served his purpose. So if you want to call me a whore, I couldn’t really argue.

I did have some money of my own, when I left, but a string of disastrous affairs, with unscrupulous lovers, searching for “the right man”, left me nearly destitute. I am blond, remember. Then a fire destroyed my house which, being a thatch-roof and due to some administrative misunderstanding, wasn’t insured against fire. So, for me, it was back to “living off my wits”. i.e. my looks and desirability. I’m not at all ashamed to say, I entertained men for what they could give, or do for, me. Yes, if it was really necessary and I thought I’d gain more from them, I fucked them.

I only used that as a last resort, however. Men, being what they are, they tend to disappear once they’ve fucked you a few times. I’d string them along, for as long as possible, before granting them their ultimate desire, if I ever did and thought it would induce a farewell bonus. In time, I became somewhat of a recluse, sitting in my flat all day and turning to the bottle for company. I would only accept an invitation to go out with a man, if I thought there was something materialistic in it for me.

Then I met, my current lover, Pete. It was mutual lust at first sight. What I’d found was no "Fatted Calf", but The Prodigal Man, not son. There was no stringing him along or anything like that. Within an hour of meeting him for the first time he was fucking me and I was completely powerless to resist. Not that I wanted to, in the least. We also proved to be fantastically sexually physically compatible. I had never been fucked so comprehensively, expertly or so continuously, in my life before. I was climbing the bloody walls in ecstasy. I was lost!