Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) Page 4

  The next phase was to finish the previous house, where he found himself embroiled in each night after his job, working on tasks and then moving a little bit of stuff from one house to the other. It turned out that he and designer Catherine had started seventeen different projects in the Phoenix house that never quite got finished before Catherine was onto the next design. Some were little touch ups to draw to a close, but others were much more difficult to complete. But with weekends and late nights Steven finally brought all the loose ends together and as he finished the last job, he and Catherine looked around and decided that the design of that house had been outstanding. Steven was wistful, seeing the completed house for the first time after ten or twelve years in the house, but Catherine was thinking, "Thank God we're done. I never really liked the place."

  They placed it on the market, and being what it was at the time, it sold on the first day and that was with six different people bidding the price up.

  If Steven had illusions that the workload would be any different on the new house 1.) He wasn't paying any attention, and 2.) They didn't last very long. At one point he griped to Catherine that he didn't understand why she bought this particular house because she kept throwing it away. They became known regulars at the dump as they took sheetrock and old cabinets, rotted boards, miss-colored rocks and stones and portions of walls to the landfill. It was this last piece of design that was most interesting. At one point Catherine flung her arms to the wall and said, "You see those windows there?" When he said, "There are no windows there." Her reply was, "Exactly! Let's do something about that." That led to seven, (count them, seven!) four foot by eight foot double paned windows being installed. Two of them were in place of a masonry wall (no small task there). And three of them were twelve feet off the ground on the east side of the house, where there was no room for a scaffold and barely enough room for a ladder. And lest the reader believe that Catherine and Steven were capable of hiring an outside contractor to do such work, that was not the case. In fact, it is widely believed that if Catherine thought it all possible, she would have built a kiln in the backyard and would have blown the glass plate and cast the extruded metal and would have built the windows herself. But to her credit, she felt that a bit too much to ask.

  But it was Catherine, the infinite fount of design ideas, who was most unhappy with the pace of the Lake House (as she began to call it) rebuilding. The house was a huge canvas and she had ideas that knew no bounds. But the house ate up almost all of their discretionary income. And with Steven gone so much, she knew she would have to find a way to grow their income, or be patient with the slow dribble of extra funds to reshape the house. But patience was not her best feature.

  It took a while for Steven to determine what he loved most about her; mostly because there were so many things. But eventually he decided that he loved the fact that she was a happy person. This might seem trivial in all the other things about this beautiful woman, but it wasn't. In fact, it was the essence of her. Her first husband, Richard the Dick, had accused her of "Being happy to see the sun come up." He did not mean it as a compliment. Steven was not prone to get angry, but when he heard this he was upset at the Dick. First, he loved the fact that she would forever enjoy the little things in life. And second, he thought it would be a tragedy if someone would extinguish that joy in another human. It was like imagining the life fading slowly from the eyes of a dying human. How sad. And how sad that people had to be so irrationally angry at the world that joy was a thing to be slandered rather than embraced, or, at least envied.

  So Steven was anxious when she was unhappy. And perhaps she wasn't so much unhappy as unfulfilled. She was a designer, and their financial situation was just so that she was like a bird in a cage, unable to unfurl her wings and take off. He had enough design sense to realize what an elegant and beautiful house she was designing. And he knew it bothered her not to see the pieces coming together faster. He saw her pride in how well the Phoenix house turned out, but it, too, was a delayed gratification. The Lake House meant a whole lot more to her he knew, and as a result, it hurt him to know that the unfinished home they lived in was a constant reminder of what would, some far off day, be.

  It was his desire to see her happy forever, but Catherine believed in self determinism. For her, all people possessed the power to make themselves happy or unhappy. This did not forbid her from being upset with selfish people, and this did not seem a conflict in her philosophy. Her motto in this regard was, "We do not control the wind, but it is up to us to trim the sails." So with an occasional fist to an angry wind, she set about sailing herself about her world. Not that she didn't appreciate, and for that matter, take advantage of Steven's efforts to keep her happy; and not that she didn't deliberately do things that she thought would make people, (only those she cared about), happy, but she treated those acts like she would any other act of charity. It was something she would do out of the goodness of her feelings, but never as an obligation. She would contribute to a worthy cause, but nobody better even think about taxing her to give to that same charity.

  This difference about the two of them set up an interesting dynamic that spilled over into their sex life as well. Steven was raised a good Catholic, with the Blessed Virgin Mary being a near deity and the very idea of letting a woman coming to harm, leave alone doing harm to a woman was a sacrilege. Catholics being prodigious producers of children, (he was fourth of a litter of six); it set up a confusing matrix of ideas. Sex was good. But doing sex to a woman was a secret thing, and they needed to be treated like virgins, and indeed could on rare occasion, give virgin birth. It is little wonder that he was more than happy to let women take the lead with sex. If they took the lead, then there would be no question that it was their desire leading the way and not his obnoxious sex drive that was interfering with her perfectly pure world. As one could imagine, in his early sexual awareness years, this concept did not win over many of the fair sex who were equally unsure of themselves. So as a result, he was well into college before his own virginity was sent packing. In fact, many mothers of his high school dates sensed his reticence and encouraged the relationship. It was likely no worse indictment could put cold water on a teenage boy's sexual prospects than the approval from a girl's mother.

  But as girls became women and their curiosity of the bad boy dating scene was assuaged, Steven's style became more in vogue. In this respect, Steven fared well and his willingness to place women on a pedestal was not only appreciated, but encouraged. A sense of enjoying women's pleasure made him a connoisseur of the cunnilingus art form. She always came first.

  Other things in the mental mix here probably distorted his view on sex, but which of us came unscathed through that psycho-physical transformation? It was not like our parents were on top of things here. For them, it was likely that if we survived the teenage years without becoming deviants, unwed parents, drug addled or some combination thereof, then a major accomplishment could be claimed. For Steven, the first, (hand delivered) orgasm was such sweet pain, it was hard for him not to associate the Catholic induced feeling of guilt about sex with a mixture of pain and pleasure. And if he could be bound for such events, then he would be free to enjoy them fully. So his early fantasies involved women binding him before wrenching a reluctant orgasm out of the good boy. The pleasurable guilt of having an orgasm by himself did nothing for removing either conflict from his mind.

  But time heals all wounds and by the time he and Catherine had met, he was fully able to perform without being hogtied first. But that didn't mean he didn't think it just might be fun sometime, but it is certainly not something that one brings up to someone so self assured and confident as Catherine.

  There was nothing in her background to guide her to a sexual deviancy, as any good psychologist would be able to tell you. No parental abuse, either physical or emotional; no Catholic or Jewish guilt, only good Protestant (Not even an evangelistic twinge) upbringing; no fervor of feminism nor anti-feminist rants or even exposures
to any of these. For all practical purposes, Catherine was raised perfectly. She neither rushed into sex, nor feared it. In fact, perhaps it was this that made Catherine special. For her, sex was no less important than eating, or sleeping, nor more so.

  In fact, this relaxed openness on her part contrasted with the intensity that he felt. Where she thought little about sex until it was time for a fill up, he like many males, seemed to think about it all the time. With two kids and a full time job, and despite his willingness to take a share of the workload, she was typically exhausted at the end of the day. As a consequence, sex was eventually a once or twice a week thing for them. And while Steven could have used a more frequent topping off, it was anathema to his psyche to push himself on to her and so a couple of times a week would find him stealthily rubbing his own.

  In his fantasy, he would wait until her breathing became slow and heavy, occasionally with an unladylike snore. Then he would slip his hand down and slide his underwear down until it supported his cock and balls, almost binding him. He would gently stroke with one hand, the other holding the covers up, so not as to stain the sheets when he would come. Meanwhile he cautiously listened for her breathing to change. It she started with her own snores on occasion, waking herself up into that gray area between sleep and wakefulness, he'd freeze, hand on his penis, and he'd wait as her subconscious mind searched the room for the source of her sleep interruption. Then with a blush of embarrassment, realize that it was only herself, she would relax and fall back in slumber's arms. He would then slowly start the strokes again, hoping to achieve that exquisite and sharp painful pleasure of a rush of semen flowing out and over his hand, wanting to stop the sharpness, but loving, at the same time the thrill, quivering and stroking, the lubricant and his soft hand coxing just as little bit more pleasure out from underneath the cloak of intense sensitivity. Then, fearing the shame of being discovered from the detective Catherine, he would creep to the bathroom and wipe himself dry, taking care to not stain his underwear or the sheets.

  But in his fantasy, it never got that far. There, lost in the dash to finish line, he misses the change in the cadence of her breathing and suddenly, she has the light on and is staring at him in anger. Fearful, he freezes as she surveys, calculates, and decides on a plan. "What are you doing?" cannot be well answered and as he stumbles with apologizes and blushes deep pink, she orders him to show her. Despite his reticence, she overwhelms his shame with her orders and he strokes himself. She teases and taunts him for his weakness. "A real man would force himself on me and have his way with me. A real man wouldn't jerk himself off. A real man would never let his wife order him to jerk off for her amusement. I like this. No mess for me. Do you eat your cum? Of course, you do. No man would do that. Keep tugging on your little thing and when you cum you will beg to let me allow you to eat your own cum. That's it. Yes, look at all that mess. Now beg. Harder, or I'll never let you cum again. Much better. Here, let me put the first gob in your mouth. That's a good boy. Maybe this will be the only way I'll let you cum. Maybe I'll make you beg to eat your cum out of me each time. I'll laugh at you for being such a pussy to beg to eat cum. That's right, pussy. Keep eating that slimy stuff. I hope it is bitter and you gag a bit on it. It's better if you hate it. It's more humiliating if you beg to do something you hate. From now on, whenever you get the urge to cum, you'll wake me up. You'll beg like a little pussy to jerk off for me and eat your own."

  It is usually around this point in his fantasy he cums and with Catholic remorse cleans himself up, both wishing it would happen and fearing an incredible display of fury and scorn on Catherine's part where she refuses to meet his eyes ever again and he loses her to his shame or to another man. So, this never happened, mostly because Catherine often blissfully snored through the entire event, and on those few occasions when she was aware of it, she was too tired to engage him in a more interactive effort.

  For her, sex was a ritual, like making biscuits, which had a recipe that she was willing with small changes to adjust, but only if the improvement was demonstrable. Otherwise, if it wasn't broken, don't fix it. So sex was not so much mechanical as it was ritualized. A bout of petting, then a slow slide down her body to perform oral sex on her until orgasm. The variations included her on top, her beneath (not a frequent choice) or the once every couple of months, doggy style. His favorite was her on top, moving her hips slowly, enjoying the sensation for a while, never more than that. Her ritual was to come from his oral ministrations, never a hand, then to slide on his pole until the sensation, like a taste of chocolate, wore off and then and only then, she focused on him. Her eyes would pop open as she looked down on him. Over time, she found the best way to get him over the top was to caress his nipples harder and harder, until it was almost painful for him and he would explode with the intensity. After a few minutes of snuggling, the tryptophan would get to him and he'd nod off. She would wash herself and read a bit before she would slowly fall asleep. She never resented his ease of sleep versus her shot of adrenaline, but recognized it at a biological strategy to allow the woman to escape after the sex act in cave man times as he snores it off. How ironic it was that Steven was never the type to run from. But she recognized, in her pragmatic way, that she would get less sleep as a result of sex and so she would initiate sex only when she could afford losing the sleep, or whenever the pent up demand overwhelmed her, whichever came first.

  So Steven would wait patiently for their cyclical destiny with sex, except when he snuck his hand between his legs, which he considered a form of waiting until she was ready. Then he rejoiced in giving her an orgasm and further rejoiced when she would climb on top. He thrilled to watch her pleasure herself greedily on his penis as if he was just an inhuman phallus. She seemed bigger when she rode him and she appeared so erotic in her thrall; and he imagined a dominant female using him for her pleasure and wrenching an orgasm from him, his nipples and his lowly penis. He feared ever telling her these things lest she deny it, or be horrified by it, and for whatever reason, stop doing it. So the dance went on silently in his head, and for all those years they never knew what they were actually doing for each other. It was a satisfying sex life for the both of them, so neither chose to rock the boat. It wasn't bad, but it could have been better, but it could also have been so much worse. It was not an uncommon lack of communication for couples.

  .

  Now you know the beginning of the story of Catherine and Steven. I’ll let the tale unfold…….

  Chapter 4: Mike-2

  Of course, we hired her. That might be overstating the ease by which I pulled it off. It was me who got her hired and it was my best puppetry act to date. I had the connections to do it, but the people in charge of the hiring had no idea that I owned a significant portion of the company, so up close I had no leverage other than as a peer. To give credit to the firm, they gave some say so to the peer group on such things. Unfortunately, there was another woman, a bit more aggressive, that appealed to more men than me. She was nearly disgusted by my gay facade, and it was clear to me what she was up to. And, Catherine's beauty aside, it might have worked even on me, if she hadn't given up before she gave it a shot. Fortunately, guys will fall for the sex bit while they are horny, but without constant reinforcement, and some degree of confidence that the sex exchange is somewhat exclusive, guys will eventually figure out that the sex will disappear pretty quickly without a reason for it to keep going. Well, they realize it once you tell them to start thinking with the bigger head. My ace in the hole would have been to make a lie up that the sex monster even hit on me. Nothing makes a straight guy believe that a woman isn't a reliable deal than to realize that she would be willing to sleep with a supposed gay guy. But, apparently she was a fabulous lay and out of any given three men, one will brag on a liaison, thinking it will give him a conquistador status. In this case, she was a victim of her own success as two out of the three bragged on it and her fate was sealed. The trick was to get the two braggarts in the room with the other
guy and to let the right leading statement begin the cascade of regret.

  It also helped that the East Coast headquarters took an interest in this "Pilot Program" and wanted to review the applications. That was my doing and Catherine's resume rose to the top of the pile. The truth is, in a fair world that might have happened anyway. But I don't believe the world is perfectly fair, so I try to deliberately make fair, let's say, more fair.

  So Catherine and I spent a lot of time together and over a few months, we became more comfortable with each other's style than with others on the extended team. The men on the team liked her, but recognized that her deep love with her husband would never allow them in her pants, and they were okay with me being teamed with her on most projects, just in case they were wrong on that account. The women on the team were comfortable with her as it was clear to them that the only person she was competing with was herself. If she felt someone else could do better than her, she held no illusion that it wasn't so, and she would ask for help on finding and arranging the small table knick knacks. She preternaturally hated clutter, but recognized that some people found comfort on handling and gazing on paperweights, coffee table books and ancient photos of times gone by. So when she needed help, she was never embarrassed to ask for it, and as a result, the other women felt she was a real person and not a social climber, and the men felt a pride that she had noticed their skills.

  Over the years, I have made it my hobby to study the human mind. One theory that I wish I had invented, but did not, was that men seek status and women seek connection. So appealing to a man's pride and presenting yourself to women as a human being will never be a disservice to anyone. However, the big problem is that most people are good at only one or the other. The worst rule in the world is the Golden Rule: "Do unto others as you would have done unto you." It will only work, at most, half the time. People will appreciate the effort, if they know you are trying to be fair, but most of the time they are so tied up with their own problems they don't notice. So I am fully bought in to the Platinum rule. I believe in upgrades: "Do unto others as they would have done unto them.” I really wish I had invented that one. Perhaps someday I'll invent the upgraded Plutonium Rule, but don't hold your breath. The Platinum Rule is great. It forces a person to think a lot harder than they would with the Golden Rule. We all know who we are, right? But who are you? Now I'll have to pay attention to what makes you tick.