Carol
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Carol Ch. 04 free porn video
Chapter 4: Peace
A shadow fell from time to time. He tried not to think of it, but he felt the darkness coming.
She changed jobs, and they could not talk as often or as openly, she was in a cubicle now, and could be overheard. Larry’s condition had improved, and he was more alert, their meetings grew less frequent so as not to raise suspicion.
Once she came to his door and told him, apologetically, that she was not ‘available’, he understood what that meant. She was on her period. They cuddled and kissed only, as they had so many times before, but he wondered at her timing.
He finally dismissed it, she got away when she could. But the next time was the same.
He grew troubled, but did not ask. He didn’t dare. But the time after that was all right, and they made love. For the first time, though, he had trouble keeping an erection.
Later, he realized: His body knew. His mind refused to go there, but his heart had felt the first cold hint of winter.
There were still good times and ecstasy to spare. Once, he had bought her a fishnet body stocking, and she wore it for him, the effect was devastating, and they both savored his reaction. Her pale white skin, so veiled and yet revealed, the subtle emphasis it gave to all her curves, the way her perfect legs and ass and breasts looked sheathed in it, the shocking cutout that exposed her perfect pussy–it was a marvel. He fucked her wearing it, then pulled it off and fucked her naked. She only wore it once.
She came to him less often. It would be two months, or three, between her visits. They planned them more than that, but sometimes she would call and cancel. Something came up, she’d say, and her excuse was always plausible.
Sometimes she didn’t call until the day after, and he would wait and watch for her on his balcony and pound the rail and cry all afternoon the day she was to be there.
She came one day, and she was hours late, they only had an hour to be together. She said, ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but I was reading a really good book…’
He did not know what to say.
There were good times, even after that, and he could still cling to the hope that she still loved him. It seemed so, when they kissed and held each other and made love.
He remembered fucking her, holding her ankles wide as she pumped her hips back at him, and she whispered, ‘You like me open, don’t you?’
‘Open and naked,’ he gasped, and she reached down and stretched her lips apart for him as he fucked her.
‘All I’m wearing is your dick,’ she whispered, and it was true. But he could not come.
She tried to end it gently. She did.
One day he met her at the Botanical Gardens, where it had begun and where they had gone again from time to time, and as they sat together in a small gazebo overlooking a peaceful stream, she hesitantly began:
‘Charlie–Larry’s getting so much better, I don’t think I can do this any more.’
His mind was frozen. He was filled instantly with fear, fear of the darkness and the cold, of nonexistence, of living once again without her love. It was the unmoving center of his turning years and days, the center of his life, the reason and the hope of his whole being.
He looked at her, and his face was bleak. ‘You’re going to break my heart again, aren’t you?’
She looked stricken. ‘Oh, no!’ she quickly said. She took him in her arms and said, ‘No, never! I love you, Charlie! Please don’t be afraid!’
He could not remember what she said after that. They saw a movie, and he could not remember much of that, either.
She reassured him as they parted, but he went home shaken and quivering with dread. The darkness was about to fall, again, and he could not face it.
She tried hard. She came to him as often as she could, and they even made love, but he sensed a kind of sorrow in her that he had not felt before. He tried to forget what she had said, but could not.
They spoke rarely on the phone by this time, only to set up meetings, and when she called to cancel. They emailed more than they called, and that was just for news, to keep in touch.
Sometimes he cancelled too. He grew to dread their meetings as much as crave them, fearful of what she might say, of what new coldness he would sense around her.
They could not talk as they once had. That secret, silent channel they had shared, where words were a distraction from the love and trust they shared, was off the air. Silence was only silence now, and there was too much of it when they were together.
The next to last time they met, it was sad but good, he stripped her slowly, removing her shoes, her hose, her necklace and earrings, and then the rest–he liked her naked–but they hardly spoke, and looked each other in the eyes as he undressed her–not at all.
It had been six months or more since last he saw her, and she had let her hair grow. She tinted it now, he saw. She tried to please him–she had him lie on his back while she brushed and swept her long hair on his body, and kissed him deeply, and fed him her taut nipples. They tried to fuck, and did, but he could not stay hard. He jacked off to her at last as she posed for him, so sweetly, and he finally coaxed a few weak spurts from his half-hard cock.
He had obtained, and taken, some Viagra. He was fifty, after all. It didn’t help. The ache, the crippling, was in his heart, not in his dick.
They talked a little, naked. The doors were closed, and they both knew it, but they tried to open them a little. It was too hard.
They hugged and parted, and from his balcony he watched her walk to her car and leave. She did not look up. He wondered if he’d ever see her again.
After he watched her car vanish out of sight, he stood there and wept, for hours. He could hardly bear to go back inside and see the bed where she had lain with him.
—-
It was eight months before he saw her again.
They talked a few times, but once, he had called her at work, and someone else called her to the phone. He thought he heard the word ‘husband’ from the one who answered, and Carol answered in that low and intimate tone he knew and loved so well: ‘Hellooo….’
‘Carol?’
And she said, ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her voice was flat and cold. They talked a few moments only, and she just sounded annoyed.
Other times were better. She tried to sound warm and caring, and their emails we’re still friendly, at least.
She canceled more than once, and so did he, but finally, she came to him again.
She looked sad and serious–and Charlie was saddened, too, she had finally begun, all at once it seemed, to show her age. She had put on more weight, and her face had begun to succumb to gravity. There were lines around her eyes and mouth he had not seen before, her chin and jaw carried extra flesh, and there were wrinkles.
Charlie didn’t care. Her skin was just as clear and luminescent as it had ever been, and those were still her eyes, her lips, her sweet pale throat, even if there were lines that had not been there before. She was still Carol, and he still loved her.
He knelt to take her shoes off, and she let him, but when he reached higher to take her hose, she stopped him. ‘Charlie–I’m sorry. But I can’t do this any more.’
‘Just to cuddle? Just your top?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No. I’m sorry, Charlie. I just can’t.’
He wept a little, and she held him. ‘I knew this would be hard,’ she said. ‘But this part has to be over. Just hold me, Charlie. That’s what I came here for.’
His eyes were wet, and he tried to hold it in. But then, he burst out, ‘It’s been eight months, and you don’t want me!’ He wept then, like a child.
‘It isn’t that,’ she said. ‘You know it isn’t that. This is just the way it has to be.’
He pulled himself together, or tried to. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
‘You always did,’ she said, smiling at him. He dried his eyes and smiled back then.
‘Besides,’ she said. ‘Look at me, Charlie. I’m old.’
He touched her cheek. ‘You’re still the most beautiful woman God ever made.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘Just hold me,’ she said.
He held her for a while, and he talked of how he had said, when they began again, that it was enough for him that they were friends.
She smiled and snuggled close. ‘And we are,’ she whispered. ‘Always. I do still love you, Charlie.’
That helped. When she left, she promised: ‘It won’t be eight months till next time, Charlie. I’ll see you soon.’
But as he stood on his balcony and watched her go–this time, she looked up and waved–he knew that he would never see her again.
—-
He tried to let it be enough. They talked occasionally, but planned no meetings. They emailed, once or twice a week, and stayed in touch, he tried to keep it warm and friendly, but sometimes the ache was just too deep, he missed her love and passion for him just too much, and he spun out of control and called her, weeping.
‘I was just so happy, Carol! I was happier than I’ve ever been! I just need you so much!’
She tried to comfort him and be his friend. ‘I know, Charlie. It was good, wasn’t it? I don’t regret it.’
But it’s over, she didn’t say. He heard it anyway, and the greatest pain was knowing she was right.
She’d speak to him gently and ask if he was still taking his medicine, he was on antidepressants again, but they didn’t help so much this time. Or perhaps they did, who knows how crazy he might have been without them.
They spoke less and less. When he was dealing with it well, he didn’t want to talk to her so much, and when he wasn’t, it hurt her. He tried to call when he felt upbeat and good, and that was best. Still, now and then, he’d lose it.
A friend set him up on a blind date, and he went. The woman was not as pretty as Carol–no one ever could be, for him–but she was sweet and funny, and they had a lot in common. He decided to try and fall in love again.
He almost did. He shared more values and beliefs with JoAnn than he ever had with Carol, and they could talk about anything.
From the first, they clicked. He made her laugh, and she liked that. She made him feel smart, and funny, and attractive again.
He put away the pictures of Carol, with all the other things he’d kept, and hid the box on a high shelf in his closet. He had kissed JoAnn, and deeply, on their first date, and in two weeks, or less, they were sleeping together.
She was as passionate as he could hope for–but he was entirely impotent now. She had known that from the first–he believed in full disclosure–but she said it didn’t matter. He hoped that she was right.
Charlie even went so far as to call Carol and tell her about JoAnn. ‘I think I’m over you,’ he even said–but not quite, ‘Don’t crook your finger at me, Carol,’–it was an old joke between them, that he would come to her at the least hint of her beckoning–‘This is a lady I don’t want to hurt.’
‘I’m happy for you, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I can hardly believe it, but that’s wonderful. I hope it works out for you.’
It didn’t, of course. They had much in common, and he could satisfy her easily with his hands and with his mouth–but JoAnn found it hard to accept that she could do nothing for him. He cared for her deeply, and did grow to love her in a way, but there was no passion there, however hard he tried to make it so. She wasn’t Carol. Her ghost was with him still.
JoAnn and Charlie parted, and there was no more romance, but they liked each other so much, and respected each other so deeply, that they soon settled into a warm friendship that remained a haven and a comfort to them both, forever after.
Charlie and Carol stayed in touch, and she was disappointed that he was still alone, but still, she tried to stay his friend.
He made that difficult sometimes. He would descend into depression, and look to her for comfort she could not give. He would speak of his love and need for her–and what could she say, that would not hurt him more or make it worse?
She began to shut him out again. There was no helping him, and she never knew what idle word or small remark would set him off. He was volatile and angry and frantic and depressed by turns, and she did not know how to be his friend any more.
She gradually shut down all communication. He would email her often, sometimes every day, and she would reply only rarely.
She tried to be more than polite, to stay warm and friendly while trying to be careful in what she said, but it didn’t matter. He would still descend into madness and go off on her, either weeping at his love and need for her and his hopelessness and despair at her absence–or railing at her for being so cold and distant, and not caring.
And finally, the festering illness that their friendship had become, because of him, came to a head and broke. It happened late in May, which would be important.
He had emailed her often, and she had not replied a word for weeks. Finally, he sent:
‘Are you OK? I haven’t heard from you in a long time. I hope you’re all right. Just drop me a line and let me know. Please, Carol. I miss hearing from you.’
He had been remarkably sane for quite some time, not dwelling on her constantly, and he really wondered if something had happened.
It took a week for her reply, and it shattered him.
‘I guess I’m OK. I work, I sleep, sometimes I read a little.’
That was all there was. No greeting, no closing, no hint of warmth, nothing personal at all. He felt like an annoying stranger, or a pest dismissed. He felt wounded and abandoned. He wrote back, in a tone of deep hurt and black depression:
‘It’s been six weeks since I’ve heard from you, and now you hand me this?!? I check my inbox twenty times a day, hoping for a kind word or a bit of contact, and for weeks on end you send me nothing. And now, this? This two-line note that you wouldn’t send a stranger?
‘You know how I feel about you. You are the center of my life and the only person on God’s Earth I love or ever will. All I ask is maybe five minutes a week, Carol. Five damn minutes that you could take to send me a fucking email that has a little warmth to it and might bring a little light into my life. You know how dark and cold it is without you. You say you are my friend and care about me, but you can’t even give me five minutes of your time?
‘You’ve given me a lot of long, dark nights that I’ve spent crying over you. This will give me another, maybe the longest and darkest of them all.’
Her reply came back within minutes. It was longer:
‘How dare you! You tell me how much you love me, and then you threaten to kill yourself? You have no idea of what I’m dealing with and the pressure I’m under. I don’t need any more pressure from you. If that’s what you think you need to do, then you just go ahead and do it.
‘I’m tired of hearing how much you love me and how bad you hurt. I’ve got problems too. I’ve tried to be your friend, but you won’t let me. You want more from me than I can give. Live with that or don’t, but don’t ever threaten me with that again. If you can’t be cheerful and positive when you write me, I don’t want to hear from you at all.’
He was horrified and fell into a blind panic. He sent her five or six more emails that afternoon, apologizing, begging her forgiveness, apologizing again. To prove he could be positive, he sent her a lame joke he had heard the day before, he couldn’t even think of a good one.
He hadn’t meant to say he meant to kill himself. He only meant he was in for a long night of tears and aching, but looking back at what he wrote, he could see how she could have taken it that way. He didn’t trouble to deny it.
She didn’t answer
. He tried to call her office and got her machine, and left another message, his voice shaking with panic, begging her forgiveness once again. He left two more over the next few days.
She didn’t answer, no matter what he wrote.
A week went by, then two. He had resigned himself to the fact that he had finally broken something that could not be fixed, whether he meant to or not.
He sent her one last email, apologizing again, and more:
‘I know I’ve been a fool and a pest and a blight on your life for years. I’m truly sorry. I can only plead that I love you, I always have, I always will, and losing you has made me a little crazy.
‘You have shut me out again, and I understand, but silence from you has always hurt me most of all, and that’s when I really lose it. No, I didn’t know about the pressures you are under. How could I? You no longer tell me anything at all about your life.
‘I’m deeply sorry for what I said and for being what I least wanted to be, an annoyance and a problem. I wanted to be your friend too, but I just love you too much, I guess.
‘Above all, I mourn the loss of our friendship. I hope your pressures, whatever they are, are soon gone, and I hope you have a long and happy life. I will always love you. If you ever need a friend–if you need anything at all–I will always be here.
‘Love, Charlie’
It was the end of the school year, and he had to turn in his laptop. He had no other computer. It didn’t matter, anyway, he knew there would be no answer.
He felt wrung out, empty. Maybe it’s better that we’re not in contact, he thought. There was only pain there for me and annoyance for her. Let it go.
He tried. There was nothing else he could do, anyway. He tried to call her office, but was told she didn’t work there any more. He knew her home number–he had had it memorized for thirty years–but even when he was at his worst, he would not call her there.
A few weeks after school was out he bought a used computer, and there, in his inbox, was a message from Carol.
‘I’m sorry too. You can reach me at this address till May 31.’
It was almost the end of June. He emailed anyway, undeliverable.
He knew she was active in community affairs where she lived, and he found a website for a committee she served on that gave her work and home numbers–and an email address for her new job. He sent her an email immediately, telling her he’d gotten her last message late and hoping they could talk again. There was no answer.
He called her office number.
‘Hello?’
‘Carol?’
‘….Yes?’
Cool and noncommittal. Not hostile, but as distant as the Moon.
‘I, uh, I just thought I’d call and see, you know, how you’re doing.’
‘Well…’ She seemed about to say something, but changed her mind. ‘Everything’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’
‘I thought, maybe, we could just visit for a minute.’
‘I can’t really talk right now.’
‘Can I call back again, some other time?’
‘It would be better if you didn’t.’
He hesitated. ‘I understand. Okay, then.’
A tiny hint of warmth. ‘Thank you, Charlie.’
‘Goodbye, Carol.’
‘Goodbye.’ He hung up.
She was thanking him for leaving her alone. Well, he thought, if that’s all that I can give her, then that’s what I’ll do.
He tried. He sent her an email now and then, with a joke he knew she’s like or just to say hello, but she never answered. He also left her messages on her office phone at night–on her birthday, Mother’s Day, the anniversary of the day they met–but he never expected an answer, told her so, and got none.
He could still lose it and be overwhelmed with grief and loss and loneliness. One night, he left a message on her office answering machine that reminded her that he could have wrecked her marriage if he had wanted to hurt her–that he still had a picture she had signed, ‘to the biggest, best, and so on,’ he said. It was a veiled threat.
That was on a Friday, she would not get that message till the Monday.
He felt bad about it, and then worse, as the weekend passed. He had never intentionally hurt her, and he knew he never would.
This has to stop, he thought.
He took out the box that held her pictures–the large one and the smaller, with its inscription–and he looked at them. From the larger one, she still smiled out at him with that special twinkle in her eyes.
Fay
- 27.09.2020
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