Chapter 1
"I'm serious, Jack . . . either you haul yourself off that sofa and take out the garbage or I'll . . . I'll . . . Ungghh!" Sherrie balled up delicate fists so hard, red nail marks jabbed her palms. Glowering down at his handsome, unshaven face, she noted the reddened eyeballs. "You're drunk again . . . it's only four o'clock in the afternoon!" The auburn-haired housewife wailed in a soprano twang that made strange accompaniment to Howard Cossel's bass play-by-play.
From the television set behind her, the Dallas
Cowgirls theme song blasted from Texas stadium.
"Eh, move over . . . you're blockin' my sight.. . " Jack's blurred vision focused on the half-naked Dallas Cheerleaders, flopping pompoms and shimmying hips in goose- bumping costumes of bosom bulging cowgirl vests and mini-skirts slunk to the hips, drawing a fine line of decency between thigh and pubis. "Move over . . . I wanna see the Cowgirls."
Waving his wife aside, he wiggled his stockinged toes and let a lecherous grin mock his wife's domestic demands.
"I will not leave you alone!" Sherrie snatched the beer can from his lazy clutch and shot him a murderous look. Behind the nipple-popping jersey, her melonous breasts heaved with unspent emotion and boiling frustration. Her rosy upper lip curled with disgust, showing off pearly teeth. Blood shot to her apple cheeks, highlighting a pair of Siamese-green cat eyes that glared with predatory intensity now. Hissing between clenched teeth, she slammed the beer can down on the end table with an eardrum bursting clatter that shook Jack's glazed eyes off a swaying pair of Dallas Cowgirl buttocks.
Sherrie glowered down at her husband. "Just because Daddy fired you, that doesn't mean you can live like a pig in my house!" Look at this place . . . and to think Daddy paid the mortgage so we could have a roof over our heads . . . because you can't even take care of yourself!" Gesturing toward the heap of beer cans that had turned the living room into an aluminum recycling plant, she kicked an empty can and sent it flying against a potted plant. "Don't you care about me?"
She bent over to stare him level in the eye; she shook him by the shoulders until she thought she heard a filling loosen. "Admit it, we never make love anymore!"
Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand, yawned and rolled over onto his side. Reaching for the beer can that wasn't there, he grumbled from liquor-lazed lips: "Don' be a nag, Sher . . . lemme watch TV."
It was time to plunge the knife. "You wanna watch sexy cheerleaders, is that it, Mr. Jack Thompkins Turner?" In a flitter of movement, she yanked her t-shirt over her head and let shoulder-length auburn curls swirl about her creamy shoulders. They dipped down to the crisp white lace of her brassiere, cupping 34-D breasts that were puffed with strawberry tipped nipples, hardening with frustration. The creamy mounds swelled with angered frustration and a thousand other emotions her drunken husband had not helped vent.
A whine of the zipper and she'd kicked off her snug levis. The line of her blue lace trimmed bikini panties hugged the soft bowl of her flawless belly, just below the jewel of her navel. Any healthy man would have fallen to his knees in adoration of such Gothic beauty, would have salivated over the artful tufts of strawberry fleece peeking around the elastic that was cupping her pouting mound of venus.
Sherrie's alabaster flesh goose-bumped with frustration, her nipples hardened to bumblebees, and a tight congestion centered in the pit of her too long empty stomach. Never lifting her eyes from his unshaven face, she plucked two pillows from under his head and using them for pom poms did a cheerless cheer for the defeat of a withering marriage. Scissoring her legs, she jabbed the pillows at the air; it her breasts jiggled and thrust out exaggeratedly. "Jackie Turner's job took U dip "Sher, quit makin' an ass o' yourself. . . . "
"Since then, he can't find his dick. . . . " A jump and dip.
"Sher, I said cut it out.. . . ! "The jab at his manhood was not kindly taken.
"Pricks and dicks, his wife screamed. . . . "
When Jack didn't rouse to his defense, Sherrie jabbed a pillow at his face.
"What must I do. . . . " (half splits, one to each side, pompoms snapping high above her head) ". . . to net his cream. . . . "
"But Jackie boy.. . . "
She didn't see it coming.
It was a reflex action and Jack was no wife beater, but the insults, the nagging, the bitching of late. Christ, wasn't it bad enough that her asshole father had fired him a month before Christmas, without having to suffer the bitching at home?
Sherrie's half naked body flew sideways; her long legs draped over the end table. With a whimper of pain, she righted herself, inspected her legs for bruises and glared at him. Hate and fear filled her green eyes and her jaw ached from his fierce blow. She knew she shouldn't have mocked his impotence and neglect, but she'd wanted to hurt him as he'd been hurting her with his drunkenness and salacious remarks about other women-when he couldn't even please his wife.
Sure, his pride had attracted him to her at the onset, his one hundred percent masculinity. Daddy had warned her about such men; their tender egos and nasty tempers. Today marked the first instance of breaking rule number one: never hit your wife. She bit her lip and held her hand to her mouth, studying fearfully the reddened eyeballs glowering at her murderously. Slowly an inkling of that wicked glint lighting his eyeballs struck home . . . and she didn't like it.
Jack stood in his stocking feet and beer-dribbled t-shirt, his muscular build foreboding. He balled his hands up into fists and pumped adrenalin into the baseball-sized lumps of his muscles. The voice whispered of contriteness.
"Didn't mean to hit you. . . . "
To an irate wife, a husband's apology is sometimes the worst offering. It cements his guilt and after having suffered his fist, he is twice proven wrong. Now Sherrie gloried in brandishing the upper hand.
"Stay away from me, you, you beast! I could stand there half naked and you'd never kiss me . . . but, but one look at those cheap Dallas Cowgirls and you, you almost.. . . " She buried her head in her hands and sobbed, her creamy breasts heaving pathetically.
"Ah shit. . . . " Jack mumbled to himself, interpreting her emotions as pure hatred. In his drunken state, he neglected to consider the unpredictability that marks female emotions: hate-filled screams echo loves' sweet cravings. In his blurred consciousness, the alabaster goose-bumped body rippled with pure disgust . . . and that kindled something cruel and implacable within him.
His deep-set eyes narrowed to slits and a dull angry flush added fever to his alcohol reddened cheeks. So she thought he was a beast, huh? Thought he didn't have it in him to shove his bloated cock up her crying belly and make her uptight cunt cream for joy!
"So you don't think I'm good enough to touch you, is that it? You forget it was your fucking sweet-assed daddy who fired my ass . . . the chicken-shit asshole. Just because I happened to find out how Daddy paid for this house and anything his baby girl wants, he gets her!" Infuriated beyond control, he grabbed his wife by the neck. "Is that the kind of man you respect . . . an old fart who belongs behind bars?"
He shook her by the neck until her face turned red. Only then did he drop his hands. "For two years I've listened to you bitch about Daddy this, Daddy that. I got news for you, besides being a felon, your Daddy fucks the secretary! IS THAT WHAT YOU RESPECT IN A MAN?"
Sherrie coughed and whimpered, burying her head in her palms. Tears refused to flow, damming up behind terrifying emotions.
"I got news for you, Sherrie. I can be just as big an asshole as your ol' man."
Sherrie's cats' eye marble eyes paled to a fearful, cold hue. "W-what are you talking about, Jack . . . ? Jack . . . no, I. . . . " The message glinted in his eye.
"I mean I'm gonna fuck you like Daddy fucks your momma, little girl . . . cause that's what you've been crying for!"
"No . . . don't touch me!"
"What?" His upper lip curled; he wrapped his fingers in the curls at the nape of her neck and got a painful grip.
"Oh, Jack . . . please, please don't say those things about Daddy. Ouch.. . that hurts!" Her voice died in a whimper.
"It doesn't hurt nearly as much as it will when I shove my prick up your belly."
"No!"
Suddenly, his hand shot out again to cut her off. He jerked her roughly to her feet by his grip on her hair wrapped around his knuckles. "Get that bra off and let me see your tits!"
"You're drunk, Jack!" she spat in a last attempt at defiance.
"I SAID GET NAKED!"
Shivering with fear of the stranger towering over her, the trembling housewife slipped her hands behind her slender back and unsnapped the hook of her brassiere. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked breasts to chill in the November air. Beside her Jack fell so strangely silent, it added to her fears. If he ranted and raved, she could defend herself, but the silent weapon of seething reticence was disarming.
Reading the message in his blue eyes, she hooked her thumbs in her blue bikini panties and peeled them off over the rich swells of her hips, baring the pouting mound of Venus fringed with auburn curls that kissed the slender sensitivity of Sherrie's inner thighs. Out of the corner of one green eye, she caught the evil stare in his eye. Her nipples puckered.
Sherrie shook her head while tears of rage streamed down her satiny apple cheeks. "No! I'm your wife," she pleaded futilely. "Don't treat me like a cheap tramp!"
"Cunt!" Jack's free hand shot out to grab the milky swell of one heaving breast. Evilly, he rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, making her wince.
"Stop, you're hurting me, Jack! JACK!"
"You wanna be treated like a slut, I'll treat you like a slut!" Suddenly he threw her face down on the sofa, amidst a crinkle of yesterday's newspapers and the rattle of knocked over empty beer cans. She landed on her stomach, her dimpled buttocks tensed and naked to his gaze. He slapped her hard across those perfect half moons, grinning salaciously to himself before ripping off his own pants.
"Aaauuurrrgggghhh . . . Jack, you're going crazy . . . please let me up." But one foot on the small of her back held her securely in place, giving his hands freedom to pump at the bloated girth of his penis.
Sherrie could hear the lascivious grunts emanating from her husband's heaving chest as he pumped his penis with lustful vengeance. Lying pinned to the sofa with his stockinged foot holding her captive, she'd never felt more humiliated and worthless as a woman; she waited with trepidation for his next move.
"Go ahead and rape me, you bastard!" she spat into the sofa. "Just get it over with!" Tears had dried, but her eyes still stung with emotion too hurtful to vent. Wide set green eyes were smudged with mascaraed clown-like circles, flanking a perky upturned nose, reddened with grief.
"I can tell your cunts on fire for me, Sherrie . . . but that's too bad, because that ain't where you're gettin' it!"
In one gruff gesture, he flipped her over and fell to his knees beside her, mashing his alcohol tasting lips to hers in a demanding, raping kiss. Sherrie struggled wildly, futilely hammering her fists against his chest . . . to no avail. "You don't think I'm man enough for you-I'll teach you!"
He flung her back on the sofa, face down, this time.
He'd been ripped to the core, his male ego shredded by her vile tongue, and now anger boiled white hot inside his drunken brain. Not since his father-in-law had caught him eavesdropping on a telephone conversation and been given the green light and a mouthful of abuse, had he been this angry.
The lissome female body beneath him racked with sobs. She shuddered and convulsed, her heart clawing in her chest like a rutting animal trying to escape. She'd do anything to recant her tauntings of his masculinity . . . and all because of those insipid Dallas Cowgirls! Because of spite, she would be spited . . . but this would be more than mental torture, she intuited. Maybe if she tried to placate him, make a joke of it all . . . tell him Daddy was a fool. But it wan too late! She'd made her bed, and now she must lie in it!
A rasp tore from her throat when she felt his cold, clawing hands mauling her body. He kneaded her flesh like bread dough, running his hands along the smooth curves of her waist, and dropping lower then to knead the rounded half-moons of her buttocks. Roughly, he pulled them apart as if they were a cold English muffin to cleave for toasting. She shivered as a cold finger buttered the crease with strands of his pre-cum.
With Sherrie's moans of fear and pain singing in his ears, Jack experienced a flicker of sadistic glee that banished all tenderness that might creep into his cold heart. A deep ache gnawed at his loins; his cock felt hot to the touch . . . hot and hard and very potent! Between his knees, his testicles dragged like cement weights. And she accused him of having no sex drive!
His brain flamed with lustful anger and white hot revenge. Lewdly, he ran his hand along the sleekness of her naked inner thigh, all the way to the fleecy forest of her wetly, shivering pussy, which once cried for need . . . now it cried for fear.
Her body convulsed and she pulled back from the touch of his fingers tightening harder on her quivering cuntal flesh. "Shut your goddamned mouth and take your medicine . . . " She felt his evil words bathe her ear in foul smelling threats.
like animals in heat, he climbed atop his wife's shuddering nudity and aimed the long hard pole of his cock between her thighs. Treacherously, he aimed it towards the target of her cringing ass cheeks. The mushroomed head was flushed purple with the blood of his vengeful desire, and he trailed it along the moist, secret crevice, sparking a chill of forbidden lust. Luridly, his middle finger encircled the crinkled hairless opening of his wife's virgin anus and his eyes bulged with perverted excitement as he stared at the tiny brown eye.
Tentatively, he prodded at it, sensing the elasticity; he jabbed harder.
Sherrie screamed at the indecency of it. "Jack . . . no, that's not right . . . please put it in th-the other place," she stammered and begged, hating to use four letter words even now. That was a private place he was toying with, running his fingers around, testing for an experiment she cared not be victim of.
Her pleading incited him-the carrot before the horse's nose. With a grunt, he rammed his middle finger into the elastic eye of her anus . . . right up to the palm of his hand.
"Aauarrrggggg yghhhhhh innm nwnngggggggg.. . hooooo!"
Jack chuckled to himself as he screwed harder into the dark hole, tight and warm and ridged. It closed like a surgeon's glove around his raping finger. To dislodge the painful intruder, Sherrie wriggled her impaled buttocks, but her frantic movements only let him bore deeper into her forbidden depths. The humiliated wife's cheeks scorched with shame. He's gone insane . . . he might kill me! This wasn't Jack, not her tender, protective Jack. Oh, things haven't been all his fault, she reasoned tardily. Daddy can be an awful bear at times . . .
Christ, what a tight little asshole. Funny I never tried it out before, Jack chuckled to himself in salacious glee as he began to withdraw his raping finger from her sucking anal depths.
His cock was a veritable cudgel now, pounding heavily, the veiny surface purpled with blood. Little stabs of licentious pleasure pricked at his naked, febrile fantasies. He wanted to humiliate his wife the best way a man can a woman . . . make her realize a man's cock was made for more than pissing.
Sherrie's fevered body cringed into the sofa, the pain in her rectum fiery. Sodomy was a sick, heinous crime left over from the medieval days . . . something one inflicted upon hapless animals, not one's wife!
Don't think, just try to hang onto sanity, she told herself. Yet this was unforgivable. Never could she think of Jack as her protective life mate, the man who'd sworn to stay by her through thick and thin.
And the finger raping her anus was anything but thin!