Angela a love story
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Angela Tells Her Story free porn video
Prologue.
To begin with, I should like to point out that the ‘Ang’ in ‘Angela’ is pronounced like the ang in angle, and not ‘Anj.’ She was of European origin and liked her name to be pronounced in the manner of her country. Angela was not her real name, but she still had problems getting people to pronounce her real one in the way she preferred.
Angela told me her story, or at least part of her story, when she was seventy-six and I was living with her. She asked me to write it down, and when I said I would like to make it public, she gave me permission, provided I used pseudonyms and I was not too specific with geographical names and places. She died at eighty-two, and I have waited until now to release this little summary account of what she told me.
A Brief Angelic Description.
As I have indicated, Angela was of European origin, and came from one of those parts of that continent where children are brought up fairly sternly. She was tall and handsome, with the most glorious blonde hair I have ever seen. Not the thin frizzy type of hair, but thick, strong hair, worn at shoulder length, and it shone and swung as she walked. She had intense blue eyes set in a slightly elongated heart shaped face. She had a manner some thought a little austere and it sometimes put people off from approaching her, but as I shall relate, this manner only masked a very compassionate and loving person.
Until the end of her life her back was ramrod straight and even with the pain she suffered in her last few years, she walked and sat with elegant grace. She was a very cultured woman, having wide academic and practical interests, and for any one whom was capable of intelligent conversation, a delight to be with.
I had known Angela for decades, and so some of the details of the following story are in fact drawn from my own experiences with, and observations of, this graceful lady. Never the less, what I shall now relate in the first person are essentially her words and details.
As Angela Told It.
I was born and brought up in a European country. My family was financially very well off, and they sent me to the best schools, and finally to university. My going to university had nothing to do with a future profession or career. Quite a few girls in those days used the university education as a sort of finishing school.
It was anticipated that I would marry, as they said then, ‘Well.’ By that, they meant I would marry into a rich family that would be seeking an equally rich, well-educated and cultured girl as a wife for a son. In addition, the preferred girl would be reasonably good looking, strictly brought up, a virgin and religious. As to the good looks, I leave others to judge, but I qualified in most of the other departments, at least, I did until my third and final year at university.
One of the subjects I was studying brought me into the orbit of a young lecturer, for whom all those who are supposed to know about these things predicted a brilliant academic career. As well as his academic brilliance, he had a scintillating, exuberant personality. To be in his presence was to fall under the spell of his charm and to be inspired by him.
He was twenty-eight and unmarried when I first knew him, and rumour had it that many of the female students had given way to his persuasiveness, and lost their virginity to him as a result. How he did not get into trouble with university authorities, I do not know. I did hear one story that claimed the father of one girl had challenged him to a duel, but if it ever happened, he obviously survived it, and I never saw anything that looked like a scar on him.
He was not especially good looking, not ugly you understand, but it was his vitality and charisma that bewitched. That is how I came to be – to use a phrase common at the time – ‘Ruined.’ To put it another way, I was distinctly devalued in the marriage market.
As my final university year progressed I found myself called frequently to meetings with the Herr Doctor, or ‘Carl,’ as I later came to call him. The first meeting with him was for a perfectly legitimate review of some work I had submitted to him. Following meetings seemed to be needless, and he was hard put to give them any substance. Whatever the vague reason given for the meeting, we always ended up on a personal note, most times with me talking about myself.
No doubt, I could have challenged these calls into his presence, but the truth is, I did not want to, especially as it made the other girls so envious. Looking back, I can see I was caught like a fly in his spider web. I was about to be devoured, and I loved it.
His first physical contact with me was via a rather old fashioned kissing of my hand as we said goodbye. At following meetings, he progressed to my cheek, and finally my lips. At that point, I was completely undone. A somewhat painful and undignified splitting of my hymen took place with me bent over his office desk. Unromantic, was it not?
The story was that once the girl’s hymen fell victim to his manly endeavour, he lost all further interest. This did not happen to me. I continued to get summonses to attend him and now there was no further pretence that he had any other reason than to continue an ever more ardent sexual relationship.
I admit it was not one sided. We could not leave each other alone. We progressed from his office to his apartment. We made further progress when instead of an evening together I stayed all night. The finale came when he claimed he could not live without me, and would I marry him? ‘Yes, yes, yes.’
My family was broken hearted. I, who was destined to marry the son of a rich industrialist or businessman, had elected to form a union with a lowly academic. They stormed, pleaded, threatened and cajoled. I was unbending. Of course, I did not inform them of my now unmaidenly condition, and when they finally concluded that they could not dissuade me, they reconciled themselves to the inevitable.
‘After all, he is prominent in the Church, and he does have a promising future,’ pronounced my father. And from my mother, ‘He is very charming.’ So went the litany, and I sometimes thought that my mother, if she had the offer, would have jumped into bed with Carl.
We married and settled into Carl’s apartment. The promise of a brilliant academic future began to be fulfilled. Shortly after our marriage, Carl was offered a professorial position in a prominent university. We moved, and then began his rise to international fame.
As I discovered, Carl had an encyclopedic mind. His knowledge of subjects far beyond his own specialisation was enormous. There are people who have that sort of mind, but can do little with it but regurgitate facts. Carl had the gift of being able to bring his vast knowledge and insight into a synthesis.
It was this ability to bring together and make sense of disparate material for which he became renown. At this time he began the publication of his works that went on right up until his death. In addition, as the years went by he was called upon to address public gatherings, engage in radio and later television interviews, to attend seminars, and lecture all over the world.
Then an event took place that threatened to destroy this brilliant career. Our country had been in political ferment for a number of years, and as a result, an oppressive dictatorship came to power. Carl held political views abhorrent to the new order, and he was dismissed from his university post, and we escaped over the border, probably just ahead of being arrested.
For a few weeks, Carl was out in the wilderness, but then there was the offer of a position at an overseas university. He took it, and it was from this base that his fame began to spread.
At the personal level our marriage continued much the same as before we married. Our sex life continued enthusiastically. I was deeply in love with Carl, and I thought he was with me. We burned for e
ach other.
There are those who hold the view that someone like Paul, the genius academic, has little or no interest in matters sexual, unless to subject them to microscopic and dispassionate study. I cannot claim to have a wide experience of such males, other than Carl, but such as I have, and from general observation, I say this view is wrong.
People like Carl have enormous energy, and this spills over into their sexuality. If anything, they are far more active sexually than less gifted people. There were times when Carl sought me out three, and even four times a day, for sex. And if he did not seek me, I sought him. When Carl started to make extended trips to lecture in distant places, he would take me with him, on the grounds that he could not manage without me sexually.
This continued until we had been about two years in our new country. It was then Carl began to show less and less interest in me. At first, I put this down to familiarity. I assumed that this is what happened to most couples after they had been together for some time.
My own ardour had not diminished, and this of course made for a very painful emotional situation for me. I was still deeply in love with Carl and a great admirer of his work, so in an attempt to absorb some of my sexual energy I threw myself into supporting him in any way I could.
Having had a university education myself, I did prove useful to Carl in arranging his notes and editing his writings. It was immensely satisfying work, but then a new factor entered into the situation. Carl began to suggest that perhaps I would rather not come on the trips with him. ‘It will be a bit of a bore for you, and I shall be all right.’
He got ever more pressing with his suggestions that I should not accompany him, and even went to the length of piling work on me saying, ‘This has got to be done urgently. Please stay behind so you can have it ready when I get back.’
This did not please me, but I thought nothing ill of it until I made the first discovery.
Carl was off on a month’s overseas lecture tour, leaving me at home. As part of my self-imposed tasks, I was trying to clear up his as usual chaotic desk. Beneath a pile of papers, I came upon a sheet of pink notepaper. This was not the sort of paper one normally finds on an academic desk, so it aroused my curiosity. I began to read it.
What I read almost caused me to collapse. It was a love letter from a girl, who later proved to be one of his students. I do not weep easily, but I sat at the desk and the tears rolled down my cheeks. I was utterly dumbfounded. My Carl, who had wanted me so badly he had married me, was now getting his satisfactions elsewhere.
All sorts of thoughts whirled through my mind. ‘How long had this been going on?’ ‘Had he taken her on the tour with him?’ ‘Were there others?’ This last thought led me on to another train of thought. I am not normally a sneaky sort of person, but in my desperate and unhappy state, I was capable of anything, and I recalled his private draw.
There was one draw in his desk Carl always kept locked, and he made a point of carrying the key with him. I had asked him about this draw, but only got some mumbled answer about special research.
The lock was in fact quite a commonplace one, so I got every key in the house and tried them out on it. Eventually I clicked it open with a wardrobe key. What I found was what I now suspected I would find. It was filled with packets of love letters from, and poems to, a host of girls. Carl had gone back to his old ways before I met him.
When he returned I waited for him to go into his study and make discovery of my search. I had not relocked the drawer, and had not replaced the letters and poems. He gave me the perfunctory kiss that was now his habit and went into the study with his brief case.
I stood in the hallway opposite his study door. It took some time for him to emerge. He was surprised to see me standing there but his surprise did nothing to diminish his obvious fury.
‘Someone has broken into my desk and stolen papers,’ he roared. I took my hand from behind my back with the papers in it. I dropped them at his feet. He looked at them without attempting to pick them up. ‘You?’ he choked out. ‘Yes, me,’ I said icily.
He said nothing for a moment, and I maintained silence. Then he began, ‘How dare you, how dare you break into my private drawer, you sly bitch. You underhanded cow. Who gave you the right to pry into my desk? You have the morals of a nasty little housemaid….’
I let him rant and rave. The self-control and discipline of my childhood and youth reasserted itself. The self-respect I had forsaken that day long ago when I bent over Carl’s desk, now returned to me. As I looked at him, his face contorted with fury, his shouted insults and oaths, the old appeal died. The charm and persuasiveness that had won many other girls and me was gone. I let him go on until he could hear himself and thus reach the point of feeling ridiculous. He spluttered into silence.
I walked away saying, ‘I shall make some coffee.’
He followed me into the kitchen and sat as I started the coffee making. ‘Well, haven’t you got anything to say,’ he snarled. ‘What is it you want me to say, Carl,’ I said quietly. ‘Should I say you have betrayed me? Should I say you have the moral maturity of an infant? No, that would be to slur the infant.’
He cut in, but this time he spoke quietly in his ‘reasonable’ voice, his wise professorial voice. ‘Darling,’ I looked up sharply at this superfluous endearment. He hesitated for a moment and then went on. ‘We are not living in the Dark Ages. Sexual mores have changed. We have the open marriage today. We are both free to engage in sexual relationships outside our marriage bond. We have excellent contraceptive methods, we don’t have to fear unwanted pregnancies outside marriage.’
And so he went on, mouthing the contemporary nonsense about sexual morality. He explained at some length about the sexual habits of certain animals, to prove that multiple sexual partners is okay. I could not resist the retort, ‘I hear that swans mate for life. So what? We are human beings and have our own standards.’
As he went on and on I felt a mixture of contempt and pity for him. Here was a man of immense intellectual ability talking pathetic rubbish.
In the end, it all boiled down to what I was going to do. He had reason to fear my actions, because if I spoke out, he might well be ruined in his special academic field. He need not have worried about that. Those bodies concerned with maintaining his ‘spotless’ reputation did find out about his sexual behaviour, and having a strong self-interest in his international reputation, went to great lengths to cover up, repeatedly.
I had had time to consider what my attitude would be and how I should act. There was both an unselfish and selfish motive in my decision.
On the unselfish side, I believed very strongly in Carl’s work. He was having a profound influence both inside his specialty and beyond it. To many that read his works and heard his lectures, he was giving new insights and hope. There were also many, especially academic rivals, who would seek any chance to tear him down.
There was greatness in Carl, and I thought of the definition of great tragedies like those of William Shakespeare, ‘The downfall of a great man because of one fatal flaw in his character.’
I recalled talking to one of Carl’s colleagues, a Church Historian, at a social gathering. We had got around to discussing the flaws in some of the ‘Giants’ of the Church. He said, ‘It always seems a pity to me that the Church goes to such great lengths to cover up those flaws. After all, the real miracle is that God can use this flawed material to achieve his ends. And who is not flawed anyway?’
I thought of the great people of power who for all their moral shortcomings had still achieved worthwile things. I thought, ‘If someone
points to a grand truth, does it cease to be the truth because he has his penis in a vagina he is not supposed to have it in?’
My conclusion was that I could not bring Carl down because he engaged in acts of sexual infidelity.
On the selfish side, I thought of my position. If I broke with Carl, I had no financial worries. My parents had endowed me well when I got married. As my father said, ‘You’d better have some money of your own if you’re going to marry an academic.’ In fact, Carl was doing very well with his salary and the income from his books, broadcasts and public appearances. But at least I did not need to stay with him for monetary reasons.
My reasons for doing what I did really stemmed from three factors. First, I did not want to openly admit I had made a bad error of judgement. Second, my position as Carl’s wife gave me social contacts I might not have apart from him. Third, I had been enjoying the editing work I did for Carl, and saw myself as doing the same work for others. Being close to the university put me in an excellent position to get that work. In other words, I was too comfortable to want to disturb the situation.
Sitting opposite Carl at the kitchen table, I calmly, and probably coldly, told him what my intentions were. ‘I shall stay here as you wife. I shall run your house, entertain your colleagues and students, and continue to help with your work. On the other hand, I shall never again sleep with you, I shall not even occupy the same bedroom as you. I shall not interfere with what you do, you shall not interfere with what I do. If that is clear, and you agree, that is how it will be as far as I am concerned. If not…’
I saw the look of relief pass over his face. I had presented him with a situation that suited his purpose, and he accepted readily.
So the years passed by and Carl and I never again had sexual relations. He had his girls, even brought them to the house and his bedroom. I remained cold and indifferent, playing the game of wife, and developing my own pattern of life.
I suppose to be fair to Carl, he was essentially no different from many other men and women who take – perhaps even need – many sexual partners. They become bored with one partner. If this is a weakness in their character the perhaps they deserve sympathy, but I was a one man woman, and could not accept Carl’s sexual behaviour and continue a sex life with him.
I could have taken lovers of my own. I saw enough sly eyes weighing up my sensual possibilities, but I remained aloof. The wound had gone too deep.
It was Carl’s custom to twice a week have meetings with his most outstanding students. These gatherings took place in our house, and it was part of my function to provide food and drink. I usually sat in on these occasions to listen to their discussions around obscure and difficult matters, and participated if I felt I had a point to make. I suppose these brilliant students had really come to ‘sit at the feet of the master.’
There was one particular student, Mark, whom Carl declared to be the most outstanding he had ever had. The only trouble was, Mark was the most painfully shy young man I had ever met. His contributions at the discussions were few, but when he did speak, he always cut right through to the important aspect, showing profound insights. When he had made his point he seemed to disappear through the floor in mist of bashfulness.
He was a lovely young man, tall, slim, and with a very gentle manner. I found out that he came from a very poor family, and had got to university on his own merits. Carl thought Mark should eventually take his place among the next generation of outstanding thinkers, but his reticence would make it difficult for him.
One of the most touching things about Mark as far as I was concerned, was a sort of dog-like devotion to me. When I was about to go and get the food and drink, he was there to help me. When it came to clearing up, he was there. In fact, during those evening sessions, wherever I was, Mark was there, looking at me with his soft brown eyes.
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