Chapter 19
Raimond sat in stunned silence. He had listened for a difficult, broken half hour to his wife trying to tell him of the horrible experience she'd been through. She was wearing a thick dressing gown. She had taken a number of baths since the assaults as if to wipe clean the symbolic stain. She was sore and she ached and her heart was still heavy with shame. Nonetheless she had told her husband everything that had happened and he had listened without a word, his face changing every so often, and once he had taken her hand.
Now he sat, at the end of her recital, overcome with a sense of tragic remorse. She had undergone this not because of his investigations into the nationalists as she believed, but because of his extra-marital relations with the nationalist leader's girl friend. One always had to pay for everything. Somehow one always paid. While he had been happily fucking away, plundering the bodily delights of Rolande, this situation had been building up as from his own hand by which his wife was not only raped, but buggered and beaten to exhaustion.
He stood up then and took her in his arms, speechless, and she clung to him as if she had been frightened he might have renounced her.
Pictures began to form in his mind of these greasy Algerians toying with her body, all of them naked. He saw her tied helplessly to the bed while with lewd words and gestures they thrust their dirty pricks up her cunt and her ass, hurting her, making her cry out with pain. He remembered, once again, the American of years gone by. Every "adventure" she had was one of force. He got a nasty little chill in the pit of his stomach.
"I'll kill them with my hands for this," he muttered after a time. "I want them to die slowly, in agony."
On his insistence, she reluctantly gave him a full description of each man as far as she could remember them. One of them, a vicious-eyed one, he remembered from a previous description. He pictured them well from her description and he thought of them naked as she had seen them. He began to ask more questions about the way they had treated her, what they had said, how she had struggled how many times they'd assaulted her. The details began to make his stomach and loins contract. The thought of her being forced to submit, gasping and helpless, made him begin to flush with a self-torturing excitement.
He began to stroke her with his hands. He wanted her. He couldn't bear to think the last sexual relations she'd had had been with these violent, rapist Algerians.
He kissed her and stroked her and opened the dressing gown. They went to a divan and, unable to wait to take off his clothes, he pulled his penis out and put her hand on it.
When he started to slip gently and purposefully into her orifice, she clung to him desperately as if she, too, wanted with this act to wipe out all that had gone before.