Hidden Truths

Disclaimer: The following story, and all characters, are my intellectual property. Please ask me if you wish to use anything. Thank you!

Author\'s Note: This story is a repost, after some editing, from the read only archive. Please let me know what you think!

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I watched his reaction to my words. His hazel eyes had always lured me in, given me at least some glimpse of his emotional state, though his words never would, since the colors of those eyes would run from deep blue to fire yellow. This time, however, I would have to guess. He had closed his eyes as soon as I told him. At first he was frozen, almost as though time had stopped the moment the last of the words dripped from my lips. Then his entire body had puffed up, his shoulders becoming wider, his chest thicker, even his height seeming to increase by an inch or two. Then, just as quickly, I watched him deflate and sink onto the couch.

We had been sitting in this manner for over ten minutes, him on the couch motionless, and me in the chair, watching his motionless body. The tension I had been feeling before I made the decision to tell him was nothing compared to what was coursing through me now. Regret washed over me in waves.

I had realized, just months into our marriage that what I had just told him was true, and after six long years of internal debate, I decided that he needed to know, and fuck the consequences. Now I knew how important the consequences really were.

The man in front of me, the man I married whom I had carefully shielded from the truth for so long, was the gentlest person I had ever met. With his tall lean figure, strong jaw, piercing hazel eyes and dark red hair, he was handsome. But when you added in that he only ever wore black, Dickies work pants, big boots, tight fitting t-shirts, and skully cap, and then you added the fire-red chops he carefully groomed every day and the tattoos, silver earrings, and studded belt, he looked intimidating. Men I was friends with often told me that the reason they took such good care of me when he wasn’t around was because of the imposing figure he cut when he was. They feared what he might do to them if I was hurt while in their care. He’s like an Irish ruffian, they would say, or a member or the Sein Fenn. It always made me giggle, knowing how sweet he was, to hear others talk of him in that fashion. They didn’t understand that the reason he sat in the darkened corners of the pubs we hung out at and scowled at everyone rather than converse with them was because of how shy he was, how nervous of how people would take him.

As a child, he watched his parents beat the crap out of each other after one or both drank too much, watched his sister, fourteen years his senior, go back to a man who left her with bruises again and again. In the first blushes of our love, he would whisper about that in the dark, the anger he felt when he watched one person injure another, the hurt he felt as though it was him who was struck. He told me of the one time his temper had flared and he had been goaded into attacking another. It was a playground enemy who had laughed at his old and unrepaired clothing, taunting him that not only was his family too poor to buy him new clothes, but that his mother was obviously too drunk to fix those he already had. He had flown at the boy, knocking him onto his back on the grass in the baseball diamond, straddled the boy’s hips and pulled back his arm, only to push it forward again to punch the boy in the face. As his body did this automatically in reaction to the anger coursing through him, his brain recognized the fear in the boy’s eyes, and his fist ground to a halt just before making contact. He had tapped the boy\'s chin with his knuckles, still wanting to teach him a lesson, and then walked away, learning the first valuable lesson in controlling his temper; causing fear does not feel good. The boy had immediately cried, and he learned the second lesson, using someone’s fear does not feel good. And as child, he learned to lock away his passion, since at that age he thought passion and anger were synonymous.

In the beginnings of our romance, as he told me these stories, I had clung to him, telling him how much I loved him. He had come to me after my heart had been trampled on, after my soul had been ripped out by a terrible ending of a first love. I had been in the dark for a year, and he was the first light I had found. We were both young, barely out of high school.

It wasn’t until years later, into our marriage, that I began to understand that my gorgeous freckled hero had needed me to rescue him just as much as I had needed him. With that understanding came another, the truth about how firmly and completely he had locked away his passions. It wasn’t just anger he had put away, it was any emotion that could be felt with fire. Anger, yes, but also love, and desire.

As he had sworn that he would never hurt another physically, he had also taught himself to never lose control of his emotions. He would never declare himself to me, never write flowery words of passion, and never take control in bed, no matter how much I begged. Even when he initiated making love, he always let me set the pace. And one in particular lesson I learned early on, when I had tried to gain his attention by leaving him before I came running back and we married, he would never fight for me, it was my decision, stay or go. Again, understanding only came later, and in increments.

In the last two years of our marriage, I made the final connection that his hard won control had come with another barricade to our intimacy: He would not risk his heart. The shyness, the nervousness at what people might think of him was only a tiny indication of how terrified he was of being hurt. He had built walls so high around his heart that he wouldn’t even make so tiny a decision as to where we should go for dinner, because he was afraid that his suggestion would be rejected. I was the reluctant wearer of the pants in every and all aspects of our relationship.

The truth that I had protected him from was something I knew would confuse him and hurt him. It was something I had never fathomed when we first got together, because I had believed that the absolute opposite was the truth, and I had told him the stories through my eyes so that he would believe it too. And when I realized that I had lied to myself, and then lied to him, it was too late to go back. And so for a few minutes, every day, I would take out my little nugget of truth and examine it, contemplating what it might do, and then I would put it away. And slowly at first, but then more rapidly as I grew older and I gained understanding, the thoughts with which I examined the truth changed, and so did the repercussions of exposing the truth.

And finally, in the last years of our marriage, my little truth would come out to taunt me, with a laugh heard in the distance, a smell as someone walked by me on the bus, or the familiar tilt of a head and expression on a face that was unrecognizable. And more and more I felt it nibbling at my consciousness, and more and more it seeped into my dreams. Until last week, just before I had made the decision to tell my husband the truth, I had a moment of epiphany about why the hidden bit of truth had become so insistent. My husband’s schooled indifference had taken over my life. I, too, had lost my passion, I had lost my love, and I had lost my anger.

As a child, I had loved everyone and everything in the world, I had prayed to my God at night before bed in a childlike whisper to “please take care of all the people in the world, and especially those who can\'t take care of themselves”. As a teenager, I had founded groups to rid the world of pollution, tirelessly trying to find people to join and make vows to recycle, to cut down on aerosol, to take the bus. I had seethed in indignation at bullies who poked fun of those who were different from them, and stood up to boys who were a foot taller and a foot wider than I, standing with my arms crossed and stating through my gritted teeth that if they wanted to pick on this person any more, they would have to “go through me first.” And then, sitting on that odd cusp between childhood and adulthood, I had gotten myself into a situation with a boy that we couldn’t deal with alone. We had enlisted our parents for help, and they had taken away our choices, telling us what we would and would not do. And then mysteriously, though I had needed that boy the most, he was gone. And I, in the confusion that adolescence and hormones bring, blamed him for everything. Not the adults who had treated us like stupid children who had no morals or brains, but him, the boy who was in the exact same circumstances as I.

And then, after a year of that hatred, and sadness, and mistrust of adults, and totally absorbing self loathing, I had come upon my husband. And his calmness, his self-control, protected me from all of the overwhelming emotions that had kept me down for so long. And I came to rely upon his peace.

There had been small moments throughout our relationship, before we were married, when I had gotten snippets of information. I had been told that the boy’s parents had forbidden us. I had been told that the boy was heartbroken. And then, two days before I was married, my bridesmaid told me that the boy had come over, and cried in her arms about how he still loved me, and that he was an idiot, and that he should have fought harder, and that now it was too late. But I hated him, so it didn’t matter.

That was before I realized my truth.

Suddenly, I realized that my husband was looking at me, and his eyes were sharp like glacial ice, and his jaw was twitching as he ground his teeth. And then, just as quickly, it was gone. And I saw nothing in his eyes, nothing in the position of his shoulders or the tilt of his head that would indicate that he cared about what I said. And I watched, as slowly and deliberately he let his eyes go unfocused, so that it appeared as though he was looking through me, and then he reached in front of him, picked up his magazine, and began to read.

“So that’s it? You’re not even going to say anything?” I asked, trying to be gentle, but my anger at him for being so dispassionate for so long was beginning to win out.

He shrugged.

“Do you want me to stay?” And he shrugged again. I stared at him, trying to get him to acknowledge that I was sitting there, that I had just told him something that should have shocked him, should have hurt him, should have forced him to yell at me, or cry, or do something, but he just turned the page in his magazine and continued to read.

“Right. I’m going then. You know where I’ll be if you need me.” I stood up and walked slowly to the door. I stopped just before I got there and shot over my shoulder, “I’ll come by tomorrow while you are at work, to pick up some clothes. For everything else, we will have to discuss a time when we can get together to split property, and who will file the papers.”

I took the last remaining steps to the door, threw back the deadbolt and reached for the doorknob. Suddenly, there were hands against the door, holding it shut, and a very hard, very stiff body pressed against my back.

“I know you still fucking love him,” his voice growled against the back of my head. “I’ve known since long before you realized it, when you were telling me what had happened between you, and you told me you hated him, and you made me promise to hate him too.” As he had said this, his voice had lowered into a low, silky whisper, and I shivered because I had never heard this much emotion in his voice.

“I promised you I would, but I had my own motives for it. I knew that he had gotten your heart, and your body first, and I hated him for that.” The last words were spoken so softly, I wouldn’t have been able to hear them if he hadn’t moved his lips so they were against my ear. I trembled as I felt his breath against the side of my face, as I heard the anger and hatred in his voice.

“I hate him for that still,” he ground out, and with the last word, his hips shoved me into the door, our bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder. My breath caught in my throat. And then, he started to whisper, his voice and his lips caressing my neck interchangeably.

“For ten years, you have stayed with me. You have loved me. You have made love to me, and I have let you,” as he breathed out these words, his lips and tongue had been moving down from my ear, to my jaw, to my collarbone and back up. When I felt his teeth on my earlobe, pulling lightly, but swiftly enough to cause a little pain, I let out my breath quickly and my eyes flew open. I was unaware that I had shut them.

He widened his legs, and wrapped them around mine, his hips still pinning my lower body to the door. Slowly, his left hand came off the door, and insinuated itself between that hard surface, and my body, until it came to rest in a firm grip around my waist. His right hand eased itself off the door and gripped my shoulder, pulling my upper body fiercely against his chest, and then it began its descent toward the buttons of my blouse.

“For years,” his voice was now caressing my other ear, “You have tried to get me to raise my voice, to argue, to strike back, to lose control both outside of the bedroom and in it.” His words were coming out deliberately slowly, the tempo of his sentence matching that at which he unbuttoned my shirt. I was trembling now, there was no hiding it. I was extremely apprehensive, nervous, and scared. This man, encased in that familiar body, surrounded by that familiar smell, and speaking in that familiar voice, was no one that I knew. And so I was scared. But God help me, I was also trembling with desire. The heat between my legs was becoming unbearable, and I could feel the dampness starting.


Without warning, his hips were pressing almost unbearably hard against me, forcing my own so hard into the surface of the door that I knew there would be bruises on the bones, and both of his hands were ripping the shirt off of my shoulders, pulling both sides down just enough that my elbows were still covered, and my arms were essentially bound. I gasped, audibly, and shockingly, I heard him chuckle. A mean, hard, quiet chuckle, which I had never heard come from him before. Softly, his hands took both of mine into them, and placed them up against the door, close to where his own had been just a few minutes before. “Don’t move those,” he commanded, but he needn’t have worried, my shock at this situation had rendered me powerless to control even the most basic of movements.

“For years, you have tried in so many different ways to get me to show you how I feel, and I never have. I learned long ago, if I didn’t let anyone in, I wouldn’t get hurt, and neither would they.” As he spoke those words, his hands were leaving hot trails over my shoulders, down my arms, and across my back, and around to my breasts. And then suddenly, as his hands were kneading my breasts, and pinching my nipples, and he was no longer using his mouth to make words. Instead, he was kissing and licking fiery paths on my neck, my shoulders, my back, and I was panting with the feelings this was causing.

“I have never understood it, the need to be that close to someone. I have never desired that sort of intimacy. I have never known that kind of trust. I always believed that love might be about some day letting go.” His voice was soft this time, tender, and heart-wrenchingly pained. As he was speaking these words, he was gently removing first one, and then the other sleeve from my hands, finally dropping my blouse to the floor next to us. He placed my hands back on the door, and then moved his hands back to the clasp of my bra. “I have a confession to make too,” he whispered against my ear sweetly. “Last night I read your journals.” And with that, he removed my bra, gripped my shoulders, spun me around, and slammed me against the door again.

“And now I understand what you needed.” And with that, his lips crashed against mine, and his teeth bit into my lower lip, pulling my mouth open before his tongue forced its way in. His hips were grinding into mine, and I was shocked with the volts of lust that were running through me as this body that I had come to know as well as my own was doing something so unrecognizable. Moans were escaping my throat as I realized this was unbelievably, impossibly, and actually happening.

His lips were moving across my jaw, and then his teeth were biting sharply into my neck, every bite followed by a few soothing licks from his tongue, before the short pain would come again somewhere else. His right hand was painfully squeezing my breast, his fingers pinching and pulling and twisting my nipple, while his left hand was wrenching up my skirt, until it was a twisted bundle around my waist.

When his hand went in between my legs, fingers roughly shoving aside my panties and forcing their way inside me, I let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a moan. I had never been this turned on.

He laughed against my shoulder as he felt my wetness, “Oh, and this is what you needed.” His voice was a snarl, and even that made me groan. It only took his thumb finding my clit, and I was choking out incoherent words in one of the most powerful orgasms I had ever experienced. As the waves of pleasure subsided, his hands were gently caressing me, one softly swirling around my wet cunt, the other gently rubbing my breast. He smiled softly at me, and kissed me, his tongue caressing my lips.

And then he was sucking on my neck leaving a mark, which he never did. And as he finished that, he said “You don’t get to leave me for him, you’re mine.” My panties were ripped from my body and tossed to the floor to join my blouse, and his hands were on my hips, then my thighs. He lifted me effortlessly, roughly, and ground his still clothed erection against me.

“Is this what you wanted?” He demanded, and I moaned in response. He roughly rubbed his cheek against mine, the hairs of his chops scratching me, bringing me back to attention. “Is this what you wanted?” he said even more forcefully.

“Yes,” I gasped.

“Good,” he smiled, and awkwardly shoved one hand between us to undo his belt, unzip his pants, then shove those and his boxer briefs down just enough to free himself. As he thrust himself roughly into me, he said “Because somehow, as much as I tried to avoid it, you fucking got in. And now I can’t let you go.” And his lips were on mine again.

And there he was, my sweet, gentle, docile, impassionate husband, fucking me angrily against our front door, after having bruised me in more than one place, and on purpose no less. And I was dying with the pleasure of getting everything I had ever wanted out of him in one forceful, passionate moment. My hips were moving against his, I was using the door to brace myself as I pushed into his thrusts. As he was biting and sucking and licking my neck and my shoulder, I ripped open his shirt and began to return the favor.

Our movements became more erratic, our bites harder and more sloppy. I came hard as I felt him bite hard enough to draw blood, calling out his name, and the waves of my orgasm pushed him over the edge as well. Slowly, as we regained ourselves, my feet slid to the floor as he came out of me, and I felt his tongue soothing the bloodied teeth mark he had left on my shoulder. I was breathing heavily and kissing his chest, relishing in the pleasure he had given me, both from the sex, and the fact that he had finally opened up, when I realized he was crying. In all these years, I had never seen him cry.

I pulled back and put my hands on his cheeks, rubbing his tears away with my thumbs.

“What, what is it? What’s wrong?” I asked gently, softly.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked, his eyes shut tight. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” I tried not to let my body show the reaction my heart felt at that moment. He regretted it, he regretted doing this, and we were going to go right back to where we started. He was going to shut me out again because of a few bruises and teeth marks he’d left in the throes of passion.

And then he opened his eyes and looked into mine, and I saw the desperate, frightened, regretful heartbreak there, his eyes a deep sea green I had never seen in them before.

“I should have told you long before now how painfully much I love you,” he said.

And then I was crying with him.