Chapter 3
"Yvonne, I've got to see you."
Suzanne's voice was tense and trembling. She heard her friend sniff into the telephone before replying. "What's the matter? You sound like you're sick."
"I am."
"So what else is new?"
"Yvonne, please."
There was a slight pause and she heard Yvonne inhale deeply. She could picture her holding the receiver to her ear and clamping her cigarette between two fingers like Bette Davis. Dammit, why couldn't she realize it was serious?
"All right, doll. What's the problem?"
"I don't want to talk about it on the phone."
"Oh, dear God. Don't tell me it's Donald."
Suzanne sighed hopelessly.
"Yes."
"Jesus Christ. Did he... I mean?"
"Yes, Yvonne, he did."
"Christ. What about Sam?"
"He was out for the evening. Donald came here last night. He must have stayed an hour or longer. It was"
"Don't tell me. I hope you douched with penicillin."
"Stop it."
"Okay, okay. You going to be on campus today?"
"Yes. I have a one o'clock class."
"All right, I'll meet you for lunch. And Suzanne"
"What?"
"I'm sorry, dear. I really am."
"Thanks. See you at Verne's later."
"Fine. About 11:45, inside."
Suzanne replaced the phone and leaned back against the headboard. Her mind was still reeling from the realization of what had occurred the previous night.
Sam had returned around eleven-thirty, and, immediately he began making overtures. She had pushed him away. She just couldn't bear his hands on her body; not then, not so soon after what she had been through with Donald. He had finally crawled into bed, turned his back on her, and had fallen asleep in a snit. He got up and dressed and left for work without even speaking to her. He knew something was wrong; but how could she possibly tell him that his suspicions were justified? How could she admit the shame she felt, the indefinable mixture of glowing sensual satisfaction and complete remorse?
She lay back, reaching for a cigarette and inhaling deeply, letting the smoke chase some of the tensions away. Her thoughts went back to the previous evening how she had finished thro wing-up and then had climbed into a steamy, hot bath, soaking the tiredness from her limbs (a delicious tiredness, she had to admit); how she had taken care of her sexual hygiene (she had to giggle at Yvonne's comment about the penicillin) and, then, the inspection of herself in front of the mirror. Her back had faint weals across it where Donald's nails had dug-in; but she knew they would be gone in a day, and she didn't anticipate Sam's going over her with a magnifying glass, anyway. Her vagina felt tender but not uncomfortable; in fact, she had to admit she had not had such a complete aura of satisfaction in her genitals for months. Sam was good but he lacked the virility that Donald exhibited, the strong thrusting without regard for tenderness; and Suzanne knew that there was one side of her which responded to this kind of violence. God, why? Was she sexually sick? She'd read about some women who only liked vile sex, to be violated, hurt and degraded. Was she one of those? Why couldn't she settle for the gentle ministrations of her husband, like most other married women? Had her marriage become dull after less than a year? It couldn't have. She loved Sam. She really did love him. But how could she possibly tell him to put more into his love-making without intimating that he was inadequate? She knew no man liked to have his sexuality questioned. Sam gave her enough sex, she could never deny that, but it was the difference between having one satisfying drink every night and going on a bender. Donald was like a three-day drunk all-at-once. Sam was just the dignified martini in the living room before dinner.
Impatiently she stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and slipped out of bed, going to the bathroom to shower before getting dressed for school. She was a little apprehensive about her meeting with Yvonne but, then, she had to talk to someone; and Yvonne was the only one who she could tell with confidence and with the hope of receiving some logical advice and a modicum of sympathy. Yet how could she really expect sympathy for something she had enjoyed so much?
Verne's was unusually crowded at noon and Suzanne pushed her way through the chattering mass of students. In the far corner at her usual table sat Yvonne, surrounded by three young men. As Suzanne approached Yvonne looked up and grinned.
"Scoot-in next to me," she said. "And keep your legs crossed. These wolves are out for blood."
They all laughed and Suzanne sat down, smiling at them.
"This is Suzanne," said Yvonne, "Brett, John and Grant. All psychology majors, so don't think you can fool 'em."
Suzanne greeted them and ordered a steerburger. Yvonne already had hers and was taking an occasional bite in-between comments.
"You're Sam's wife, aren't you?" asked Brett, who was a very good-looking guy that Suzanne had seen on campus before.
She nodded. "Sam and I went to school together," continued Brett. 'You've got a good guy there."
"Thanks. I think so."
Yvonne raised one eyebrow and gave Suzanne a cynical glance.
"Why is it all the best-looking ones are married?" asked John, a blond with a long beard and flowing hair down to his shoulders.
"You should worry," replied Yvonne. "It never makes any difference, does it?"
"Not to me," he admitted, "though I don't relish the idea of an irate husband banging on my door anxious to beat me up. I abhor violence."
"Yeah, I'm sure," said Yvonne, her voice muffled by a mouthful of meat and bun. "I thought most men preferred violence, especially when it came to sex."
Grant laughed, and shook his head.
"Psychologically speaking," he said in a very pompous voice, his plain features creased in a frown, "there are those women who can only accomplish a satisfying orgasm after being assaulted by a man. Actual rape, you might say, though it could still be done by the husband. Tender sex doesn't do the trick. It's not uncommon."
Suzanne shifted uncomfortably in her seat and gave Yvonne a despairing glance.
"I'll still take the gentle ones," said Yvonne. "Any guy who starts getting rough with me's liable to get a kick in the crotch."
"You mean you've never had an encounter that's been anything but tender?" asked Brett, curiously.
"I wouldn't say that," she replied coolly, "but not one that I enjoyed."
"I don't believe you."
Yvonne glared across the table at Brett.
"Listen, buster. Just because you're a psychology major it doesn't give you the right to pass judgment on the opposite sex. Until you've been to bed with a man, you've no room to talk."
"I have," said Brett with a grin. "He was almost as good as the chick I'm dating."
"Ooops, sorry I asked," said Yvonne, and she turned to Suzanne. "You can never tell these days who's AC and who's DC, or both." She sniffed deprecatingly. "I must admit I'm not passing judgment, but I do prefer a man who goes for girls all the way."
"Oh, I do, too," replied Brett, "but every man is bisexual."
"I agree," said Grant. "I've had several homosexual experiences. They were quite illuminating." He smiled. "I indulged strictly for research for a term paper, of course."
"Of course, dear. " Yvonne's voice was scathing. Grant laughed and Suzanne gave vent to a giggle.
"What difference does it really make?" asked John. "Sex is sex, an expression of love between two people. Usually, they're male and female, but if they're not, so what? As long as nobody gets hurt anything's fine in my book."
Suzanne bit her lip, lifted her chin and spoke: "What if sex isn't an expression of love?" she asked, a little shakily. "Like when it's just pure sensuality with no emotional response?" Brett shook his head.
"Never happens," he opined, "even if a man attacks a girl in an alley, there's more to it than mere lust. In the course of his attack, there is emotional response. There has to be."
"No, sir, you're dead wrong," said John. "Emotional response only occurs after two people know each other and there's some sort of intellectual or mental compatibility. Check your Freud, your Jung and Adler."
"And you check the chicks," snapped Yvonne. "Look, I've had two years of psychology but, more important, I've had thirty years of living and, if I may be blunt, about fifteen years of screwing. And I've had a few sticky situations, let me tell you. When a guy's got a hard-on and he's got the upper hand, there's no emotion. It's pure sex and nothing more."
"What's our married woman got to say?" asked Grant, looking quizzically at Suzanne.
"Oh, I'll go along with Yvonne," said Suzanne after a brief pause. "There are times when emotion doesn't enter into it. Even... " she hesitated, "even in marriage there are times when sex becomes tedious, more a habit than an expression of love. Yet, you know the love is there, even if the feeling isn't for the moment."
The waitress approached and handed Suzanne her steerburger and glass of coke. Suzanne bit into the bun and leaned back in her chair. This was a hell of a conversation, considering the reason for her meeting Yvonne, considering what had happened to her the night before.
"Isn't that justification for the statement that married women are the most promiscuous?" asked John. "They have the cover-up of their marriage, so they go out and get a little on the side when they feel tired of their husbands?"
"Not necessarily," said Yvonne. "I think everyone's a whore at heart. We'll take any opportunity that comes our way, provided, like you said, nobody gets hurt. I'm willing to bet there must be more encounters between married women and outside men than you ever know about, or which the husbands ever hear about."
Grant nodded.
"What the eye doesn't see, the heart doesn't get uptight about, huh?" She nodded.
"You're damn right. We're all animals at heart. It's just this veneer of civilization which makes us preserve some dignity and discretion in our relationships."
"But at the expense of our peace of mind," interjected Grant. "Primitive societies who are completely free with sex seldom suffer from guilt and inhibition, like we do."
"What makes you think we suffer from guilt?" asked Suzanne.
"We all do," said Brett. "You're married to Sam now. We'll presume, for argument's sake, that you only have sex with him. But you might occasionally remember someone you had sex with before... "
"I never." Suzanne's voice cut through the noise and chatter with an almost agonized denial. They all stared at her strangely.
"I'm sorry," Brett apologized, "I shouldn't have given a personal example of what I was going to say. Let's say that a woman is married and sleeps with no one but her husband. The memory of her past affairs before her marriage will always tend to give her guilt feelings and this will affect the quality of her response to her husband. It's a proven fact."
"Bullshit," snapped Yvonne. "We all have sex with dozens of people in our lives. Previous affairs have no effect on our present involvement, married or otherwise."
"Well, that's your opinion," said John. "Psychologists seem to think differently."
"What do you think, Suzanne?" asked Brett, a curious look on his face. "You've been married almost a year. Are you perfectly happy, sexually, with Sam?" Yvonne banged her hand down on the table.
"Goddamn," she exploded, "we're getting too personal for my liking. Now cool-it before I blow my stack. Suzanne's sex life is nobody's concern but her own. Not even in the cause of research," she added, with a sniff and a caustic look at Brett.
John crumpled the paper from his steerburger and placed it carefully in the ashtray. He pushed his chair back.
"Well, guys, I guess it's about that time," he said pointedly. They all rose, nodded, and left.
"Bastards," said Yvonne, staring after them with a frown creasing her narrow forehead. "I sometimes think all psych majors are a bunch of nosy perverts. I've never been to bed with one, and something tells me I never will."
Suzanne giggled.
"Not even if she's cute?"
Yvonne's face broke into a grin.
"Okay, okay, enough of that. Now, finally, tell me all about it. I've been itching to hear ever since you called me."
Suzanne's smile faded and the momentary feeling of lightness was replaced with a depression that carried her back to the night before.
"Well, Sam took-off and, a few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I thought it was Carrie coming-by with some books, and when I opened the door, there he was just like you said. I was never so thrown for a loop in my life."
"And why the hell didn't you slam the door in his face?"
"Because I was scared to death, that's why," replied Suzanne. "Besides, he'd pushed his foot into the door. Then he came in and started kissing me and saying he loved me, and he wanted to fuck me, and all that stuff." Yvonne snorted.
"And you just lay back and let him do it?" Suzanne sighed and stretched-back in her chair. "I didn't just let him do it, you know that. But what could I do? He's stronger than I am. He has grown a lot, you know. He's quite the little man now."
"I'll bet." Yvonne stared at Suzanne. 'You know, I declare, I think you enjoyed it." Suzanne gasped and shook her head. "Yvonne, how can you say that?"
"Because of the look on your face when you were speaking. I'll admit he's a sexy little fucker but, Christ, you've got Sam, you've got your home, you've got everything at stake."
"I know, I know. Why do you think I'm so upset?"
"Frankly, I don't think you're upset over what happened. You're just feeling guilty because you had the best fuck you've had in months and you're wondering what's going to happen now because he's probably coming back."
Suzanne suddenly felt tears welling-up and she lifted her hand to her face. Yvonne's expression softened, and she put an arm around her friend.
"I'm sorry, baby. But you know me, dear, old blunt butch-dike. But isn't it better to be honest about things, especially something like that?"
Suzanne nodded, wiping her eyes.
"I just had to talk about it to someone, and you're the only one." Yvonne patted Suzanne's arm again.
"All right, all right, but let's be truthful. He just didn't rape you again, did he? I mean, you probably... er... cooperated with him, didn't you?" Suzanne nodded.
"Yes, I did, and even while I hated every minute of it, I was loving it. What's wrong with me, Yvonne? Am I one of those dirty types who just like rough sex? And apart from that, what's going to happen if he comes back? Sam's not going to be gone all the time, and it was just lucky he didn't come back early last night. It was lucky he didn't walk in on us. I don't know what would have happened then. I mean, he'd have probably beaten Donald up. But, then, what about me? I was there, sucking his cock, getting fucked and it was the wildest sex I've had since that time a year ago."
"Yes, I know. I was there, remember."
"That's right. I'm sorry. Oh, Yvonne, Jesus Christ, what am I going to do?"
Yvonne was silent for a moment. Then she raised her hand and beckoned to the waitress.
"First, we're going to have a drink," she said. "Bring us two vodka collins, will you?"
The waitress nodded and departed. Suzanne leaned-back and choked-down another flood of tears that threatened to well-up. Yvonne lit two cigarettes and gave her one, and they sat for a few moments in silence, smoking.
The waitress returned with their drinks and Suzanne took a long sip, and smiled gratefully at her friend. "Thanks. I feel better now. I'm sorry I'm such a drag."
"Nonsense. I'm sort of involved. After all, I'll never forget that night with you, Carole and me, and those three bastards. I mean, I was scared, but hell, like you say, once we got down to the fucking, I had to admit they were good lays, all of them. Pity some of the best kids in bed are the worst ones outside the sheets. Let's face it, darling, I love Carole, and I'm a dike at heart, but I won't turn down a good piece of cock when it comes my way. Few dikes will, take it from me. There's nothing to beat that sensation when it comes to sex. But when it comes to love, that's a different matter." She looked at Suzanne for a moment. "You're not... er hung-up on Donald by any chance, are you?"
"I don't know. All these months, being married to Sam, I've had this weird fantasy at the back of my mind. I've thought about Donald, especially after he came to the wedding. Remember, I told you? Maybe it's my sentimental side thinking that, perhaps, if someone did show the kid some true affection and interest he'd be able to mature into a decent person instead of some little hood that never accomplishes anything in life except, maybe, a hillbilly wife and ten kids. And that's no accomplishment, especially today."
Yvonne nodded. 'You're sounding like a Walt Disney movie now, dear. Life ain't like that. He's set in his pattern and nothing you or anyone else can do will change him now. So don't get all altruistic over someone who's only interested in a good fuck from you."
Suzanne nodded.
"I guess you're right. But then, back to the problem. What do you think I should do?"
"I'd tell Sam," said Yvonne. Suzanne gasped and shook her head violently. "Tell Sam? You're out of your mind! Sam'd kill me."
"Not if he loves you. I mean, you wouldn't tell him about the sex, naturally, but I'd certainly tell him you had a visitor who threatened you last night, and that he might return, and so on. I mean, you can get a patrol once an hour, which would be a good idea. I'd certainly put chains on the doors, too."
"Yes, I've thought of that."
"Well, Sam'd certainly want to know why if you told him you wanted chains of the doors. No, dear, I'd tell him some little hood was bothering you last night and let him handle it from there. I really don't think Donald'll be foolish enough to force his way in. Now, of course, he may try to catch you outside the house, so you'll have to be very careful when you're alone, or outside the house. Even on campus."
"Yes. I know. I know."
"Okay, then, everything's decided."
Suzanne shrugged her shoulders hopelessly.
"Maybe it sounds like it is. But what if he does come back?"
Yvonne laughed. "And suppose we have an earthquake tomorrow? Or a flood? Or whatever? Come on, dear, be sensible."
"All right. But I'm still scared."
Yvonne laughed, her usual rich bass tones echoing above the noise and chatter of the bar. "Scared of him, or of how you'll react?"
They stared at each other and Suzanne dropped her eyes, feeling incredibly ashamed. "Yes, maybe it's myself. I do have this terribly yearning for him. It's a mixed-up feeling but it's there, all the same. And it had nothing to do with my love for Sam, believe me."
"Yvonne nodded, sagely.
"It's that big dick of his, dear, and I don't blame you. It's a pity you can't keep him in the closet and take him out on lonely nights."
Suzanne laughed, and Yvonne smiled. "Come on, we have to go."
They rose and threaded their way out into the early afternoon sunshine. Suzanne looked around and stretched lazily.
"Everything looks so good," she murmured, "It's a pity we have so many problems after the sun goes down."
Yvonne giggled.
"There're even more when the father goes down," she said. 'Yvonne!"
Suzanne moved a knife a little more to the right on the table and smiled to herself. The bowl of flowers in the middle looked just right, the precise touch that made the entire setting appeal to her sense of proper decor. She knew it would please Sam. She also knew he would be happy with her dinner, which was beef stroganoff, his favorite, complete with home-baked cake and ice cream for dessert. She grinned to herself: yes, the perfect little wife, getting everything ready to please the old man when he gets home from work.
She was wearing her most provocative dress as well, the one with the lace top that Sam always told her he could see through. Why not? She was out to placate him, to soothe his ruffled feathers for her treatment of him last night. She couldn't help it, though. She couldn't have enjoyed any more sex after that session with Donald, not even if he had wanted it. And there was no way to try and explain to him what her reason was for refusing to have sex with him. Tonight was different, though; she was going to follow Yvonne's advice, tell him what had happened (without the gory details, of course!) and, then, after he had held her protectively against his manly chest, she knew they would end up in bed, having sex, and she was ready for it now. She wanted him tonight; she wanted to give her all, to satisfy him and herself, as well. And she was determined to really be wild with him in bed, just to make up for everything; and, also, though she would scarcely admit it, to assuage her own feelings of guilt over her encounter with Donald, and the undeniable pleasure she experienced with him.
She looked up happily as she heard the car and she walked back into the kitchen, bending over the stove to check the rice and vegetables. The kitchen door clicked-open and she turned, a radiant smile on her face. Sam entered, stared at her, his face grim.
"Hello, darling."
"Hi."
She walked over to him, her arms extended, her face beaming with joy. He looked at her warily and put his briefcase on a chair and received her into his embrace. Their lips were warm on each other's and, as they broke apart, Suzanne sighed ecstatically.
"I've missed you."
"I wondered if you had. I hope you're over your mood."
"Sam, please. I want to explain about last night."
"All right. But fix us a drink first. I'm going-in to take off my shirt. It's so goddamn hot today I feel like I stink."
He disappeared into the bedroom and Suzanne got the martini glasses off the shelf and took out the jug of mix that had been cooling in the refrigerator. By the time Sam had taken-off his business suit, changed into a pair of slacks and a fresh shirt, she was settled on the couch, the martinis waiting on the coffee table and a smile on her face.
He came in, sat down, and raised a glass.
"To us," he said. It was his usual toast.
"To us," she echoed.
"Well, what've you got to tell me?"
She pushed herself back against the cushions, pulled her legs up under him, and reached for a cigarette. "Well, last night I had a prowler," she said, picking-up the table lighter and flicking it on. She inhaled deeply, and looked at him. His expression had changed slightly, a look of growing apprehension on his features.
"A prowler?"
She nodded.
"Yes. Some punk kid. He came to the door, and when I opened it, he tried to come in. I slammed the door before he could push past me, and I ran and locked the back door and, after a while, he went away. But I was so scared. He looked like one of those types you read about that go round raping women."
"Did you call the police?"
Suzanne hesitated.
"I thought of doing that, but I watched from the living room window and I saw him get on a motor bike and drive off. So I figured it was all right."
Sam took a sip from his glass and stared hard at her.
"So why should that be traumatic enough to make you like you were in bed last night?"
She began to feel the conversation was not going as well as she had hoped. She shifted awkwardly.
"Well, I was nervous and upset."
"So why didn't you tell me last night?"
"I don't know, Sam. I was all shook up."
He continued staring hard at her and the look of concern slowly changed to one of sarcasm.
"Do you know last night is the first and only night since we've been married that we haven't had sex?"
"Er... well, no I hadn't thought of that."
"Maybe you don't give much thought to sex any more."
"Sam, that's not fair."
"Suzanne, you're not telling me the truth."
"Sam, I've never lied to you."
"You just have. As a matter of fact, when I got home last night, I came in the back door. It wasn't locked." Suzanne thought quickly. Oh. Christ, I goofed.
"Well, I... I went outside to check once more before you got home, to make sure he was gone. I must have left it open then."
'You're scared to death of a prowler, yet you go outside, alone, where he could have jumped you, and then you come back in, and don't lock the door behind you? And you were so upset you couldn't stand me touching you when we went to bed? Listen, baby, something doesn't add up, and it's your story. Try again."
He swallowed his drink with a gulp, and marched into the kitchen to replenish his glass. Suzanne sat, stunned, on the couch. She realized what a hash she had made of things.
Sam came back in and sat down.
"Well, you want to tell me the truth?"
"I am telling you the truth, Sam."
"Crap!"
His mouth exploded the word and she almost reeled beneath the force of his expletive. "Sam, I"
"Now you listen to me. When you've been as hot and horny as you are, every single night, and then suddenly turn-off, and then give me some screwy story like this about a prowler, there's only one conclusion I can come to: you didn't have a prowler last night, but you did have a visitor. I don't know who he was, but I could smell him when I came home. You might have cleaned-up afterwards, baby, but you forgot that fucking leaves a special smell, or hadn't you noticed? Who was he, Suzanne?"
The fury of his words caught her off-guard. She stared at him, helpless, and, then, suddenly she burst into tears.
"Sure, go ahead and cry. It's your only defense. But let me tell you, I'm going to sit here until you tell me, and, then, I'm going to take you in the bedroom and fuck the shit out of you. And you know something? For the first time with you, I'm going to wear a rubber. I'm not going to risk catching the clap from some stud you had in here with you."
"Sam!"
Her voice rose in a plaintive wail and her body shook with renewed sobbing. Sam relaxed in his chair and watched her calmly, a half-grim smile on his mouth. "I'm waiting, Suzanne."
She lifted her face and turned her tear-stained cheeks to him. "Sam, how can you say that? You know it's not true."
"All right, convince me."
She reached for a Kleenex on the coffee table and blew her nose loudly. All her glorious self-composure was gone. Her face, so beautifully made-up for his arrival home, was now streaky and downcast. She felt abjectly miserable. Slowly she gained control of herself and began speaking.
"Sam, I did have someone here last night, but it's not like you think it is."
"Fine. We're making progress. She admits she has a lover."
"I didn't say that."
"Okay, you didn't say that. So you had someone here. Who was he?"
"He was... just an old acquaintance."
"Oh, just an old acquaintance," Sam mimicked her, "Come off it, Suzanne. Goddammit, I want the truth!" he shouted across the room.
"All right, all right!" she screamed, her anger and fear giving force to her words, "He's a boy who raped me on campus about a year ago. He and two others broke into my apartment. They all raped me. I never told you about it. Do you think I should have, or would want to? It was horrible. Anyway, he must have found out where I live now, and he broke in, pushed his way through that door, and fucked me right here." She banged the cushions. "Right here on this couch last night. By the time you got home my cunt was so sore I couldn't have done anything, and I didn't want to, not with you or anyone. And I was so sick I just wanted to sleep and forget everything. And that's the truth."
Sam's mouth twisted and he began laughing, a loud, cold laugh. He lifted his martini glass, drained it and then threw it violently against the wall above the fireplace. Then he rose and came over to her, standing above her and glaring down at her.
"I'm expected to believe that? You think I'd believe a story like that? Oh, wow, what an imagination! I'll tell you what happened. You've had a lover, and last night you figured as long as I would be gone all evening, it wouldn't be a bad idea to have him over. It was the first time I'd stayed away all evening, you know that. So why not have him over, have a little party. While the old man's away, the pussy'll play." His hand came down and slapped her hard across the face. 'You little cunt. I'll teach you fucking someone else in my house!"
His hand came down and seized the lacey top of her dress and ripped it off her. In a flash, Suzanne saw, not Sam, but Donald, standing before her; it wasn't her husband, always tender and gentle, but Donald, always wild and vicious. She cowered-back, her hands covering her bra. His hand came down, pushed her fingers aside, seized the bra and tore it away, exposing her breasts.
"Okay, you like fucking, tonight you're going to get some real, good, solid fucking," he snapped, and he dropped to his knees and bent forward, seizing the rest of her dress and tearing it away until she was naked before him, crying and screaming in her misery and fear.
"Sam, stop it, stop it, you've gone mad. Sam!"
Her cries availed her not at all. He continued his assault upon her, slapping her face and squeezing her breasts until she almost fainted from the pain. She lay back, sobbing, while he tore off his own shirt and removed his pants and stood before her, naked, his penis hanging between his thighs, flaccid.
"Okay, here he is. You know what to do with him."
She stared up, seeing him holding his organ out towards her mouth.
"Eat it, you cunt. Isn't that what you like? Isn't that what you've been practicing-on for months? Come on, come on!"
He lunged forward, slapping her several times across the face and then forcing himself upon her. She fell back and he straddled her chest, laying his genitals across her mouth. "Suck, I said, suck. Make him hard."
Suzanne closed her eyes, moaning, and felt the end of his penis push between her lips. Without knowing what she was doing, she began tonguing the flesh, licking the head, nibbling the foreskin, and, gradually, she felt him respond, grow thick and firm until his shaft was rock-hard in her mouth and he was thrusting it in-and-out while his hand held her by the hair.
She felt his strong arms lift her legs, push them up until her knees were against her breasts and, then, with a vicious, quick jab, his erect penis penetrated her labia, pushed past her clitoris and into the deep recesses of her vagina.
She stared at herself and saw his sex entering and withdrawing from her, and with a shudder of revulsion, she saw that he had put on a condom. That beautiful tool was encased in a rubber sheath. He must have slid it on during the time between taking it out of her mouth and inserting it between her legs. Oh. Christ how could he? Did he really think she had been? Oh, Sam, the final insult, the ultimate degradation, to have her own husband use a condom because he was afraid of catching the clap!
She moaned and felt her senses reeling. The erotic waves of pleasure counted for nothing. Even though she felt herself responding, her hips beginning almost automatically to move in rhythm with his own, she felt a shudder of loathing. She began weeping again, realizing that he was not fucking her for pleasure, but out of spite. He was punishing her. And why shouldn't she be punished, a little voice said to her? She had enjoyed sex with Donald, and now she was paying for it. She was being tortured. Her own husband was violating her, not for love, not for passion, but out of his hate for her actions. And he was using a rubber!
She stared into his face, seeing not the usual love and closed-eyes ecstasy that she usually saw; instead, his face was grim, his jawline set in a determined, forceful expression. His arms held her body and his muscles flexed as he held her, driving his rod in-and-out of her cunt. She felt her juices lubricating her passage as his organ rammed home, deep into her, way-up to the mouth of her womb, and then out again. In... out... viciously, without mercy.
She felt his breathing become heavier and the shaft within her seemed to thicken. She knew from long experience that he was approaching his orgasm. Her own vagina was heaving and she knew she was about to climax as well, but it would be purely physical, without the ecstatic thrill that usually accompanied their climb to the top.
With a muffled curse, Sam suddenly withdrew from her. He let her body down with a thud, and, impatiently, he ripped-off the condom, straddled her thighs, and enclosed his penis in his fist, continuing the up-and-down movements. She stared, not believing what she saw. He sneered down at her.
"You didn't think I'd give you that satisfaction, do you?"
Almost as he spoke, she saw the end of his cock flatten, expand and then shoot its stream of white-hot come. She felt the drops splatter over her eyes and mouth and drop on her breasts. And, as he continued coming, more spurted out across her stomach and over her bush. She felt her stomach heaving in disgust and his harsh laughter in her ears was the final insult. Through her blurred vision, she saw his hand enclose the end of his cock, milk the last few drops and then come forward, rubbing it across her face roughly. Then his fingers pried open her mouth and she tasted the salty, rubbery taste of the condom as he stuffed it between her lips. She struggled violently and her terror and disgust gave her strength. She lifted herself, throwing him off-balance. He fell to the side and she rolled over, spitting-out the condom and, at that moment, her stomach heaved and all she could think was what it was going to cost to clean the couch.
Sam crawled down on the carpet, got to his feet and stared at her. She was still throwing-up, her body wracked with uncontrollable spasms.
"Suffer, bitch," he snapped, "and make sure you clean up the mess before you leave."
He turned, picked up his clothes and walked quickly into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.