Her Anchor (24 page)

They tumbled backward, all of Castor's weight pressing her into the floor. He grabbed her by the hips and angled her upward, back forming a perfect arc as he pushed into her with abandon. If Ana had ever thought she'd been well-fucked before, she knew she'd had no idea until now. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't stop," she practically chanted it. With a fistful of her hair in one fist, he reached between her legs and applied the barest, slightest pressure to her swollen clit, thrusting into her until she came completely undone beneath him. He groaned and spilled into her, mouthing in a language she didn't understand against her.
 

******

Some days later, Ana was sprawled naked across the floor of her kitchen after he'd fucked her against the counter. He lay beside her, pretending to breathe heavily in rhythm with her as their fingers lightly touched and tangled.

She had been sullen and quiet that night, so he'd done the only thing he knew could make him feel close to her. Alive with her.

"What's the worst thing you've ever done?" Her voice was so quiet he might not have heard it if he were a normal man.

It surprised him, how little thought it took for him to answer. "Resignation."

She turned to look at him. Her lips were pink and raw, the sheer beauty of it almost impossible to him.

"What?"

He sighed heavily, turning to stare at the ceiling again. "I'm afraid the worst thing I've ever done is resign myself to the reality of me."

"That makes absolutely no sense to me, Castor."

He reached over, brushed three fingers lightly from her forehead down to the tip of her nose. He pressed a thumb to her lips. He couldn't help himself. "I know."

"I did something. Something terrible." To his total horror she had begun to cry. He felt the first twinge of true and painful regret creeping up through him. He knew what this was about, and until this moment had never considered just how heavily it may have weighed on her.

He rolled onto his stomach, cradling her face in his hands. This was his fault, and he couldn't believe how much he wanted to fix it. "Think for a moment. This something terrible. Will it matter to you in five years? Will it matter in ten? Will it matter to anyone other than you?"

"I don't know," she sobbed, turning into him to hide her face.

He held onto her, tilting her chin toward him.

"Remorse is ok, maybe even good. Can be its own kind of atonement and will pass in due time. You can designate a beginning and an end with remorse. But guilt is useless. Are you hearing me?"

She nodded her head, looking at him like he knew every secret, every stray thought and agenda, every dark corner of her.

"Carrying guilt won't make you a better person. It serves no one but you until it doesn't serve you at all, Ana."

"You don't know what I've done."

"Does anyone else?"

She shook her head.

She gasped as he slid his hand between her thighs, slow and lingering.

"Then throw it away. I'll help you."

THE END

I woke up, eyes wide and senses piqued, expecting him to be beside me. But of course he wasn't. Still, that didn't stop me from believing it for several groggy moments, thinking that at any point he would come emerging from the around the corner of the bedroom door, full and intact and as mine as he ever was.

I think there was a side of me that knew this to be a ridiculous notion, yet at the same time I just couldn't help but believe it to some degree, and I held my breath, thinking that it just had to be, and that his absence was the dream, as opposed to his return.

But as the minutes kept on ticking along, and as the morning continued to dawn, it became abundantly clear that I was holding out hope for nothing but disappointment, and that the reality I was hoping for was intent on eluding me as it did every morning.

Finally, it became ridiculous to keep expecting anything to change, and I had to give up, to face the facts, and to go on with my day as I did every single morning, deprived of what I truly wanted, what I longed for, and what seemed so lacking from my life that I could scarcely control myself over the loss.

Still, though, even after I knew that I was only deluding myself, and accepted the fact that that was what I was doing, I didn't yet have the drive to change things, to roll my ass out of bed and to go about my day without him. Instead, I closed my eyes for just a little bit longer, and inhaled a deep breath, holding it, and feeding my fantasies just a little bit more.

I imagined him there, in the bed beside me, his heat, his substance, his presence next to me like some life-preserving force. Thick and perfect, wrapping me up in his embrace, pulling me so deeply into himself it was like I was imprisoned in his flesh.

His kisses, so sweet, so gentle, as they softly brought me into the new day, so tender and so loving that they would leave me with nothing but happy thoughts for the whole day to come. I loved him, tasting my flesh like this, and God how I craved it now, and how I burned for the fact that I knew that it was so far separated from me.

And hell, even his scent I missed- not an especially wonderful scent first thing in the morning, and I'm sure this was mutually true. But the intimacy of it, the knowledge that what I inhaled was my own, property of yours truly, and myself property of him. God, how powerful scent can be, and how severe an absence it can be when it's taken away.

Still, even though I knew that I would find no luck in this regard, I took in a deep breath, praying to the God he believed in that there would still be some lingering essence, some remnant of the beautiful bastard to sustain me through this new day, even the faintest trace of him still hanging behind on the pillows to give me hope, to give me the knowledge that things could somehow be alright.

I began to grow desperate after a few seconds of this, actually burying my face in the pillow, practically smothering myself, thinking that there must be something, something I was just missing somehow, and that I would find it if I just kept trying.

But all there was to be found was the cool, neutral scent of fresh linen, empty and impersonal, pleasant under certain circumstances, but in my case disappointed as hell, and seeming to rob me of nearly every ounce of hope.

I began to feel suddenly like crying, like gushing out and dissolving into my own fears and sadness, and accordingly I yanked the comforter up over my head, burying myself beneath the blankets and encasing myself in the warm, toasty oven of my own body heat. I dreamed for a while longer, or fantasized, one or the other, about his embrace, his touch, his caress, making me feel secure and able to handle everything going on around me, and carrying me through into the day as he'd always done when he was at home.

But then, after a while, I just couldn't do it anymore. I had to get up, and I was somewhat prompted into doing so by the sound of canine claws scratching against my bedroom door. I sniffed, then touched my cheeks, noticing that a slight stream of tears had begun to form along my flesh.

I dabbed them away, and then managed to pull myself up out of bed. I walked over toward the door, and pulled a plush bathrobe from the hook- I was wearing a tank top and panties, and knew that my dog's demands would require a little bit more concealment.

Or, well... It was Danny's dog, I guess, really... He'd been a shelter dog, a jack russel terrier, and I guess I'd more or less adopted him when Danny and I first moved in together. I opened the door to greet him, and a swirl of emotions, both good and bad, welled up inside me.

Bandit was a fun dog, loving and playful, and it was hard not to feel just a little bit of his joy and zest for the world seep into you whenever you were in the little firecracker's presence. Even as I stepped out into the hallway he jumped with sheer joy to see me, hopping up feet into the air and making my chest balloon just the least bit with affection.

You just couldn't help but smile at something like this, even if deep down you probably knew your pet's frantic efforts at hopping and prancing likely had a lot to do with the simple fact that they had to pee.

But, like everything else in the house anymore, there was also a sense of absence to all of this, unsettling and disturbing, filling me with a chill of nerves that nearly made me woozy as I stared sadly down at the cute little thing. This was Danny's dog... Danny wasn't here... I was just taking care of the things he'd left behind in his absence.

God, how I hated myself for these sorts of thoughts. My affection for the poor dog all but drained away, and I sighed heavily with discontent. “Come on,” I said without an ounce of enthusiasm, and I stepped over to open the sliding glass door for him.

Instantly, and quite expectedly, he went bolting out into the yard, overshooting the distance that he should have been going and flying straight out toward the road- precisely as he always did, without fail or exception.

“Bandit! Get back here!” I yelled, and he gradually circled back around in his laps, as though he'd known from the start that he wasn't supposed to be going that far, and yet he'd done so anyway, just to test my limits. I didn't really care that much, I guess.

I just sighed as he did his business, and stooped over in my bath robe to retrieve the dew covered newspaper from my front lawn. Every morning, the rolled up paper in its plastic sheath practically burned my fingers whenever I touched it, despite begin cold and wet and dripping onto the ground.

I shook it off, and slowly took out the paper, holding my breath just a bit irrationally as I did so, as though this could somehow change its contents. I struggled to contain the avalanche of glossy circulars as they spilled out into my hand, and then cautiously flipped over the front page, and peered inside the paper, fearful of just what I might find.

There was, frankly, nothing of much interest in there for me, on any level that mattered all that much. Just the same old things, politics and world events that seemed like nothing but words printed on a page, and whose effects only touched me in so far as they pushed my husband further and further away from me. I always feared, though, that one day I would see some headline about a fallen soldier, and would see Danny's face plastered across the page in black and white newsprint.

It was largely irrational, I knew. Were anything to happen to the man I loved, I would surely have been notified ahead of time, rather than left suspended and guessing, only to find out when I opened up the morning paper. But of course, it wasn't all that rational of a thought process that took over me these days, and knowing what was true didn't always stop me from having these sorts of dark, fearful fantasies.

I sighed, closed up the paper once again, and stepped inside with Bandit once again, in order to get ready for my day.

I stood in the shower for some time, letting the hot water roll along my body in a manner that felt wonderful, yet was somehow strangely chilling. I felt like I lacked the strength to tear myself away from this beautiful heat, and I stayed under the water until it began to grow cold as it fell down onto me, and at last I admitted to myself that it was time to get out and get started with my day.

I got dressed, not caring all that much what I looked like, because really what the hell did it matter, anyway? I patted Bandit one final time on the head, and then made my departure through the front door, and stepped into my car.

I needed groceries, and drove somewhat dead-eyed off to the supermarket, unenthusiastic and disliking the notion of having to be out in public. As proud as I was of my husband, I hated the inherent feeling of being a military wife, and I somehow imagined that everyone else around me felt sorry for me when they looked at me, as though they somehow knew that, just because I was at the store by myself with a wedding ring on, I was worth pitying for my present life circumstances.

But of course I knew that was ridiculous. There was no way that anyone would have that sort of insight, but like nearly everything about my life at that time, my reason did very little to mitigate the fear.

This same feeling, of not wanting people to feel sorry for me, was one of the main reason I tended to gravitate away from other military wives, the only people who could really ever know precisely what it was I was going through.

It was just so strange, really. The whole experience of it. Having as good as lost the man you loved, for an indefinite period of time, in some foreign city you've never heard of, for a cause that neither you nor even the man fighting for it fully understands.

All the way through, you sort of just have to believe whatever it is people tell you, take things at face value, and try to avoid overthinking things if you want to make it through the whole ordeal with your sanity intact.

And, I guess, really, that was probably exactly what Danny was going through himself, but to a degree that was far more palpable, and the stakes far, far higher. But, at the very least, Danny had the benefit of actually progressing through that hardship.

His ability to come home and be with me again depended wholly on tangible actions he could take every day, so that it must have seemed like he was racing toward a finish line. But meanwhile, on my end, there was really nothing I could do at all to speed up the pace of time, or to bring the man I loved back home to me a minute faster.

So in some ways, I guess I was just trying to stay afloat all that time. And, though the smart thing to do would have been to expose myself to those other military wives, and relate to someone who could sympathize so directly with my problems. I'm not really sure why I was so resistant to the notion, in fact...

I guess the reason is probably a selfish one, really. I didn't want to share this experience with anyone else, as bad as it was. I wanted it to remain solely between Danny and I, confined and limited, and kept within our own private boundaries.

Having to be around the other women who were going through the same thing felt like an intrusion of some kind, a butting in that I'd never signed up for, and I preferred waiting out the days leading up to my love's return in solitude, as painful as it may have been for me on a number of levels.

Really, all throughout that time, these trips to the grocery store were about the only socializing I squeezed into my day at all, if you can really call it that. Once in a while I would call my parents or Danny's, and very rarely I would go out and have coffee or something with my best friend Julia.

But really, the only thing that got me through those long, lonely days were the video calls with my husband, holed up in some hellish, God forsaken place halfway around the world, trying for my sake to make it seem less terrible than it was, but the misery he was experiencing painfully evident on his face and in the way he spoke to me.

Recently, he'd made a request to me, to send him a rather private video of myself, and I'd been putting it off ever since, feeling that it was wrong on any number of levels. Not morally wrong, but... But, well, it just felt sad. Like it somehow emphasized just how separated the two of us had become.

And I knew, at any rate, that there was no way I could perform what he asked of me face to face, and that if I ever did manage to do it for him at all, it would have to be via a pre-recorded message that I could be in control of myself.

But today, I was beginning to feel my longing for his flesh more acutely than ever. I'm a little bit ashamed to admit it, really, but as I stepped through the aisles of the grocery store, I began to feel a heated sense of lust, with every man that I passed somehow reminding me of him, making me burn for a male's touch more acutely than ever.

I was wholly faithful to the man I loved, of course. I always have been, and I always will be. But it was hard not to let my eyes wander from time to time in his absence, imagining myself taking solace in someone else's arms, being taken by someone and driven to forgetting about the distance from the only person I wanted in my life.

By the time I got up to the front register, and was checked out (in more ways than one) by a strapping young cashier, I was feeling so hot and flushed that I could feel sweat beginning to form down my neck, adding to my erotically charged discomfort.

Today, I knew, would be the day I recorded the video for my husband, and sent it to him as the sweetest of surprises.

Even upon making the decision, there was still a considerable degree of trepidation leading up to the actual unfolding of events before I managed to fully work up my nerve. I had never before produced an, ahem,
erotic film,
in any way shape or form, and I had to admit I was feeling nervous as hell about the prospect of doing so.