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A story of spilled seed.
The first time he spilled his seed in vain was during a wet dream that he had on a Saturday afternoon in August shortly after our wedding. We were napping in our separate beds. He turned toward me still asleep, in the dusk and breathed out a sigh of longing. I knew that he was dreaming of me, of my body in my modestly long-sleeved nightgowns, demure and high necked yet outrageously revealing in the light of the morning when the white cotton fabric did a poor job of disguising the shape of my limbs, the rose tinged tips of my breasts and the mysterious dark hollow between my thighs.
We were strangers to each other still, having met for a brief supervised date and married to each other after that one hour long encounter and a six month interval of separation between the engagement and the wedding. We were strangers yes, but we were adolescents still and giving two healthy nineteen-year-olds permission to fuck (albeit with a string of rules and boundaries to go with it. After all it wouldn’t do to have those kids run wild completely, would it?) is one way of getting them to know each other rather quickly.
After that first wet dream, he felt really bad about his rebellious body and went to immerse himself in the purifying waters of the mikvah, three times, three times, for good measure… and after he returned from the ritual bathhouse he looked at me with hurt in his eyes, almost accusingly because:
Why did I have to be such a temptress and why must the marital purity laws be so difficult and the consequences so severe?
Another time, in those early years of living together, still learning how to be with each other, how to love and comfort please and address each other’s needs and desires. We only had two weeks out of each month to explore and engage with each other physically, sexually and two weeks of remote and distant loving, where verbal communication was the maker or breaker of everything that would come after.
We did this this careful and disciplined practice of separation for two weeks out of each monthly cycle, we did this,oh yes we still do this now: no touching, no passing objects, no sharing space on a bench, a couch or a bed. During one of those early endless separation periods it was. I remember him finding me sprawled on my bed in tears, because I had a difficult day at work and there were no arms to comfort me upon my return home. Well, he moved closer and closer to the bed as if pulled by an invisible string to the source of his longing and sat on the floor under where I lay.
That night we breathed on each other deliberately, so close to one another that his breath stirred my eyelashes. We breathed so that the vapor from our mouths mingled like pussy juice and cum. We blew onto each other and pretended that we were fucking. I guess that was the second time the seed was spilled in vain.
More recently, we lay again in our separate beds, this time with endless practice. We were by then resigned to our monthly diet of satiation and deprivation, yet the budding awareness of lack, of loss, of the years that had unspooled behind us, month after month, wait after wait, making us feel the press of time and lost opportunity.
This time I had my shirt buttons open and my nipples brazenly exposed above my loosened lace bra, I had one finger pressing my clit and the other running moisture up and down the lips of my vulva and he? He was in his bed three feet away, hungry eyes on my body devouring the scene, his hand slick with pre-cum, pumping pumping, spilling the wasted seed all over his thighs, why why why, and how did it come to this…to this!? This blatantly, daring, careless disregard for the law, this recklessly impatient lack of self-control?
We were on a slippery cum slick slide to perdition, he and I, and it kept getting worse.
A month later he was standing over me still not touching, but he had his fly unbuttoned and his cock in hand and warm semen was spilling over his fist and onto my naked body, while I lay like a wanton, like Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, a veritable bitch in heat yearning for the simplest of contact for the merest whisper of his touch, for his hands on my burning body but having to settle for this… almost act.
This was sex in every way that mattered except one, there was still no touching, no crossing the great forbidding divide to lay his body upon mine and his cock in my pussy.
Still with his warm cum over my tits and throat, I felt the clawing suffocation of guilt wash over me. Icy tendrils of guilt accompanied the spilled seed as it trickled into the crevices of my body.
Because the thing is I knew then and do today that there is a method to this ages old madness, these laws of separation. The passion, the sexual energy is rekindled by the forced separation, I suspect that were we to have access to each other without boundaries and limitations, the chances are good that we would not find each other after two decades of marriage, so intriguing and desirable. On the other hand we are more than partners by now. We are soul mates fused to each other with shared tears, blood, sorrow, joy, love and pain, and to imagine that we cannot be trusted to touch each other when we need to, can feel limiting and frustrating to an extreme.
I know what you are thinking, because I am sure by now you are, he can still to this day swear on all that is holy before God our witness, because isn’t that the real truth? Only God is our witness in the privacy of our bedroom anyway, that while I was in the Niddah period he has never laid hands on me. So how can you pray- tell on us- to God? Because after all is said and done there has been no penetration no desecration of Biblical injunction, he did not, as the Bible states, ‘lay with her as a man does with a woman’.
He has not, but listen to this:
Last week I had my glass cock in my pussy, writhing on the bed in a hectic and flagrant display and He? He had his cock buried first in a condom! And then deep inside our shared lover’s snatch. She said, as I watched him move above her in the bed next to mine, “Wait, hold on a minute, isn’t there a problem with you guys passing me, a person, to each other? Because you sure are passing me around…” And then she roared with laughter and we laughed with her because, a suspicion was dawning on us that this sort of passing was the opposite of what the Talmudic sages intended when they instituted the sacred separation laws.
We had found the ultimate loophole because I was making out with her, and she in turn was fucking him, but all said, we had still not laid hands on each other, we had found a way to love, to touch, to explore and to fuck. Without laying with each other at all. I was not with him, we were both fucking her without touching each other, fucking in spite of the immutable, impenetrable, no-fucking-allowed laws, fucking my glass cock, and our sweet partner…no one said anything about that!!! Fucking with the sacred, thousand year old laws of separation. May God forgive us, our grave sins of omission, and the years of wasted spilled seed.