Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 11

III

Mother and Wife

My cell phone begins to ring as I rush home to my family, and I ignore it. I abhor talking on the phone while driving rush hour. As a general observation, nighttime traffic seems far worse than morning traffic. Maybe it is the tension that everyone feels during this time of night based on a variety of reasons. Second shift is beginning while day shift heads home, people who are more than fashionably late for dinner, and the occasional shopper who didn’t plan to take so long buying groceries—all forced together and barely moving. It is dark at this hour; nothing but red taillights ahead and streetlights above to beckon the eyes. I tell myself that the office and all of my high-maintenance employees (who can leave their work where it belongs) can wait until tomorrow. If it were possible, I am certain work would follow me at all hours. It has taken me years to achieve even a partial separation of my professional and personal lives. Music is an excellent way to shut out the sound of my ever so popular phone, and more often than not, it transforms my mood on my lengthy drive.

When I have a rough day, I sometimes listen to heavy metal that screams scores of truths that many people choose to ignore, while incorporating intense instrumentals. Of course, there’s also dance music that packs a fun punch but tends to increase my risk of getting pulled over for speeding. However, most of the time while driving, I prefer music with lyrics that speak to the heart and distract the mind or, instead, lure my brain into their semantically compelling trap with lyrics and sounds that penetrate my emotional boundaries. Today, I listen to Sade. Sade has a warm yet profound and husky voice. Her stories are ones of love, struggle, and triumph. She’s always classy, with something beautiful and intelligent to say, and incredibly underrated, but I suppose that makes her all the more intriguing. As her music helps to soothe me into my chair, I begin to enjoy the rest of my ride home.

Just outside the city, our 6,700-square-foot home sits on its own hill, overlooking fifteen acres of forested property. A creek crosses one corner of our yard, crowned with a small bridge Bruce and nine-year-old Cheyanne built together last summer. I have such passion for Victorian homes, but it was hard to find one in Massachusetts fully restored and with a decent amount of property for purchase. Moreover, they usually come equipped with impossibly small bathrooms and faulty wiring and almost always require some degree of restoration. My home is completely custom-built, and our architect’s mutual fondness for the Queen Anne era of Victorians is evident by the intimate detail in the woodwork and the obscure designs that he incorporated. I had artistic pursuits that integrate lavish endorsements for all senses, both while working with the architect and with the interior designer. There are Pythagorean symbols with ancient Indian and Egyptian undertones throughout the artwork, and artistic innuendos weaved into the decor telling stories to those who are adept in deciphering the historically contrived esoteric code. Most of the inside of our home is, however, abstract and contemporary. All of our tables are beautifully hand-constructed teak and imported from Italy. The bathrooms are my favorite rooms.

All four bathrooms are fully equipped with vampire burgundy hot tubs that fit four, and separate showers with dual separate showerheads. The beautiful stained glass cathedral windows and black marble floors give a Gothic feel, while the contrasting faux white tiger lily arrangements prevent the room from drowning in the gloom. At present, I’ve gone beyond merely visual pleasure and into the realms of scent, sound, and overall vibe. No room lacks oil diffusers, incense, candles, and some form of sound system; and all rooms are plenty spacious.

I gave Cheyanne the ability to be innovative by allowing her to individualize her surroundings—within reason. It is amazing to be in her little world when I spend time in her room. Cheyanne chose all the colors, and I allowed her to pick her furniture with a sensible parent-approved budget. Her bedroom is ice age blue, with purple crown molding outlining a cobalt-blue ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars. Her main source of light is crystal solar system chandelier that dangles above her cherrywood queen-size bed equipped with stuffed anime characters and a deep-green bedspread with a picture of a dancing golden dragon. Though the hallways of her wing are a bland eggshell white, they are outfitted with large black frames displaying her best pieces of colorful art. Her bathroom always smells of cinnamon and baby powder, though she prefers only her guests to use it.

I have been accused of allowing her too much expressive freedom, but to me, it is a gift I have given her—one that has nurtured the type of growth you do not typically see in children her age.

Home at last. It is always such a pleasure to be here in my beautiful home with my small, tight-knit family. My home is my palace—my reward for surviving my past, with such a willful effort to attain it.

Dinner is family time, an opportunity to examine each other’s thoughts and measure growth. I find that routines such as these are usually only boring with boring families. This is not the case with us because we are a trio with a diverse range of hobbies and talents. Our time at the dinner table often extends well into the evening while we converse about a wide range of topics. One example of a topic is to view this world without prejudice and to honor the knowledge that comes from ancient intuition, or subconscious. I also encourage Cheyanne to be open and honest about her thoughts and feeling, so long as there are no hidden intentions backed by primitive thinking such as subjective ignorance endorsed with ego. We lead by example and are diplomatic regarding disagreements while appreciating the knowledge that comes from one another’s perspective. At this very dinner table, we instilled in Cheyanne the understanding that “why” is often more important compared to the ploy that sometimes comes in the form of “what.” We have fed her hungry curiosity with incentives that lead to the true potential of cause and effect. In this way, Cheyanne is less susceptible to becoming compromised by the conundrum of distracting decoys that society often introduces. It is wonderful listening to Cheyanne speak with excitement about her day, especially when it pertains to her experience working on her academic endeavors. She is an incredible student, much to my relief and sanctity. She has many of my gifts and curses including my rebellious overtones. Though I count my blessings, that she’s only a small percentage as defiant as I was, and mainly because I’ve given her fewer reasons to be.

Cheyanne inherited her sensitivity and benevolence from me. As a result, she will overthink and overfeel virtually everything, and I offer her an ear and sympathy because I can honestly relate. I am not strict about a lot of things, but I am extremely strict about a few things. This allows her to vent to me, so long as she respects my rules. My rules are quite simple—tell the truth, be humble, behave kindly, and remain accountable at all times. I forgive her when she makes mistakes, and I’m proud of her as long as she makes an honest effort and doesn’t lose her truth in the process. I don’t allow her to bullshit herself or me, but I’m respectfully compassionate about the truth, especially when the truth is painful. My strategy seems to work because I don’t sense that she is the slightest bit guarded around Bruce or me. He and I, like now, sit at the table with an empty plate, while hers is perfectly full, save for a few pieces of carrots she managed to swallow quickly because she’s so excited about expressing her daily adventures. Once past her history project, and a screenshot of her art projects, some of which are far beyond my shading capabilities, she begins speaking about her favorite teacher.

“Mrs. Whelan is having us work on a poetry project. It’s due Friday, but I was so excited for her to read it, that I submitted mine early.” “That’s great, sweetie. Poetry shouldn’t take long because when it comes from the heart, it just seems to flow like a river of emotion into a deep, sometimes arbitrary, ocean of words.” My voice is encouraging, but I’m granted a fake smile, so I know something’s wrong. “What is it, did the teacher give you a bad grade on your poem?” Her lip begins to quiver as if she’s holding back tears, but I realize she’s trying to stay strong, so I refrain from wrapping my arms around her and allow her to speak assertively. “It’s not that at all, the teacher loved my poem. That’s the problem. She liked it so much she read it to the rest of the class. It was the class that seemed to think it was weird. Some of them even laughed at me. I feel so embarrassed and hurt because I thought it was good.” I reply with an encouraging voice, backed by the truth this open opportunity offers me to convey. “My darling, nothing extremely amazing has ever come out of any human being who let conventional thinking or the opinions of others hold them back. Only the opinion of someone who understands rich and compelling narratives, and understands literature, has an opinion worth honoring in regards to your writing. And that person, my dear, is your amazing teacher. I’ve met her, and she is truly a unique and wonderful human being that knows literature extremely well. I would believe her, and not let the opinions of those with very little experience get to you.” For the first time tonight, she starts filling her face with food, and the table is silent, except for her chewing while she contemplates my words with an inquisitive look on her face. Finally, her plate is empty, and she responds, “Right, Mommy, some of my favorite artists, scientists, and historians would exist, but I bet most of their work wouldn’t if they let people’s opinions get in their way.” I award her with a genuine smile. “You are more evolved than most children. Some people take too long to figure that out. I’m so proud of you!” Cheyanne wraps both arms around each of our necks, pulling our family trio into a group hug. “Love you, guys, but it’s my bedtime, and I’m very tired. Goodnight, Mom and Dad.” More confidently she skippers off to her room and disappears for the night. For a little while, Bruce and I sit in silent contemplation as I enjoy a store-purchased lemon cake that melts into my hot cinnamon tea. I’m a relatively young mother, and it doesn’t seem too long ago that I was dealing with my own school issues, and so I empathize with Cheyanne’s feelings much of the time. I’m certain there will be occasions where she will instinctively seek refuge from the excruciating pain and wonderful blessings of being empathic, creative, and intelligent. I know it’s hard for her to sit through school without her leg shaking under the desk, her mind bursting with more curiosity than a teacher who babysits thirty students could ever satisfy. Her extreme senses make it hard for her to concentrate because anything distracts. Yet, she does amazingly well in school. It took a certain level of maturity, which came very late in life, for me to appreciate the fact it is better to have a formal education and not need it than to need it and not have it. I help her with her homework, even though I was too rebellious to do it myself at her age. I occasionally insert condescending political remarks into her writing assignments, that several of her amazingly brilliant underpaid teachers sometimes enjoy. They are far more accepting than the teachers I patronized when as a youngster. Maybye because they are sick of the fucked-up system that doesn’t pay them nearly enough to deal with some of the emotionally taxing things that they have to endure. Times have certainly changed, and Cheyanne is very lucky that there are more awakened teachers during her generation than there were during my school experience. Then again, I went to a busy public school in the middle of the city, and Cheyanne lives in suburbia where schools have smaller classes and teachers have better credentials. I tell her to thank her blessings and learn as much as she can from the teachers she trusts, because they are enlightened and wise. I also let her know that if she rebels, I will put her in one of the public schools I went to, and she will have a real reason to rebel. Secretly, I’d never do it though. In reality, I want her to have good work ethics and learn to appreciate the act of earning. I don’t want her to internalize discipline culture, become trapped in the hedonic treadmill, and eventually endure the ill fate of the blindsided consumer economy while becoming ethically bankrupt. She’s special, and by the time she’s an adult, I want her ambitious nature to propel her to fly above the cuckoo’s nest otherwise known as society.

By the time our stomachs are full of vegetarian lasagna, carrots, and dessert, Bruce and I share a glass of delicious French wine, aged in oak barrels to sweet perfection. I stare at his tight muscular, larger-than-average body still sweaty from his day, wearing an obvious craving on my expression. Noticing my stare, he replies with a devilish grin and diligently works his way to me.

“Cheyanne has been asleep for a couple of hours now, madame,” using a French accent to match the bottle of Chanson burgundy wine. His delivery is easily as dry as the wine. “Before that tasty poison numbs your impel…” He continues with his horrid, yet undeniably appealing, accent. “Shall we?”

He struggles to untie my hair, working his way through it. His soft breath lightly purring behind my neck sends chills down the small of my back, as he proceeds to unbutton my shirt with his other hand. The weight of my hair is suddenly released. Running his thumb down the crease of my shirt, he slides it off my shoulders with ease. His eyes noticeably gaze intently at my breasts, barely covered by a few long locks of hair; I can see his pants start to tighten. Gazing deep into his piercing blue eyes, I get on my knees and start to unbutton his pants. Firmly gripping the base of his cock, I run the top of my lips along his foreskin teasingly. His slight distinguishing taste of sweat and wine mixes in my mouth. I stare deep into his eyes, never losing connection, as I pant in desperation to please him. I widen my mouth allowing him to enter, licking and sucking him into a full erection. Bruce is large at full erection with a slight curve, and as he shakes with delight, I taste his precum. This is a sure sign he’s pleased and a complete turn-on for me. The mere idea of gratifying him saturates my panties because I know he became spellbound and trapped in my sexual love spell. All the while, he believes it is I who submits to his needs and wants as if it were him in control. The poor man doesn’t realize sexcraft is an actual thing as he pants for me like a thirsty dog that’d turn blue in painful frustration if I didn’t assist. I know what is to come next as he grabs my hair firmly, lifts me to his lips, and delicately places my back onto the floor to please me for good measure. Gripping a thigh tightly in each hand, he slides deep inside me—long, hard strokes, forcing my back to the floor, pinning me with his weight. As he starts moving faster, I contain myself from screaming, but moan heavily as the strength of him pushing hard on my erogenous zones causes some of my restraint to falter. That moment of control is all that he’s granted before I straddle him and use the might of my thighs to flip him below me, thereby making him my slave-ride. I ride him hard and fast, forcing him to submit, and though he’s easily physically strong enough to resist, he doesn’t in fear that I’ll stop pleasing him. We reach our climax together as I wrap my legs tight around his back as the painful tension released, while he slows to prolong the orgasm, extending our high a few seconds longer. After a few minutes of relaxation, I lick his neck one last time, inhaling the sweet aroma of his pheromones and sex. After being with someone an extensive amount of time, you tend to be familiar with their scent, everything about them. I find this familiarness to be a very arousing awareness that makes even the dirtiest sexual experience feel clean. Gathering up our clothing from the floor, we head off to our comfortable soft bed. Still dizzy from wine, a very satisfying orgasm, and exhausted from a long day, we slip heavily into sleep.