by Purple Hazel
He never spoke of such things naturally. Tried living a decent life for all intents and purposes. Dated girls in town during his youth; experimented with sex and open sexuality. Had quite a few lovers during those heady days as a teenager and then onto his early twenties as he discovered more and more women willing to sleep with him. But he avoided addressing his most intimate desires with them—steered clear of doing what he really wanted to do to them.
Nothing violent, of course. He would never hurt a woman under any circumstances. Wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind. In bed with a young woman, he’d typically perform intercourse much like any other youngster excited about the opportunity for intimate companionship, and achieve orgasm shortly after penetration. It never occurred to him to try and show the girl what really, really turned him on. That he felt needed to remain secret.
Wearing condoms during sex was certainly challenging: the desensitizing of his shaft and the annoyances with having to slip the prophylactic over his penis before losing the passion of the moment—and his erection right along with it. But while driving into the girl with his rather respectable endowment, he’d often hold the girl down by grasping one of her wrists, if it was laying by her side or next to her face, gripping it roughly while letting the other hand remain free. Just that one little thrill of partially restraining her was all he’d attempt and it was typically enough to excite him to the brink of climax.
Naturally, if the girl squirmed or pulled or struggled or protested in any way, he’d relent—not wanting to ruin the moment and bring the encounter to a sudden and rather unwelcomed end. He’d always stop well short of that, of course—at least in the nick of time before the girl would think she was in some sort of danger, or believe he was nothing more than a “Schmutzfink” or a “Dreckschwein”. Those were certainly labels he never wanted applied to himself. He was after all, a young man who cared about his “reputation”.
Pursuing his career with earnest, he avoided settling down with a wife until his late twenties, marrying finally when he’d found a young woman who seemed to fit the bill as the type of wife that would bolster his image. She was beautiful, his first wife. She was well-connected; essentially just what a man like young Steinhart needed in his life at the time. Trophy wife, one might call her. Pretty. Good personality. Influential family. Skinny. Tall. Decent curves. She had it all.
Yet there was a problem with their marriage right from the start, and it was hard to pin down in those early years. Both fully immersed in their careers, she was the type who was on the way up in high society and Steinhart was just the kind of husband she needed to show off to her friends and colleagues. Steinhart was all for that arrangement, too. He kind of enjoyed being the man she liked to parade around: handsome, tall, muscular, smart, educated, and driven to be successful. It was only after a few years that issues arose in the apparently perfect partnership.
By then well into his thirties and climbing the ranks over at Space Programme—where he was an aeronautical engineer bucking for a promotion to become a space ship captain—Steinhart struggled to get his first wife pregnant. And even though sexual intercourse was clearly not the issue—his wife was perfectly willing to pursue trying and they attempted to make a baby hundreds of times—they just couldn’t seem to make it happen. Had sex practically every week, which to Steinhart seemed reasonable enough. Even with their hectic work schedules and Steinhart’s traveling, they made it a point to find time for one another. Yet they continued to fail and fail. Steinhart’s wife either couldn’t get pregnant or Steinhart was incapable of impregnating her, one or the other. Truth be told, neither of them really wanted to find out for sure.
It became a real problem by the third or fourth year, when family members started asking those difficult questions like, “When are you two going to give us a grandchild/ niece/nephew?” The pressure got to both of them, and no matter how hard they tried downplaying it, claiming their schedules were too difficult or the stars merely hadn’t aligned just right, the truth was, or at least apparently was, that they simply could not have children.
This ate away at the intimacy between them and led to many a heated argument which damaged the relationship even further—until finally they began giving up on things entirely. Sex became more and more infrequent. Passion faded away. Love died a slow, sad, and painful death...until eventually they became like estranged roommates living in the same house but otherwise paying little attention to each other.
During this, those deep, dark fantasies gone largely unfulfilled, and the images haunting Steinhart’s mind of lustful pirates ravaging helpless women, plagued him mercilessly. They manifested themselves in many ways, too. He took to decorating his office at work with pirate memorabilia like a replica ship’s wheel which adorned one wall, and a pirate cutlass over the top of it which he’d acquired from an artisan at a medieval cultural fair called Burgenfest over in Manderscheid. He even had a pirate hat sitting up on a coatrack and reproductions of famous paintings of pirates and pirate ships framed on his walls to impress visitors.
Bookshelves filled with technical manuals covered most of one wall, and yet the lone picture of his wife—a photo taken of her at their wedding—was about all he had available to let anyone know he was married or even had affection for her any more. To those with a keen eye for details this must have been a strong indication they were quite less than in love, however. The photo was tiny at best, and faced outward, toward the doorway instead of sitting on his desk facing him so he could see it while he worked.
It would have appeared to a visitor taking note of this that he was a man trying to appear like some normal, run of the mill, happily married man. It was all for show, really. Inside, he was a depressed, sexually frustrated fellow who longed for companionship—and there was by then little if any waiting for him at home.
Those fantasies he used to have were vivid and real, though. Tormented his mind at night and entertained him many an evening during business trips when he’d be lying in his hotel bed flipping through channels on the room’s Ultravision panel. He’d drift off to sleep, imagining some bodacious woman, clothes in tatters, shackled to a wall inside an iron cage below decks of some moldy pirate ship, whimpering and trembling over the fate she knew might befall her that night when the crew had gotten a belly full of rum in them and would descend to the ship’s hold for another “go” at her.
She’d inevitably be a brunette or raven haired, this woman of his fantasies. That was consistent in his dreams. Tall and curvy, with an angelic face but enticing body. That’s what he seemed to go for. She’d have been taken prisoner by those reeking bilge rats during a raid months before and kept by them as their hostage, then gradually reduced to a mere sexual plaything for their ongoing perverse amusement.
He’d often picture the woman being dragged, screaming and writhing in terror, out onto a bed of straw, with greasy fingers caressing and groping her body as a gang of bearded cutthroats circled around her. He’d see her vividly in his mind too as they ripped away the last pieces of her clothing and held her wrists and ankles, spreading her wide apart and raising her legs in preparation to mount her savagely.
Then he’d see himself—always the hero of the story—bursting onto the scene, flanked by his own loyal sailors from some ship he commanded, fighting with and defeating those revolting swashbucklers, slicing them with his cutlass and firing his trusty flintlock into the face of the enemy captain when he drew his saber.
Rescuing her and taking her back to his ship, wrapping her up in a clean blanket or throwing his military tunic around her shoulders, he’d sweep her away from all of this filth and debauchery, saving her from yet another night of being degraded by those enemy pirates. Then he’d sail away to his own private, secret island hideaway where she’d immediately and with no reservations whatsoever, become his grateful, devoted lover.
Her virtue taken from her, her dignity all but ruined, he’d immediately assure this imaginary vixen that she was safe. He’d tell her c
onfidently that she belonged to no one now, was under his personal protection, and should fear no further indignities at the hands of merciless marauders—not ever again. What’s more he’d promise her she was free to leave at any time...that he’d take her anywhere she’d like to go...and drop her off at the nearest port of call to allow her to return to her family and her previous life.
But the woman in his fantasy would always refuse his offer, naturally. She’d inevitably pledge her loyalty to him and him alone, beg him to keep her as his woman and companion, promising to remain with his ship as his personal possession—his concubine if he so wished it—dedicated to serving his every need and whim. Then they’d make passionate love. That was pretty much the way things went. It’s what his mind craved after all.
From there, the sequence of events in the dream varied, but it always ended up the same: the woman would implore him to take her aggressively, just as the pirates had done to her night after night, abusing her body and pleasuring themselves at her expense while she wailed and moaned—reviled at both their appearances and their offending odors. Yet now, in the arms of her dashing lover Steinhart, it suddenly became her deepest desire to be made love to in this very same fashion! That’s how she’d explain it to him anyway, however bizarre and unrealistic it would have been in real life, he always assumed.
He’d dream of varying the positions frequently, which his first wife never tolerated or desired by the way, tying her hands and feet together or tethering her to a bedpost or pillar before flogging her until her creamy white flesh was striped bright red—which was also something his first wife, not surprisingly, would never have permitted, either. She’d beg for him to do so, describing to him what those dirty pirates had done to her in that dank, dark ship’s hold for so many months at sea, longing for release or rescue, then abandoning all hope of ever seeing her home again.
Then his fantasy woman would plead with him desperately to mount her again and again until he finally brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy as he too climaxed dramatically, wailing and snarling and growling like some primal beast, draining both his mind and body as he exploded deep inside of her. These visions would torment him so mercilessly he’d awaken in the middle of the night to masturbate—often twice—just to exhaust himself so he could thankfully get back to sleep.
It happened like that almost every week, certainly at least once a month anyway, even has he got older and his career continued to advance. It embarrassed him, quite frankly. He thought he must be some kind of pervert to be imagining such disgusting, sinful debauchery. Yet the dreams came back to him periodically, revisiting like a specter in the night whenever something would trigger those debased private thoughts. Even visions of a sailing ship with a pirate flag or dastardly swabs brandishing pistols and daggers toward a cowering prisoner would set him off once more; and that night he’d have the lustful dreams once again.
Steinhart’s marriage ended eventually. Made it about ten years together before they finally pulled the plug so to speak. How they even got that far without leaving each other was a feat in and of itself, too. But they saw each other so infrequently that it was really just a matter of getting around to filing the paperwork. It was she who made the first move. Steinhart at the time was so defeated emotionally that he hardly raised any objection. She went back to live with her family in Berlin, while he kept their flat in Darmstadt.
So, there he was: single once more. And the world it seemed—for a little while anyway—was now his oyster. He started dating almost immediately and plunged headfirst into the surreality of a divorced man in his late thirties seeking love and affection in a very cruel and sometimes heartless world.
Of course, being single was not all it was cracked up to be, he learned quickly. Yes, Steinhart found this out almost immediately. He found lonely women for casual sex; that was certainly no big challenge. But they were never really beautiful, young, inviting, or even appealing for that matter—not anything like the dazzling, dark-haired damsels in his dreams. It seemed he’d missed out on something he’d now never get to experience: the excitement of making love to a vivacious, sexy woman, body pristine and lovely like his wife had been when they were younger.
He took to drinking, eventually. Ate like he’d always done when much younger. Gained about ten or twelve kilograms at one point. Got a belly on him that would show through his sweaters when he’d be at the pub, guzzling liters of German beer and packing on the weight while he hobnobbed with the lowlifes in the town. Then, in time, he got sick of his clothes not fitting anymore and got sober for a while. Got back to the gym. Got back in shape. Stopped eating big meals. Swore off sweets and bread and snacks and beer for nearly a year. Started looking rather sleek and shapely after a time. Started looking like a ship’s captain, too. That’s about when his career really started to take off.
After that, the women suddenly seemed far more interested. He’d see them in the pubs and they’d actually look back at him, rather than ignoring him as though he were some undesirable middle-aged man staggering through life and dead-ending his boring daily existence at the local bar.
However, by then his attitude toward women had changed; and changed dramatically. As he got into better and better shape at the gym, he couldn’t help but figure he’d evolved into something he’d never considered himself to be before...just a piece of meat with a big bank account, and now a sexy body to go right along with it—as well as a shiny late model solar sports car, and a good-paying job in town. That certainly played into it too, he could only assume.
He kind of started resenting women after a while, to be brutally honest. Found that the nicer he treated them, the more they distrusted him. Found that the more arrogant and dismissive he was, the harder they’d try to snare him. If he was right on time for a date, showed up dressed nice, acted politely, treated them to a nice dinner, held the car door like a gentleman, and listened to them rattle on endlessly about their lives, their bosses, their ex-husband, their bratty children, or their boring hobbies—they’d eventually lose interest in him.
By way of comparison, when he was late picking them up...or cancelled the date three hours before, only to reschedule something for a few nights later instead, seemingly disinterested in their problems or the inconveniences he’d caused them...they’d be literally eating from his hand within a week.
It was amazing to him how well it worked. What’s more it amazed him at how much of a goddam asshole he’d become. Every guy he’d ever heard of who’d treated women poorly and was aloof or cocky: those guys always seemed to have lots of lovers; despite being about as shallow as a teaspoon. Now, when he looked at his own self, he began to see the same terrible things evolving in his own personality! He was becoming just like those jerks that he’d so often criticized for making other nice guys, like he’d once been, look bad.
To make matters worse, he realized that he didn’t even like them, those women he was dating. He desired the sex they gave him and nothing more. On top of that, he sincerely believed deep in his heart that the women he was using for sex were only using him as well. It saddened him to think of it that way, but in his private thoughts he knew it to be true. The realities of the singles life were, that in the absence of a true and meaningful relationship, sexual gratification was not nearly as fulfilling as one might believe. It’s not what humans are “wired” for. The soul yearns for so much more than that. It was around then; about two and a half years after his divorce, that he stopped dating altogether.
All of that changed however when he met B.J. She stirred something within him that he’d never felt before. It brought him “back from the dead” and revived his soul like a Buddhist monk finding enlightenment—or even more pertinently—a passionate, unfulfilled man coming to terms with his true sexuality.
In the Virtual Reality Chamber with lovely B.J., he became an unleashed dark angel of the underworld, a dominant master, or sometimes even a diabolical mad scientist of sexual exploration. Sex with B.J. evolved into a
n odyssey of erotic experimentation that thrilled his young lover beyond anything she’d ever known. He was here and now. He was there and everywhere: penetrating her deeply, positioning her skillfully and thrilling her body like nothing and no one ever had. He tied her feet together, bound her wrists, mounted her, whipped her, paddled her, and brought her to mind-wrenching orgasms that erupted from her as though a volcano was bursting within her very core.
The fantasies he acted out with her far surpassed anything his mind had ever dreamt of—all those lonely years with his first wife—and far beyond anything he’d have ever imagined during his puberty. He was the evil pirate captain who enslaved her, bending her to his will. He was the heroic savior who rescued her from her prison cell below decks. And at times, it seemed like he had become the whole pirate crew, penetrating her every orifice and bringing her to the peak of ecstasy over and over and over again, until she fully believed her mind and body could take no more.
Then, when she was at her limit, he’d release her from her bonds, withdraw his manhood from her throat, her anus, or her aching vagina only to become the most loving, caring, and thoughtful man she’d ever known in her life. Oh yes, he was the best ever—and she was happy to tell him so, as often as she could form the words to express it. Afterward, she’d fall asleep in his arms, whimpering and gasping, and panting from the exertion...sweat streaking from her temples and fluids draining down her tired legs as he’d untie her bindings. Just how much he’d needed a woman like this he could not possibly explain to her. There simply weren’t enough words in German or English. But he tried to anyway. Tried every way he could to tell her just how much she inspired him.