Chapter 8
The year that had passed since Tom's death seemed to have no effect on Shelly's beauty nor her desire to share her bed with a man. She now had exactly what she wanted-steady income from the insurance and Wymore Enterprises and all the freedom her passion-greedy heart desired.
She still maintained a facade of respectability, mostly during the day, with her activities in women's clubs, but she was watchful for the man who could thrill her, feed her ego and satisfy her ever-increasing hunger for sex.
And she had been quite successful in her conquests. Many men came and went, many men, but none stayed for longer than one night for that's all it required for Shelly to satisfy herself. Once they were out the door, Shelly never allowed them her company again, either as a casual date or in her bedroom. She appeared to be striving for some type of record although she had lost count long ago.
Ronald Henning had been her latest. Not the last, for she would continue with her man-trap game and sexual conquest for quite some time. However, Ronald Henning had brought out something entirely different in Shelly-the desire to hurt, to strike back at those who fell into her trap and hurt the woman, the anonymous wife, who was content with housework, children and all the other aspects of a respectable life.
This attitude was hard for even Shelly to explain. Perhaps it was gradually gnawing at her that others had something she had been unable to hold. Maybe sex no longer was the dominant factor. Maybe it never had been, for Shelly had always taken greater pleasure in the chase than in the actual sexual conclusion. It was as though she were standing on top of the world, shouting defiantly and triumphantly that she could get any man she wanted.
In order to avoid unfavorable public opinion, Shelly moved from the small town of Wildwood into Chicago. Here, where she was not known and could frequent many different bars, she again set out on her almost nightly patrols of the bars, seeking victims, flirting, teasing, going to bed.
Shelly was now almost forty and the years had done little to either her face or her figure. Nor had they dulled her craving for the seduction she carried out so capably. But the culmination of the chase-the sex act itself-was losing more and more of its flavor. Shelly was not too concerned over this development. She should have been. It cost her dearly.
Amos Beach, a rather plumpish, distinguished man in his late forties, sat down the bar from Shelly at the Hi-Lo Lounge. In the mirror on the back bar he watched Shelly as she sat alone, sipping a drink and drawing slowly on a cigarette. He noticed the long, slender fingers, the beautifully-molded features, the provocative lips and the haunting, mysterious eyes. The eyes seemed to be probing, seeking, dragging the area like a spider watching its net. Intrigued, Amos found himself completely enthralled by this woman who had the figure of a teenager.
Shelly knew Amos Beach was watching. She applied herself wholeheartedly to the process of seduction, rolling her eyes, working her mouth, pushing her chest forward. Graceful in her movements, she carefully baited the man-trap. She knew Amos Beach would soon be at her side.
Finishing her drink, Shelly carefully withdrew some money from her purse and laid it on the bar. In the mirror, she could see this strange, inquisitive little man watching her. She looked down at the single crumpled bill, frowned, withdrew it slightly, then shrugged and pushed it forward toward the bartender.
The bartender picked up her empty glass and went to the middle of the bar and began mixing her drink. When he returned, he jerked a thumb toward Amos Beach and said, "This one's on the gentleman down there."
Shelly looked appropriately puzzled for a moment, then turned slowly and smiled at the man who had bought the drink. She nodded slightly in acknowledgement and held her drink up in a brief salute.
There were three other couples at the bar and two men at the far end. Amos Beach did not take his eyes off Shelly. He watched her take a sip, then slowly slid off the stool and made his way to her side.
"Hello," he said casually, adjusting the stool while he put his drink and cigarettes on the bar. "Hello," Shelly said. "Thanks for the drink."
"Forget it."
"I just want to say I'm not in the habit of accepting drinks from strangers but tonight, well, I, ah...."
"I know," he said without looking at her. "You're lonesome. Right?"
"You mean it shows?"
"I can always tell. I've been watching you. You seem lost."
"Oh? I didn't mean to wear my troubles where they'd show."
"It's best not to," Amos said. "Better to get them off your chest sometimes." He spoke in a clipped, coarse manner, without a show of ex pression on his face. "What's your trouble? Husband?"
"Well, ah, sort of," Shelly lied. She frowned deeply as though pained by some imaginary marital discord.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said. "Married life gets to be a drag at times."
"It's not that. It's, well, I don't have a husband ... anymore."
"Oh ?" he said, brightening suddenly. He turned halfway around on his stool and looked at her for a long time.
"What happened?" he asked bluntly.
"He, ah, died...."
"Yeah? Gee, that's too bad. Just happened?"
"Not long ago," she said. She looked at her drink, bit her lip. There was a pained expression on her face, and she suddenly turned away.
"Aw, gee, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up nothin' that would bother you." Now his tone changed to one of genuine sorrow for the woman he thought he had offended. He patted her hand affectionately. Shelly looked down at his hand, noticed it a pudgy pink paw that hadn't as yet removed itself from hers. Amos Beach's hands did not excite her. She pictured what he would look like without his clothes on with his body white and flabby. She imagined what he would feel like as they lay naked together. The thought was not a pleasant one.
She could see him still looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She turned to look at him.
With a long lingering glance, she noticed that he was well dressed and evidently prosperous. She liked his friendly, ingratiating smile even though the thought of his naked body turned her off.
Amos was waiting with a hopeful, expectant smile, and when she did nothing but smile back at him, he pawed nervously at the pack of cigarettes on the bar and lit one. He offered her one. She shook her head, as though her grief wouldn't allow even this small vice.
When she felt she had waited an appropriate time, she reached over and patted his fat hand affectionately. "Thanks."
"That's okay, baby."
Shelly sipped her drink slowly, wondering about the fat little man beside her. A sudden shiver shook her body and, with a quick motion, she set her drink down and moved one of her legs so her knee touched his leg. He did not move but pressed his leg ever so lightly against her knee. Shelly could hear his breathing become heavier, and when she looked at him, she could see his eyes had turned bright and glassy.
So enthralled was she that she felt her own pulse beating faster. The power she had possessed all her life had not left her, and a feeling of deep satisfaction spread through her.
For the next fifteen minutes they talked about many things, leaving the main subject of what both had come for un mentioned. It was a game, a game that went just so far before all preliminaries were taken care of. Eventually, if the man didn't bring up the subject of sex, the woman would have to. Shelly would have her way, of course, and she knew exactly how to handle it. It must not be too forward nor too innocent unless, of course, the man was too shy or the woman was overly desperate. Either way could frighten her prey from the web. Casually, carefully, she must creep ever closer to the entrapped male until, without either of them knowing exactly how it had come about, they would find themselves in bed together.
"Would you like to tell me about your husband?" Amos asked kindly.
"Oh, he was all right. Only thing wrong with him was that he wasn't a man."
"How do you mean that?"
"Well," she smiled, "there were a lot of things he couldn't take care of."
"Like you?"
"Mainly me," she said slowly and thoughtfully. "Do you need a lot of taking care of?"
"Sometimes."
"Is this one of those times ?"
"It could be," she teased.
When Shelly was satisfied she had had enough to drink, she suggested they go to another bar. Feigning slight drunkenness, she allowed Amos to take her by the arm and support her as they walked unsteadily out the door.
"Do you have a car?" she asked.
"Yeah, down this way."
"Do you think it would be a good idea to drive right now? I mean, we might get stopped. That wouldn't look good for you if your wife found out you were out with another woman."
Pleased over this considerate observation, Amos said, "You're right. What do you suggest? I sure don't need any more to drink."
"Isn't there some place we can go for awhile?" she asked. She put her hand to her head and clutched him as though she could barely walk another step.
"I suppose we could get a room and...."
"And sit and talk?" she asked laughingly.
"I think you know the score, baby. Come on."
She studied him for a moment, tottering back and forth. It would be fun to tease this fat little man. He probably didn't know the first thing about sex in the first place. In the second place, a man that looked like he did didn't deserve being in the same bed with her. She shrugged. "Why not? Might be better if we both sat it out for a while."
After they had found a small hotel and checked in, Shelly entered the room ahead of Amos and snapped on the bright overhead light. She whirled around in the center of the room, her arms spread wide, and giggled childishly. "Wheel" she shrilled. Then she took off her coat and threw it across the room to where Amos was standing, watching half amused. It had been quite a while since he'd had a doll like Shelly in bed. And then he'd had to pay her.
"Better cool the noise bit," he said. "They might toss us out of here."
"I've got to lie down," she giggled. "The room is spinning all over the place." She went to the bed and fell face down on it. She kicked her shoes off as she lay giggling and squirming. There was no sound from Amos, and after a few moments, she turned over to see what he was doing. She saw that he was removing his clothes.
"Oh, now," she said, sitting up and shaking a finger at him. "Not so fast."
"Yeah? I've got to be comfortable when I go to work."
"Just relax and stay over there and keep your clothes on," she said. "And keep the light on, too."
Amos said nothing. He only grinned and continued pulling at his clothing. When he had unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off, he started to take off his pants.
Shelly watched, not knowing for sure how far she could tease him. She noticed little tufts of hair on his pink shoulders and in the small of his back. A large roll of fat overlapped his belt, and with his back to her, she saw his pants suddenly drop to his knees. Without a word, he reached for the light switch and plunged the room into almost total darkness.
Shelly started to get up, started to say something, but Amos was on the bed beside her, pushing her backwards, his strong arms holding her tight while his hands pawed at her breasts.
"W-wait a minute, mister," Shelly managed to stammer. "I didn't come up here for anything like this."
"Oh, come off the bullshit, baby," he panted. "Just relax. Come on, get some of these clothes off." He tugged at her blouse, then grabbed crudely at her legs, trying to run his hand under her skirt. He was heavy and powerful and Shelly, for the first time in her life, found herself unable to cope with the victim in her man-trap. She wanted to scream but thought better of it. To bring the police in on something like this would only cause a nasty scandal and, even if she wasn't known too well in Chicago, she had no desire to have her name in the papers. There would be questions, maybe even pictures. No, she thought, it would be better to try to shame this huge bulk of a man into giving up the struggle.
But Amos Beach was not to be denied. He clawed at her blouse, tearing the buttons loose when he couldn't unfasten them. He pulled at her skirt and pushed her flailing arms. Then, with one quick movement, he pulled the garment off. Just as quickly, he tore off her slip.
Shelly's intentions were to tease this big man, entice him, play with him, and then deny him. But she had picked the wrong victim, she now learned. Amos Beach was not one to be toyed with. He was determined to have her, even if it meant going to the dangerous point of rape. She had played her part too well and now, struggling desperately to free herself, she found herself becoming the unwilling sex partner, a role she had played so often in reverse.
She reached up, felt for his eyes, and rammed her thumbs into the sockets. With a scream of rage, he released her. Then, as though the entire building had suddenly crashed down on her, Shelly felt his powerful fists pounding into her face.
"Why you little bitch!" he growled. "You think you can play me along all evening, bring me up here, and then play hard to get? No way, baby. This is one guy you're not playing that old game on. If you're in the business, what the hell's wrong with you? You look like a whore and act like a whore, so what's with this bit? Is this some kind of new wrinkle you've thought up or what?"
She covered her face with her hands and felt two or three more blows hammer against her hands, then a vicious backhand caught her alongside the head, then another from the other side.
"Don't ... don't ... please don't," she whimpered. "Please!"
"All right, ' baby, that's better," he hissed roughly, pulling her hands away from her face.
"Y-yes," she whispered. "Yes...."
"Now get the rest of them damn clothes off," he growled. He tugged at her bra and panties, impatiently, roughly.
Still whimpering, Shelly pulled off the two garments and dropped them at the side of the bed. Then she lay back, quaking with fear. When his hand clasped one of her breasts, she trembled even more.
"Come here, you little she-devil. I told you to relax. What the hell is this? You want to screw or don't you?"
Again Shelly felt two blows hammer at her head, then the whole room seemed to crash down on her as another of his huge fists smashed against her jaw. The room whirled crazily, flashes of lightning streaked through her brain, and she felt herself slipping into semi-consciousness. She was brought back immediately, however, as he pried her legs apart.
She felt his breath hot on her breasts, kissing, licking, then moving downward on her stomach, then still farther down. She clutched at his hair, trying to pull him up, but he cuffed her hands away, intent on carrying out what he had started.
His face was hot and wet with perspiration. He slipped across her belly, his wide, wet tongue lashing across her flesh hungrily. He slipped down on the bed and put his hands under the cheeks of her ass and lifted her, then plunged his face into her crotch. He lapped across her hairy pussy until she could feel the wetness ooze down between her legs. He probed for the slit, found it. He rammed his face into it and licked at the tender hole.
He raised her up and ran his tongue down the crevice between her ass-cheeks until he came to the tight rosebud of her anus. He probed at the pinched ring until he got the tip of his tongue into it. He bent her legs backwards so that he could get his face deeper into the slightly-haired ravine.
She could hear him grunting and snorting, feel his hot tongue slip into her asshole, then plunge back and forth. She could feel his wet face on her inner thighs and wondered if his entire body was covered with sweat. She could do nothing but submit. She wanted to enjoy what he was doing; no one had ever probed her anus with his tongue before. But he had rocked her with fear and her body failed to respond.
He returned from her anal chamber and went back to licking her cunt. This, she could enjoy. He did it well. He flattened his big tongue and washed over the entire area, sometimes lashing into her with his tongue, then licking her pussylips gently. When he found her clitoris and administered a thorough licking to it, she felt her groin tingle with an oncoming climax. She began to move her hips in the same tempo as his licking.
He reached up and found her breasts. His hands were hard, pinching and squeezing until she hurt. She put her hands on his to ease his rough caress. He nudged her away and growled something unintelligible from the depths of her crotch.
When he was through and she lay limp and half sick with fear, he crawled up beside her and pulled her roughly to him. His fat bulk felt soft and clammy against her and she tried to pull away, thought better of it, and lay still.
"Did you like that?" he panted.
Shelly only groaned. She was too fear-stricken to reply. If he would only get it over with. Get on top of her and get his rocks off so she could get away. But her night of terror was not over yet.
"Now," he said, grasping her hair and pulling her head toward her, "let's see if you like the taste of your own cunt." With that, he pressed his face against hers. His tongue swiped across her lips. She could smell the pungence of her own pussy, taste the blandness of it. He pressed his tongue against her closed mouth, then pried her lips apart and plunged inside.
When he finally took his face away from hers, he said, "There, that wasn't so bad, was it? I always figure it turns a woman on when she gets a taste of her own cunt." He grunted several times which was meant as laughter. "How about you fixing me up with a little suck job?"
"Oh, no! Please ... no ... !"
"Yes, baby, yes," he grunted, thrusting her head downward.
"No," she protested, her lips crushed against his flabby stomach. "No, please. I've never done anything like that. I-I don't want to...."
"Then this is a good time to start," he panted gruffly. He pushed her head onto the lower part of his stomach. She was helpless. Her head and face ached from the beating he had given her. She couldn't resist this huge, powerful, sex-crazed man.
She could smell the sweat of his crotch. She saw his rather thin, reddish-looking cock protruding from the fat of his legs. She wanted to be sick. A harsh pull on her hair made her forget about protesting. He rammed his hips upward and smeared his cock across her face.
"Take it, sweetheart. Suck it for me," he said.
She closed her eyes and moved her face toward the revolting piece of flesh. When she felt its satiny head touch her lips, she opened her mouth and took it in. The skin was over the head, and she found no thrill in having it in her mouth. She moved her mouth up and down on it as he writhed and panted above her. She wished he would come quickly. But each time she felt the cock quiver in her mouth, he held her head so she couldn't move, prolonging his climax each time. She could hardly breathe. Then she wished she could stop breathing altogether. This was not the sex she enjoyed so much. This was raw lust.
His cock was small; she was able to take the entire length of it into her mouth without gagging. She sunk it deep into her throat and then sucked on it with a tight, drawing motion, trying to bring about his orgasm. She slid up to the head and sucked it until she thought she might hurt him. But he was beyond hurt. He was enjoying everything she was doing to him.
And then, with a grunt and a vicious grasping of her hair, he came. His huge bulk shook. He groaned, animal-like. He spurted several slugs into her mouth, then lay back, panting heavily.
Coughing and gagging, she wiped the perspiration from her face with the corner of the sheet. While she did so, she slipped the slight bit of his fluid into the sheet also. Then she fell onto the bed beside him, too weak to move.
"Come on, baby," he said softly, suddenly very pleasant as he had been in the bar, "now let's do it the normal way."
To resist, she knew would be useless. Resignedly, she lay back on the bed and spread her legs. Her entire crotch area felt cool and wet from his slobbering. She felt sick when his hot, sweaty face pressed against hers, demanding kisses, and almost vomited as his tongue again went into her mouth.
When Shelly awoke at three a.m. her head throbbed so badly she thought she would be sick. She lay still for a long time, listening for Amos' breathing, afraid to move for fear he would wake up. But she heard no breathing. Gingerly, she felt in the bed for his body. He was not there. She sat up. She felt her head almost split as the pain bit into her.
She groped for the bedside lamp, turned it on, and looked around the room. There was no sign of him. His clothes were gone and there was no sound in the room. Shakily, she got to her feet and made her way unsteadily to the bathroom.
When she looked in the mirror, she gasped with horror. Her eyes were swollen almost shut, there were large bruises on her jaw and cheeks, and her hair hung in ropelike strands down the side of her head. She hung onto the sink for support and studied the face she had admired so much all her life. Even her body bore bruises and teeth marks and she swallowed hard to keep from being sick. Wavering, she looked once again at her face.
"Well, Shelly," she muttered aloud through puffed lips, "you really picked the wrong guy tonight, didn't you?"
Then, when the full recollection of what had happened returned to her, she dropped to her knees in front of the toilet and vomited until her stomach ached with pain.
As she clung to the cold rim of the toilet bowl, thoughts flashed through her mind, pounding at her brain, destroying her reasoning. Then, after what seemed like hours, she painfully got to her feet and walked into the dingy little room where so much had happened to her. She avoided looking at the bed, averting her eyes as she passed. She walked directly to the window and looked down on the deserted street. She tried to recall where this hotel was located, tried to remember where she'd left her car. Across the way, a small neon sign glared back at her, intermittently blinking on and off, creating a picture of eeriness in the Chicago night.
She parted the dirty lace curtains and pulled at the window, but it did not move. She thought of breaking the glass and hurling herself down onto the sidewalk, five stories below. But she could not find the courage nor the strength. Instead, she stood for a long time, staring down at the street.
When she had washed her face and combed her hair, she found her torn clothing and tried to fit it to herself as best as she could. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped into the hall and walked to the elevator.
In the lobby, she overheard two men talking. One of them, upon seeing her, said, "Holy cow, look at the beat-up hooker!"
The other said, "Yeah, they all get to look pretty rough after a few years in the business."
A hooker? Did she really look like a whore, Shelly wondered. Oh, how awful! That was the one thing she never wanted to be tagged. Surely, she was too pretty to be classed as a common prostitute.